CASH
Beep-beepbeep-beep. My alarm clock blares, even though it feels like my head just hit the pillow. Another night of shitty sleep. I’m not sure why I’ve been so restless. Maybe I’ve been working too hard? Yeah. That’s it.
Add in that I probably haven't eaten a good meal since those chicken-n-dumplings the other week. Today calls for some real food and some relaxation. I blink the sleep out of my eyes, snatch my phone off the nightstand, and notice a text from Drake.
Drake: Whatcha got going on today?
Me: Not much. Got a few emails to send and a call or 2 to make.
Drake: Perfect. Get that shit done and head over. Ribs on the grill.
Drake: Simon’s coming too.
Me: Sounds good. See you soon.
After a scalding shower, I throw on some cargo shorts and a Carson’s Custom tee and head into my office to hammer out those emails. I take a seat at my desk, a one-off made from gorgeous quarter-sawn white oak and stained a deep golden brown. It makes a statement against the beige walls and light wood floors. Pulling up my calendar on the computer, I make a short list of who I need to email and who I need to call. After sending a handful of emails, I've had it with office work. Shifting the calls to Monday on my schedule, I power down the computer and head to Drake’s.
The winding country roads make the drive feel longer than it is. Surrounded by open fields, it’s like Drake lives in the middle of nowhere, which I guess he does. Gotta have a lot of land to peanut farm.
Drake is standing in the yard, talking on his phone, when I pull up. Running a hand over his freshly buzzed head, he laughs silently, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. I can’t tell if the person he is talking to is amusing him or aggravating him. He signals for me to head around to the backyard. Ignoring him, I head inside. It’s crazy hot.
A few minutes later, the front door slams—aggravated it is!
“What’s up, D? What’s got you all pissed off?”
He glares at me. “Not a damn thing. Why aren’t you out back?”
“It's only April, and it’s already hotter than blue blazes. Fuck that.”
He just grins and gestures for me to follow him out to the back deck.
“Damn, dude. This is legit.” He has the back porch rigged up with a misting system. Two hoses run along either side of the deck, and two large industrial-looking fans blow the mist toward the center of the deck. Genius. “This is badass, Drake. You set this up?”
“Sho ‘nuff. Gotta stay cool. These summers get brutal.” He looks smug as shit, but I guess he earned it.
“I need something like this for my workshop.” I run my hands through my thick mass of curls, tugging on the ends.
Drake laughs. “How do you work in that hot-as-balls workshop with that mop on your head?”
“I know, I know. Shit’s too long. I’ve been meaning to get over to the barber shop in town.” I shrug my shoulders and once again run my hands through my thick hair. “Just haven’t made it.”
“Nah, man. Don’t go there. Those old dudes will jack your shit up. Ask Simon about his last time there.” He's doubled over from his effort to contain his laughter at our friend's expense. “Seriously, Cash. Save yourself the trouble. Go to Southern Roots.”
“Southern Roots? That sounds like some chick shit.”
“Yeah, it is. But they know how to cut some hair. Seriously. Either girl there will rock that shit. They’re sweethearts too. Well, one of them is sweet. The other is full of nothin’ but piss and vinegar. The sweet one, she’s preg—”
The sound of tires crunching on the gravel drive derails his train of thought. “Fucking finally! Took you long enough,” he calls out as Simon walks through the door. “You bring that potato salad you wouldn’t shut up about the other day? If not, you can head your ass right back home and get it.”
“Quit your bitchin’,” Simon counters with a lazy smile as he sets a bowl on the table. “Now, what’re we talking about?”
“Yeah, yeah, I was just telling Cash here all about why he shouldn’t hit up the barber shop.” Drake chuckles, ambling off toward the grill.
The look on Simon’s face is priceless, like he’s smelled something foul. His thick brows pinch and his mouth sets in a firm line. “No, just no.” He pulls off his ball cap, runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair, and readjusts it on his head. “Go see the girls at Southern Roots. Ain’t no one else taking scissors to my head except one of them.”
"Guess that settles it—Southern Roots it is."
A plate of mouth-watering ribs appears on the table we’re seated around. “Y’all gonna sit around and chat all day, or are we gonna eat?” Drake asks, smirking like the asshole he is.