McKayla

Looking up at the neon sign that dominates the sunset sky, I whistle softly. Only one thought goes through my mind. Ho-lee Shit! I can’t believe I did it! Well, we did it.

I’m standing in front of the Triple B Salon, in awe of the magic that Brad and I have been able to work in such a short period of time. When we took over this place, it had been sitting empty for almost a decade. The problem was that nobody really knew what to do with a former drive-in hamburger restaurant that someone stuck on the county register of historic landmarks because John Wayne used to be part-owner. You can’t make a lot of changes to a place like that.

Then there’s just the pure insanity of our idea. Most folks in the beauty industry flock to Hollywood, eager to work on celebrities and have their names in the rolling credits of a TV show. If you don’t go there, you want to make it in New York, where the celebrities are just as numerous, but you also have a possibility at fashion industry fame. Getting your scissors on the locks of a supermodel is a lifetime achievement for some stylists.

Brad, my business partner and the funniest bitch I’ve ever known, and I both did that for years. We hooked up soon after he came to LA, our styles and personality just clicking fabulously. Brad mostly handled makeup, but he can snip a bang too. Meanwhile, I was the follicle genius, turning rat-nested, hungover A-list sluts into red carpet stunners. We worked the Hollywood scene doing movies, TV shows, awards shows, and more. I’ve had my fingers on more heads than a porn star gets her fingers around cocks. Name me a star who lives in Los Angeles, and I can probably tell you their hair care secrets—who’s got gray hair, who needs some extra highlighting, and whose hair isn’t even theirs. For quite a few years, I kept Hollywood’s secrets and dealt with their bullshit quite nicely.

But last year, after a few things happened on a reality TV show that just left us feeling too creepy-crawly, the bug to settle and have something to call our own got its claws in us, and now, here we are. I was surprised when Brad agreed to come with me, actually. I thought that, coming from a rather hoity-toity East Coast background, he’d found heaven in Los Angeles. But here we are.

After some research, we couldn’t really decide, so fate intervened. After a call from my friend Emily, who ironically triggered my sudden urge to get the fuck out of the California, we ran away from LA to Great Falls, a picturesque little town she’d told me about. It was where she and her now fiancé, Hayden, went the weekend after he asked her to marry him, and it’s just north of where she lives now. It’s a beautiful town, with a length of Main Street straight out of the 1950s, a brand-new luxury resort associated with the nearby ski area, and a vibrant arts scene that’s been famous since Norman Rockwell was painting.

Ironically, we won’t be giving up all of our Hollywood connections. The state has been doing a lot to try and get filmmakers to bring production to the state, and not just cable dramas or B-movie action flicks. There’s been a ton of movies filmed out there over the past few years. Chances are, if you’ve seen a small town scene that was going for that American sense of nostalgia over the past few years, it was filmed somewhere in or around Great Falls. It’s enough to give some people what my grandmother liked to call ‘airs’. Still, there’s a certain small town charm to Great Falls, and most people actually say hello to other locals they pass.

Talk about a change of pace! And that’s why Brad and I chose this storefront. Sure, there were a ton of challenges with the historic landmark issue, but it’s right in the middle of the main road leading up to the resort, where we can serve both the upper-crust tourists and the middle-class townies. And the landlord’s been a sweet man, who told us, “As long as the county landmark people don’t shit themselves, you’re free to do whatever you want to fancy up the place.”

When the landlord said that, I was a little terrified about what Brad would do. After all, I’ve seen some of his date photos. But I shouldn’t have worried. Brad’s always been artistic, even before he started focusing on makeup, and I have to admit that the result of his interior design vision is spectacular.

From the street, the big sign streetside has only been modified. The classic cowboy that has been there for fifty years now holds a pair of scissors instead of a Winchester, and the neon underneath reads Triple B Salon instead of Duke’s Drive In. We’ve kept the old-fashioned pull-in spaces as parking, while the kitchen and sit-down diner area were gutted. Three black- and white-striped awnings catch your eye, drawing your eyes through the huge plate-glass windows to see the crisp white salon chairs and bubblegum-pink walls. The pink was my only demand . . . well, request, because demanding things with Brad is a surefire way to start a riot. And he fights dirty, too. He’s not above taking a can of Aqua Net and using it like the LAPD uses pepper spray.

