Page 7 of Claimed By the Biker Brothers

“Good morning,” I say, greeting the woman. When she takes her sunglasses off, I recognize her.

“Morning,” she says with a flat smile.

“Miss Hughes,” I mumble. “What a surprise.”

“Why is it a surprise?” She laughs lightly and takes a seat at my station.

I give Rita a questioning look. She’s still behind the reception computer, but she nods slightly and goes through my bookings for the day, then replies with a silent nod. Marlo Hughes is, indeed, my first client this morning. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’ve never been fond of her or her family—for good reason.

“I’m guessing you made the booking through our online portal?” I ask politely.

“My assistant handles these things,” she says, showing me her hands.

“Well, I’m glad to be of service.” I put on my work smile and my latex gloves. “What are we doing today?”

She carefully looks at me. I can feel her icy gaze scanning my face, searching for something. We’ve rarely crossed paths outside the nail salon, but I know enough about her. I hear the Riders talking about the Hugheses and their so-called family business, and I’ve known for years about their influence in and around Redwood. Marlo seems nice, but there’s a sharp edge to her voice that chills me to the bone.

“I think I want gel manicure in a different color,” Marlo says. “Do you still have those tiny diamonds?”

“Cubic zirconia, yes,” I reply.

“I want one on each ring finger. There’s a wedding I mean to dazzle with these nails.”

“Say no more.” I chuckle softly and get to work.

Rita gets a client of her own just a few minutes later, and I briefly lose my train of thought with their conversation running in the background. The buzzing of my electric file is enough to keep me focused on the task at hand, though, as I remove the polish and gel from each of Marlo’s nails. She watches as I work in silence, and while I find her staring quite unnerving, I’m used to it. Most of my clients do that, albeit unintentionally.

“Shall I shorten them as well?” I ask once the gel is off.

“Sure, but just a bit. Keep the shape, though.”

“Of course.”

“I heard Calvin got out,” Marlo says, and I catch my breath.

“What?” I blurt out, giving her a troubled glare.

“I’m sorry,” she says and offers a polite smirk. “The people in this town talk. Word travels fast, and frankly, all of Redwood was shaken to the core when Calvin was arrested. I’m sure I said this to you once or twice over the years since he’s been away, but I am deeply sorry for what he put you through. I hope you’ve healed.”

I don’t really know what to say. What is this, exactly? Why is she bringing him up?

“Thank you, Miss Hughes—”

“Marlo, please. We’ve known each other long enough.”

“Marlo. Thank you. It’s been four years. I haven’t really given him much thought,” I say, trying to focus on the nail filing so she doesn’t walk out of here with a shoddy manicure.

“But you did hear about his early release, right?”

I pause and give her another glance. “I did, yes. Where did you hear about it?”

“Like I said, people talk around here. I think it was my driver who mentioned something the other day. Then a few other folks over at the farmers’ market. Maybe they’ve seen him around, I’m not sure,” she says, then leans forward while I finish filing the middle fingernails. “How do you feel about this whole thing? Wasn’t he supposed to go away for a long time?”

“I understand he got a chance at parole. It’s not my business, though. We were done a long time ago.”

“What about your daughter? How does she feel about seeing her father again?”

Now, I’m getting irritated, but Marlo is big shot in this town and probably a good tipper. For my sake, I need to keep my cool and my wits about me. Whatever her endgame may be, I cannot crack at the first sign of discomfort.

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