Page 117 of Prickly Romance

Beverly and I stop at the same time.

When I turn, I see Sheila gaping at us from the bathroom doorway. “Are you insane?” she screams.

I start to feel hope when I think she’s jumping on my side.

But I should know better.

Her eyes flit to the reporter. She hurries over and smacks at my knuckles until I release Beverly’s hair.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sheila barks.

“She—”

“This is a place of music and arts, Miss Williams. Don’t bring your ghetto here.”

Her words are a smack to the face. My jaw drops.

Beverly puts on a show. Her eyes get teary and she pats her cheek. “I was just washing my hands and she suddenly attacked me.”

“I’m so sorry.” Sheila pats down Beverly’s hair which is sticking up all over her head. “Let me get you some ice.”

While Sheila leaves with Beverly leaning heavily on her like a war veteran, I seethe in rage.

“Wait!”

The two women stop and look back at me.

With dark, burning eyes, I march closer to Beverly and raise a hand.

She flinches.

I don’t hit her. I open her palm and drop a clump of hair in it. “You’ll want this back.”

She grits her teeth at me.

“Really, Williams?” Sheila shakes her head darkly and carries Beverly out of the bathroom.

I limp to the mirror and peer in. There’s a scratch on my neck from where Beverly clipped me with her talons. It’s not bleeding, but it’s throbbing slightly. My hair’s a tangled mess of curls and frizz. One side of my shirt is hanging off my shoulder. It wasn’t meant to withstand a grown woman tugging on it like a leash.

On the other hand, I’m sure I gave Beverly a bald spot.

The grin I aim at my reflection is dark but satisfied.

Worth it.

I clean myself up as best as I can, scraping my hair into a tight ponytail and reapplying lip gloss. Then I go around the bathroom picking up the clumps of hair and making sure we didn’t break the door in.

When I’m satisfied that we didn’t leave extra work for the cleaners, I return to the main hallway.

My heart is still racing with adrenaline. I could go another round, but the evil Beverly has probably hopped on her broomstick and disappeared by now. I hope she learned her lesson.

And I hope she never disrespects the deaf community again.

Urgent footsteps clamor toward me. It’s Sheila. She’s marching like a drill sergeant ready to give the order to the firing squad.

“Before you ask, I didn’t throw the first punch. She did. And I had a very good reason for—”

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Sheila hisses, cutting me off. Her purple hair swishes in front of her face with the force of her head bob.

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