So pink had to be a suggestion. But it’s my current favorite color, and the girliness of it contrasts perfectly with Brad’s preppier style, giving the impression of chic extravagance. Besides, it gives the whole thing a sort of throwback vibe too. Clear out the salon chairs, and I could see someone doing a classic sock hop instead. We’re just missing a baby-blue Chevy Bel-Air parked out front. I thought about it, but Brad and I both decided we weren’t that throwback.

With a happy sigh, I look up and down the street for Brad, who was supposed to meet me here ten minutes ago. My best guess is that he’s still working on making his eyebrows perfect. The man’s got one flaw to him and that’s eyebrows that would make Hepburn herself go running for a razor. But we’ve got to do our last walk-through to be ready for the grand opening this weekend. Getting the business license was harder than dealing with the historic landmark people. And we’ve still got some work to do, fucked up eyebrows or no fucked up eyebrows. It’s why I’m dressed down right now in jeans and a t-shirt instead of my normal fabulousness. I’ve got fucking work to do.

As I scan, I spot a beautiful motorcycle parked outside the mechanic shop across the street. I know jack shit about bikes, but I know a work of art when I see one and have a momentary daydream about riding down the highway with that bad boy humming between my legs. Actually, the idea of any bad boy humming between my legs has me smirking a little. It’s been too long since that’s been a reality for me unless you count my favorite vibrator. Still, riding a bike like that, holding onto a warm hunk while the vibrations send ripples through my pussy, and wrapping my arms around his six-pack abs . . . sign me up!

My fantasy is cut short when I hear a little ahem behind me. Turning, I spot Brad, who looks like a walking fashion show, as always, with his slim khaki pants, plaid button-down shirt rolled to his elbows, and polka dot bowtie. And his eyebrows. Yep, I knew it. Freshly done behind his stylish bold black frames. “Glad to see you made it.”

“Me? I wasn’t the one spacing out!” Brad says with a laugh. He catches sight of the bike across the street and whistles. “I’d love to ride that hog!”

“The bike or the owner?” I ask, and Brad gives a smirk. “Gotcha. Doesn’t make a difference. You’ll just pick the hotter one.”

“Damn right. So, honey, you ready for this? We’re T minus forty-eight hours till the grand opening. I almost can’t believe it! Who’d have thought we’d be out of Hollywood, in a little town, doing bridal hair and prom makeup again? Or more importantly, that we’d be so happy about it?”

I look at him carefully, evaluating because that sounded a little tight. Brad’s always sarcastic, snarky, and hilarious, but that’s a bit over-the-top even for him. “You okay? We’ve been planning this and busting our asses for months and you’ve been a hundred percent with me the whole time. You having last-minute second thoughts?”

Brad sighs as his eyes settle on the storefront’s embossed nameplate that we put right next to the front door. “No, not second thoughts, just nerves I think. We’re on our own, you know? It’s always been someone else’s risk and we just cash the checks. I’m a magician with a makeup brush, and you’ve definitely got a flair with hair, but business owners? I’m lucky if I remember to pay my own damn bills, and now we’ve got this too? Knowing my luck, we’re going to be prepping some double-booked wedding because one of us brain farted, and that’ll be the exact time that the power company cuts the damn juice just as we’ve got three harpy bitches with chemicals in their hair. Just . . . it’s a lot of pressure and I want us to do well.”

I have to hold back a smile at Brad’s language. His flamboyancy isn’t a put-upon act . . . well, most of it. Harpy bitches? Who else besides Brad would come up with that? Instead of smiling, I give him a light punch in the middle of his well-defined if skinny as hell chest.

“Do well? Fuck ‘well’, honey buns. We’re going to rock this shit. We’ll hire an office helper to do the bookings and pay the bills so we can do what we do best. If we do well enough, we can even make sure the office help is six foot two, styled like a mofo, with an eight-pack of abs and a big package for you to drool over. It’s gonna be epic, Brad. You’ll see.”

“Oh, great,” Brad mock-complains as I give him a huge smile, wrapping him up in a hug. I can feel the tension leave him, and he takes a big breath, hugging me back. “You’re going to get us a lawsuit for sexual harassment.”

