Page 43 of Icing the Enemy

“You’re so hardheaded.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

oakley

A couple of weeks ago,Dixie and I took our morning walk to the community college. I stapled my salon business card to lined notebook paper that reads, “Please save me from the blue hairs. I’d love to color you pink, lavender or even red. Twenty-five dollars cash.”

I’m booked all day with back-to-back appointments, and a few customers bring friends to squeeze in. My strategy is paying off. Reel them in now while they’re in community college and cash strapped with a sale.

One girl squeals in delight when she sees the faint lavender streak framing her face. Another asks for chunky blond highlights. But my favorite is Marisol, one of the girls with long blond hair like mine, and she asks if I can give her a trendy haircut, so I layer it just above the shoulders. When I dry it, it shrinks up an inch. I curl it with five big waves and run my fingers through it, spray some shine glaze, and even though she was beautiful before, now she has an edge to her. She whispers to me, “I have an audition this weekend to sing at one of the major bars, where music scouts hang out looking for the next star. Could you do my hair?”

Just then, a loud noise grabs my attention outside the salon. It’s a tow truck unloading my car. Something with wings flaps in my stomach. Corbin. I take out my shiny new rose-gold phone, stopping to admire it. But then, I text him for the first time.

Me: Thanks for the phone and my car.

Corbin: I wanted you to be able to text me. But what car? Did you steal one of my cars?

Me: It’s not stealing; you said I could drive them. But a tow truck is unloading my car right now. Thanks again. Oh, I’m going to be late. I’m so busy.

Corbin: I didn’t have your car towed. It was on my to-do list, but it’s been a hectic day for me too.

Me: Hmmm.

Corbin: Does your car work? Maybe Becca had it towed.

Me: Don’t know. I have to finish this client. One last question. Do we have anything to do Saturday afternoon?

Dots bounce. Stop bouncing. Bounce again. Geez, I’m not asking for the nuclear codes, just if we have plans since I have to go to parties, events, and games.

Corbin: Why?

After all that bouncing and thinking, he types a three-letter word. I shake my head.

Me: Because one of my clients wants me to style her hair before she auditions on Saturday for a singing gig.

Corbin: What time?

I drop my phone and ask Marisol, “What time would you need me to do it?”

“Around noon. My audition is at three.”

Me: Noon.

Corbin: We can make it work. Let me know if your car works. If it does, can you drive here and bring Dixie? If we drink, I would rather Dixie be here, so we don’t have to drive.

Me: I’ll let you know.

“Excuse me a minute.” I walk outside as the driver finishes unloading my vehicle. “Hi. Can you tell me who had my car towed here?”

He grabs his clipboard out of the front seat, glances over the document, and says, “A Mr. Beech. Sign here.”

My jaw drops and instead of being grateful, I’m pissed. If he wants to get into my good graces, he can start by removing the terms of marriage from my trust fund. I sign, and he hands me the keys and my copy of the paperwork. As he pulls off, I start the car and drive it into a parking spot. No smoke. It feels like a kitten purring. Well… not purring. It’s nothing like Corbin’s BMW, but it’s running better than it has in months.

Me: My car seems to be fixed.

Corbin: Text me when you leave your house, so I know when to expect you.

I type the thumbs up emoji and find myself smiling. This texting thing is fun.

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