Jessie smiled at Mrs. Harrisburg's back as she folded up the paltry tip the old woman had been able to scrounge together. In truth, she would have cut and curled Mrs. Harrisburg's hair for free; the woman had been patronizing Delilah's Do for more than a decade.
Delilah, the owner, had stopped telling the woman about price increases about five years ago, when Mrs. Harrisburg, disturbed by the $3 increase, had skipped her monthly trim and nearly crashed her car because her bangs were in her eyes. Delilah swore that the decision was to protect the community at large, but really? The older woman's kids had moved away from Castello to more exciting parts of California, and her husband had died years back. She was lonely.
She rang the check through the till and walked to the front door to lock up, but before she got out from behind the counter, a huge man walked through the door. Absolutely huge. At 5 foot 8 and wearing heels herself, it wasn't as if Jessie was a tiny fainting flower, but this man was nearly a foot taller than she was.
He was broad through the shoulders, wearing the kind of muscle that said he worked hard and often, instead of the sort that bragged about gym time and "PBs" with CrossFit updates on social media. He had tattoos up and down his arms, swirling designs in dark ink that had been weathered by the sun. He wore a plain white t-shirt and dark denim jeans that had been worn lighter along the thighs. His hair was bright blond, shorn close on top, with a neatly trimmed beard that covered his chin.
"The -" her voice squeaked out. She coughed and tried again. "The barbershop's just down the street. Usual pole, can't miss it."
Castello was a small, sleepy town, with not a hell of a lot happening. She'd lived here since she was a kid, and she would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that she knew everyone. But this man was watching her with disarming intensity, as if he knew her inside and out. As if he knew everything she'd ever done or thought of doing.
She tried to not shift nervously. That was a horrible habit, and her mother had done her damndest to drill it out of Jessie's brain, but, in moments like this, she still wanted to cock out a hip and bite her nails.
What was it about this guy? It wasn't like she hadn't seen gorgeous men before. She had an Internet connection, and she wore out her vibrator's batteries every month, if not more frequently. He wasn't even all that handsome. But he was fiercely intense, and his hands were huge, and all she could think was how he could probably hold her up against the wall with just one of his big, strong arms, while the other flicked almost idly at her nipples. What would that feel like—
This time, she had to shake herself a little. She was absolutely not fantasizing about a stranger who hadn't even spoken to her yet. He could be a serial killer, for all she knew. He could be anything.
He could be a phenomenal time in the sack, and it had been a literal year since she'd had anything between her thighs that didn't need regular recharging, and she was aching for someone to do naughty things to her that she was afraid to put into words.
That was why she'd stopped dating town boys.
She wanted something dirtier, nastier than their loving and quietly muffled cries of pleasure. She wanted something darker. But how could you ask someone for that, and then see them on the street a day later without dying of embarrassment?
He raised a pale eyebrow at her comment about the barbershop, and for just a moment, she really did think he'd go. And then he shifted his weight with a grace that reminded her of big cats prowling, dropping himself almost daintily into the closest styling chair.
"There was a picture of a dude in the front window," he said, his voice thick and gruff. As if he didn't talk all that much. His gaze stayed locked on her, his thighs spread wide.
She had a vision of straddling him there, riding him while he wound his fist into her hair, panting into her neck until he yanked her head back to bite her pulse.
Down girl. Too many vampire movies and porn videos. Take a breath.
"Can you cut a guy's hair?" he asked. He was teasing now; she was entirely sure of it. There was something about the tilt of his mouth and the angle of his eyes that gave him away.
She glanced at the time. It was past 7, which was technically when she was supposed to lock up, but Delilah had always been very clear; if someone made it into the salon before closing, they got their cut.
Especially now, with Jackson having been poached out of the building by the new spa that opened across town, Delilah would be furious if she turned away someone who could pay. And, truth be told, her paycheck could use any kind of boost.
Castello was an interesting town. They were too far from both Los Angeles and Santa Clara to draw in college crowds, so the town mostly survived on tourist income from the surfers and boaters who like the warm Pacific waters and the bright beach.
But apart from the town itself, Castello didn't have much to recommend it.
Santa Cruz had the shopping, Berkeley had the hippie association, even Monterey had the aquarium. Castello just had...Castello. A couple of quaint B&Bs, the small shopping strip, and that was about the end of it. There'd been some talk about opening a water park or even some kind of technical school, but then the economy fell apart in '08, and that was that. The town was too busy trying not to disappear to worry about expanding.
She'd thought more than once of moving away. Los Angeles was way too plastic, but in Santa Cruz, or even Santa Clara, she could make a name for herself. Delilah had taught her the basics, but her customers often said she had a knack with color and cuts that they didn't often find.
But to move away, she'd have to leave Danny behind, and that wasn't ever going to happen.
She shook off her thoughts and pushed a smile onto her face, hoping that the man wouldn't be able to tell how forced it was. "Of course I can cut your hair," she said, stepping in close and spinning him to face the mirror.
He was huge, and she had to lower the chair almost all the way to put him at the right level for her hands. She ran her hands over the short blond stubble. A quarter inch, maybe less. And uneven. Almost like he'd hacked it all off himself with scissors, or maybe with old, dull clippers.
"You're just not giving me a lot to work with here." She said. It was strange. His beard was meticulously neat, and his hair was a mess. Why pay so much attention to one and not the other.
"I tell you what, beautiful," he said, and his voice shot from her ears straight down to her groin, making her achingly wet in a moment, "you keep touching me like that, and you can do anything you want to me."
It was something about the words. They tickled a memory she hadn't thought of in ages. She couldn't call it to mind, not now, but it was there. Something. She really did know him from somewhere, only she was completely sure that if she'd ever met someone this magnetizing, she'd remember them, clear as anything.
"Do I know you?" Jessie asked. It seemed like a stupid question, especially given how it echoed in the quiet salon.
He didn't say anything to her, just closed his eyes and leaned back into the chair.