“It’s only harassment if it’s unwanted,” I joke back. “He’s gonna love me, no doubt about it. You? We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Brad laughs, letting go of me and looking inside at the salon. He nods as if to himself and pats me on the back. “All right, let’s check everything out so we’re good to go for Saturday.”

Unlocking and opening the door with a dramatic ‘ta-da’ from Brad, we step inside . . . and it’s perfect. Even though we’ve been here off and on through the renovation process, it feels different to see it cleaned up and devoid of workers and realize just how fabulous of a job Brad has done. “So, what do you think?”

“I think if makeup ever falls through on you, you’ve got something hot waiting in interior design,” I reply honestly. Walking through the reception area with throne-like hot pink leather chairs, I see that there are already magazines fanned out on the sleek metal tables. Further in, the black floor gleams under the spinning white chairs that face ornate mirrors that light up from behind, creating a shadow of lace on the pink walls. The hair wash station is set up with all of my favorite products, the same ones lined up perfectly on the shelves in reception to sell to customers. A lot of people would be surprised how much product sales can add to a salon’s bottom line.

Brad’s makeup station has quilted leather drawers to organize all of his products, with more hidden in cleverly disguised drawers around the station because he has so many doodads that he’d never find a way to look sleek if it were all visible. As I do a spin in the middle of the floor, I feel like I should be wearing a full skirt instead of jeans, letting it all twirl out and around like a Disney princess.

I’m so giddy that I squeal in delight. “Brad, it’s so, so gorgeous and fancy and amazing and . . .” I’m rambling, trying to think of more adjectives, when I realize that he’s staring at a wall in the reception area. Actually, as I freeze my spins, I see that he’s ping-ponging his eyes from one wall to the opposite one, tapping a finger against his lips. “What’s wrong?”

“Babycakes, we have a problem,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “We need art. Here and here,” he says as he points to one wall, then the other. I walk back toward him, eyes flicking back and forth like his did. The walls are bare, but I don’t mind the minimalist nature of the reception area. I’ve done too many haircuts in crowded trailers or chaotic backstage areas with shit going off everywhere. A little minimalism sort of works for me.

“I think it’s fine, but we can rush order some if you want. Just remember, we can’t cover up the plaque from the county.”

Brad hums, glancing over at the plaque, which we installed to note the historic nature of the salon building. “No problem, and I want. I definitely want. It’d be great if we could do black-and-white portrait shots of us, just a little mark of our style to give it a little personality.”

I laugh, gesturing around me. “Uh, Brad, personality is in full effect here. But yeah, I’m never opposed to a little photo shoot.” I fluff my big, juicy curls a bit, putting on a model’s accent. “Just tell me where to stand and where to smile at the camera and we’re good. But we probably can’t get anything done for this weekend unless we did pictures right now. One thing, though.”

“What?”

“This pink is too damn good to be kept black and white. I want the hair colorized.”

Our eyes meet for a beat as our faces break into huge grins, and without a word, we both run for our stations to get prepped. Touching up my curls and adding a fresh pop of color to my lips and eyes, I ask, “Whatcha thinking for the shots?”

Brad looks thoughtful, then says, “I’m gonna grab a vest from my apartment first, but we’ll need to head out to the woods. I want a nature shot, maybe take a stool to perch on, and get the sun behind me. You got any ideas what you want?”

With a flash in my brain like a lightning bolt being hurled into my head from Zeus himself, I know what I want. That motorcycle across the way is perfect, and in black and white, it would be all sexy curves, just like me. We could even colorize the chrome. It’d go with my hair in a great way. Grabbing the camera we use for before and after shots, we head outside into the bright morning light and walk across the street.

Brad sees the resting machine and agrees it’s perfect. I knock on the door to the shop to see who the owner is, but there’s no answer. Great. Find my dream, and nobody’s home. Kind of like most of my dating life, actually.

I look over at Brad, who’s admiring the curves but staying well away. To hell with it. I untuck my t-shirt and tie it tight under my boobs. I’ll make this good. “All right, so I just won’t touch it. I’ll stand in front of it and the owner will be none the wiser. You good?”

Brad gives me a dip of his head, but I can tell he’s not comfortable with this. “I’m not saying yes so that I can keep plausible deniability if the owner sees the pic and throws a shit fit, but you should definitely stand over there for the shot.” He gestures toward the motorcycle, and I can’t help it, I get into it. I’ve seen plenty of other women make love to the camera, and I decide to hell with it, I’m gonna do while the doing’s good. I smile and begin posing, popping a hip out to face the camera full-on, turning and leaning forward to stick my ass out.

As I pose, I get caught up and lay one gentle hand on the handlebars and the other on the seat. Brad continues clicking away, getting into his inner fashion photographer himself.

“Yesss, girl. Look here” —click— “and off toward the front tire” —click— “arch your back . . . that’s it, now caress that chrome like it was the perfect cock.”

I reach out, biting my lip and looking over my shoulder when suddenly, I hear a deep, sexy, but still furious growl. “What the fuck are you doing to my motorcycle?”

Evan

I rub at my temples, washing down the second of the damn horse pills the VA gave me for bad times with a swig of coffee and wincing. It’s already been a shitty day, and it’s only eleven A.M. Even on good days, I’m getting no more than four hours of sleep a night, and I know my caffeine habit is getting the best of me. But I didn’t sleep at all last night, not that that’s anything new since I got back from my last tour and the nightmares started.

Well, nightmares might be putting it lightly since the dreams that plague me are more like sleeping reenactments of the worst moments of my life. I see them all the time, the ghostly images that I know are supposed to just be in my head but sometimes seem so damn real at two in the morning. I rolled out of bed at seven simply because I couldn’t stand to lie around anymore. I felt like an extra in The Walking Dead, but I sucked it up and drove on, as we used to say. I took a shower, skipping the shave today because fuck it, and got ready to hit the day because that’s what you do when you’re responsible for helping out at a family business that provides both a needed distraction and the funds to survive.

What you don’t do is what too many of my buddies have—fall into drinking, drugs, and for some of them, eating the end of a pistol barrel. I can’t call them pussies. Some of those guys were the hardest-core motherfuckers any man could hope to meet. But that’s not me. I’m not looking for congratulations, but damn if I couldn’t use a little slack today.

Not that I’ve gotten any. As soon as I walked into the shop, my brother TJ started giving me shit about not pulling my weight when I drag-ass in an hour late and run off potential clients with my lack of customer service skills. “You can’t just get by with being good with a wrench, goddammit!” he yelled at me. “You have to actually talk to people!”

He’s probably right, but the last thing I need is my little brother telling me how to live, especially when he’s had a cushy life here at home, never having to battle a damn thing other than some nerves when he asked his flavor of the week out for a drink or a fuck, her choice.

So I’m already near my boiling point when I walk outside to grab another coffee and a cigarette to clear my head so I can tackle the engine rebuild on my schedule today. It’s not a bad one. Old GM small blocks are pieces of cake compared to European builds, but I want to be able to focus, and that means coffee. I just step out the door when I see some chick damn near lying on my bike.

Before I can even think, all of my anger from the morning boils over as I charge forward like a raging bull, exploding from deep in my chest. “What the fuck are you doing to my motorcycle?”

I see her jerk back, startled by the noise. Who does she think she is? Hands off my baby. I built this cycle from the frame up, and nobody, not even my brother, gets to touch it without my say-so.

The woman turns to face me, a placating smile already on her red-painted lips. “I’m so sorry! It’s just such a gorgeous machine, I couldn’t help myself.” She dips her chin and pulls up one side of her smile a bit more, her head tilted slightly, and I can tell she’s used the practiced pose to get her way more than once. Considering the smooth, creamy skin she’s showing off under the tied-up t-shirt she’s wearing, she probably doesn’t have to ask twice either.

I huff, but that act isn’t going to work on me. “It is gorgeous. Know what else it is?” I wait a half-beat, but before she can even open her mouth, I answer my own question. “Mine. Back. The. Fuck. Up.”

She’s taken aback by my vehemence, her eyes going wide as her full lips round, taking in a gasp of air. She is hot, not like most chicks I see around here. I mean, she’s rocking metallic pink hair like it’s nobody’s business, and the jeans she’s wearing do look natural on a bike like mine, but that’s only if invited first. She stutters and swings off my bike, letting me see the rest of her, and she’s no less hot in that tight t-shirt that shows off a front side nearly as curvy as her backside. “Again, I’m sorry. I knocked on the door to ask but nobody answered—”

“So you knew that it wasn’t right but went ahead and touched my bike anyway? Yeah, you sound really sorry, Princess.”

I can see the switch flip in her eyes instantly as she goes from nicely trying to apologize to nuclear. Guess she’s got a button to push.

“I’m not a damn princess, asshole,” she fires back, turning and jabbing a finger at me. “I just wanted to take a picture with your bike for our new salon. I’m sorry I touched it. Obviously, that’s my bad. But you don’t have to be so fucking rude.”

As she rants, I’m suddenly struck by how the fire crackles in her wild eyes and the flush moves down her cheeks. She’s gesturing all around with her hands like some caricature, pointing at me, the bike, and vaguely across the street. She’s cute when she’s pissed.

I can’t help but laugh, but it’s a snarky dark chuckle that she takes as my still being rude, though it wasn’t really my intention. She plants her balled-up fists on her hips while the guy, who’s looking like he wants to be anywhere but here, shakes in his overly tight khakis, holding his camera like a shield.

My eyes are mostly filled with the pixie in front of me that’s about to go apeshit on me. “What? What the fuck are you laughing at?”

I can’t help it, her boldness makes me laugh even harder. “Did you really just try to tell me that you’re not a Princess? Have you seen yourself? Pink nails flicking all about, and makeup done like you’re in a damn movie? And that hair? You look like a Powerpuff Girl or something. You’re a walking, talking Pink Barbie Princess, honey.”

Her voice drops to a throaty growl, and I know for sure that she doesn’t appreciate being called Princess. A part of me that isn’t pissed off and caught up in my throbbing headache sort of wonders why. “Don’t call me Princess. If you want to address me, my name is McKayla, but I think we’d be better off if you just didn’t call me anything, ever again. Sorry for touching your precious bike, asshole.”

With a hair flip, McKayla pivots in her heels and stomps away. She’s obviously pissed as fuck, flipping me off as she talks faintly to herself about what a jerk I am. But with every stomp, her ass bounces and sways, creating a sexy image if I ever saw one.

I cross my arms and watch her for a moment, one corner of my lips sneaking up just a bit until I feel eyes on me. I realize that the guy is still there, his polka-dot bowtie somehow adding that touch of absolute ridiculous unreality that makes me know for sure this isn’t some waking nightmare. I’d never imagine this. He’s watching me watch her, and I raise an eyebrow at him, not saying a word.

“So. That’s McKayla and I’m Brad,” he says in a lispy voice that certainly advertises which team he swings for. “We’re the owners of the new Triple B Salon across the street. And who did we have the pleasure of meeting today?”

I nearly gape in disbelief. Shit. They’re literally my new fucking neighbors. Of course they are, because that’s how fucked up my life is. TJ’s gonna kill me. With a hearty sigh, I look up to the sky, silently cursing whatever joke fate is trying to play on me.

Looking back at Brad, I relent and offer a hand. He shakes, and despite his effeminate aura, he’s got a good grip to him. “I’m Evan Hardwick. My brother TJ and I own this garage. Looks like we’re neighbors. Welcome to the neighborhood. But don’t touch my bike.”

Brad nods, taking his hand back. “Understood. Loud and clear. FYI, I’m the nice one. You’ve heard the expression ‘a bark worse than the bite’?”

I nod, thinking I know where this is headed. “She’s feisty but a little playful puppy inside?”

Brad shakes his head, surprising me. “McKayla’s got a hell of a bark, but her bite is even worse.”With a hum of disapproval, he gives me a look and then offers a little finger wave and sashays across the street toward the new storefront. I watch him walk in the door and then hop on my bike. I light it up with a grumble of the engine, the aggressive snarl mirroring my mood perfectly. I pull away from the shop, gunning it as I turn a half-circle and double-shift as I pass the salon window, the engine going from a howl to a full scream. Hidden behind sunglasses, I cut my eyes over to the salon. As I pass, I tell myself that I won that little battle of the day as I fly out to the highway, needing the wind in my face to let go of the shitty morning.

McKayla

Brad and I stand in front of the small crowd, and when I say small, I mean like ten people and we’re two of them. It’s disappointing, to say the least, and I feel slightly ridiculous in my sexiest dress, petticoat, and heels. I spent at least an hour getting ready for this, and I’ve seen bigger crowds for a junior high school girls’ volleyball game.

At least the guy from the newspaper is here. He said that we’ll make tomorrow’s weekly edition if I can give him a few good quotes. He’s sort of cute, in a nerdy way, but he seriously needs some work on his hair. From the looks of it around here, dog clippers are considered a viable tool for hacking everything down to a quarter-inch buzz cut . . . but I can’t do that.

Still, it’s our grand opening, and Councilman Jaxson Kennedy, the suited representative from the city council, stands next to us as I thank everyone for coming and welcoming us to their town. “When Brad and I first decided on Great Falls, the first thing some of our friends said was ‘Where?’ But over the past few months, we’ve found ourselves welcomed warmly by this beautiful town, and I can say I understand why they call this place the friendliest town in the US. Thank you, and I hope everyone enjoys the Triple B!”

There’s a round of light applause like it’s a golf tournament, and then Jaxson hands us a laughably large pair of fake scissors. We pose for the local newspaper reporter to take a picture, and I remind myself that I need to deliver some better quotes than what my welcoming speech apparently was. Brad and I cut through the large ribbon in front of us, and we’re officially open for business.

I take a moment as we step inside, deciding that ten people is enough. We’ve done it. I look over at Brad, and he’s feeling the same way. Our smiles are huge, stretching across our faces in amazement at what we’ve already accomplished, so excited to get rolling with our new lives and new business in our new town. Setting the giant scissors behind the counter, I invite everyone into the salon and begin to mingle with the few folks present, introducing myself to what could be our first customers.

I approach a stunning blonde woman whose highlights make me wonder who I’m up against in town. She’s seen someone with some good skills. Still, I know I can do better. I only hope that the people around Great Falls can tell the difference and be willing to pay for it too. I offer my hand and an introduction. “Hi! I’m McKayla, the Queen of Coifs, as my partner, Brad, calls me when he’s in a good mood. Nice to meet you.”

She shakes back, a polite smile warming her face. “Nice to meet you, McKayla. I’m Rose, your neighbor from a few doors down. I own the Mountain Rose Boutique store. Welcome to the ‘hood!”

“Thanks for the warm welcome. I’ll have to stop in to your store and see what you have. Admittedly, I get most of my stuff online, but it’d be great to get some things locally too.”

“I’d love to have you come by. So, Brad’s your partner?”

I laugh, glancing over my shoulder at Brad, who’s being himself and already has a woman in his makeup chair doing a demonstration of his skills. “Trust me, it’s not that kind of partnership. Brad’s not into women.”

Rose chuckles. “So what does he call you when he’s not in a good mood?”

I grin. “Let’s just say that Triple B has different meanings. I like to say it stands for Beautiful Badass Bitches. When Brad’s in a bad mood, the first two B’s can change to Basic Bossy Bitches, which is funny because we’re both anything but basic.”

Rose giggles, and I feel that click that tells me I’ve made a friend. She smiles, and it’s smooth conversation, putting me right at ease that I’ve done the right thing moving here and setting up shop, especially since her highlights are apparently natural. Not too many people are that lucky, that’s for damn sure, and I’m doubly lucky that I don’t have to worry about competition.

I shake hands with just about everyone, making sure I give the newspaper reporter plenty of good quotes. It’s easier than I thought. Talking with Rose has relaxed me, and I’m able to be more of myself. I try to avoid namedropping too much, but let’s face it, I’m trying to bring a little bit of Hollywood glamor, so I just try to be humble about it.

After the newspaper guy finishes up, snapping a pair picture with me and Brad, Jaxson comes over offering a pleased smile. “Well, Councilman,” I say, grinning, “what do you think? Think we’ll add something to Great Falls?”

“I’d say things look like they’re going very well—maybe even get you some new business right off the bat. And please remember, just call me Jaxson. Maybe I can be your first customer.”

I nod politely, feeling like he’s being nice but getting a little tingle like he’s flirting a bit with me too. Normally, I don’t have a problem with it, but he just doesn’t do it for me. “Sure thing, Jaxson. Don’t want to steal you away from your current hairdresser, but I’d be happy to give you a cut and let you decide from there. I appreciate the city council welcoming us to town.”

“I don’t think my current barber would be too upset since he cuts the hair of most of the guys in town,” he says. Jaxson smiles, and again, there’s something in that smile that ticks a little circuit in my brain. “But he’s not nearly as pretty as you are, so I think I’d likely choose you even if you shaved me bald.” He leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “But please don’t.”

Yep, he’s definitely flirting with me now. I heard the compliment, but even as it’s an ego boost to be noticed, he just doesn’t light me up inside. No butterflies for the clean-cut guys. It’s one of the first things I learned about myself in high school when all the other girls were swooning over jocks and big-man-on-campus types. Those guys don’t do it for me.

Nope, I might be silly and I might be weird, but give me a rebel with—or without—a cause, a hellion, the brooding misfit who never walked the straight and narrow. Yeah, that’s the guy who’ll get me going, even when I know from experience that it’s a bad fucking idea and only leads to heartbreak. But it gets me every time. At least they’re usually honest about their fucked-uppedness.

My brain flips back to the asshole on the bike across the street. My eyes track over to the shop Brad told me he co-owns, but it’s closed. I can see the lights are on inside, so they must be open for business, but the big bay doors are pulled down. Yeah, that’s more my type of guy. Obviously, he’s got issues, including a huge one about nobody touching his damn bike.

If only he weren’t an asshole. I have a moment of disappointment, but before I can analyze it too much, I realize Jaxson is still talking. “ . . . been on the council here for years, grew up down in the community college area, but came north after I graduated, and I never left. I’m hoping I can use my business degree and council experience for advantage and become mayor, then who knows? Maybe go bigger for a state rep seat.”

I smile and nod, knowing that to most people, a sweet guy with ambition like Jaxson is a dream come true. He should be the type of guy every woman wants. He’s a respectable adult and all, but even tuning out for half of his speech, I’m already a teensy bit bored, if I’m honest with myself. All I can think of is the fact that any haircut I give this guy is going to be over styled, totally conservative, and as boring as watching what little grass there is underneath the front windows grow. It’ll be the kissing babies and shaking hands haircut, offensive to nobody except me and Brad.

Still, I want to be polite, and a customer is a customer. “That’s quite a life plan you’ve got there, Jaxson. Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

Jaxson gives me another grin. “Yep, a one, five, and ten-year plan. Got to have both short-term and long-term goals and chase them with focused drive, sheer will, and hard work. It’s all part of the secret, you know? You have to ask, then visualize and believe, and you’ll receive it. Law of attraction and all, you know?”

I distractedly fidget with my necklace, knowing I’ve stepped in the deep end now. I realize I’ve made a mistake when Jaxson’s eyes zoom in on the beads, just inches away from my cleavage. Shit, didn’t mean to do that. I lower my hand, regretting my accidental signal. I get it. I’ve got some legit boobs . . . but not everyone gets to see them.

“How about lunch after everyone filters out?” Jaxson asks. I’m just about to apologize and say no when he continues. “We can go to the diner and I can introduce you to most everyone in town. It’s a busy place for Saturday’s lunch rush.”

I so don’t want to do this. I’d rather be in the salon, trying to make my impression the old-fashioned way, giving haircuts that’ll leave people stunned and customer service that’ll leave them wanting more. But looking around, I see no one waiting, and I know Brad can handle anything that happens. I sigh inside, knowing that I need to do this for the business connections.

I don’t want to lead Jaxson on, but I do need to get out and get my face known. Suddenly, I’m struck with genius. To hell with it. We can officially open tomorrow. “You now what, Jaxson? That’d be great. Brad and I would really appreciate your introducing us to everyone. You really take your council role as welcome wagon seriously!”

Before he can correct me, I turn, hollering to Brad. “Hey, honeybuns!” I draw out the word to emphasize the endearment on purpose. “Jaxson offered to introduce us to some folks over lunch. Isn’t that nice of him?”

Brad looks at me, immediately hearing our code word for “rescue me” that has come in handy more than once at a club when a guy wouldn’t take the subtle hint and go away. It’s a desperate plan, but hey, whatever works.

Brad straightens up, adding a little bit of bass to his voice. “Why yes, dear. That is rather nice.” He looks at me with a shit-eating grin and I know he got the message.

I also know that once he and I get to hang out alone again, I’m so going to hear about this.

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