Page 8 of Fiery Romance

I keep talking anyway. “This caveman the size of an ice-age mammoth stormed into my shop today and barked at me. And it turns out he might have a good reason for going full beast mode. But I had a good reason for doing what I did to him too and the punishment seems like it’s going to be way heavier than the crime.”

Still silence.

I chuckle. “You probably think I’m over-exaggerating like usual, but I’m being honest. Everything I’ve worked for is at stake—”

Beep.

The line goes dead. I’d forgotten that Taz’s voicemail only allows for thirty-second messages.

A fresh wave of loneliness hits me, but I fight it back by checking the calendar.

Only a few months left.

Every day that passes is a day closer to Taz coming home.

You’ll get through this, Island.

I listen to music and hype myself back into a positive attitude. By the time I return to my shop, my smile is fixed and my stress is buried deep in my heart.

“Are you Island?” A young, cheerful voice greets me the moment I step inside the empty salon.

“That I am.”

“Oh.” The kid’s eyes widen to the size of my biggest hair rollers. “You’re so pretty.”

I smile and touch her dark cheek. “Why thank you.”

She’s got a good eye. Today’s makeup look is a defined brow and sultry brown lipstick. I gave the wigs a rest and braided a funky feed-in with beads at the ends and left my kinky curls in two tight afro puffs.

I’m on fire today.

And I’m not just saying it out of vanity. My social media posts went viral about two minutes after I uploaded a mirror shot.

Social media is really responding to the ‘rocker chick with natural hair’ vibe. I’ve got to tailor more of my looks to that theme.

“Are you my client for this evening?” I ask the little girl. Ms. Phoebe, my contact at the women’s shelter, didn’t leave me a name or a profile this time.

I’ve braided children’s hair before. Mostly little girls who’ve been through unspeakable trauma. It’s the most fulfilling feeling in the world to see their tiny grins after I turn them to face the mirror.

“No, I’m not doingmyhair.” The little one shakes her head and gives me a gap toothed smile. “It’s my mommy. She’s getting a new job. Ms. Phoebe said mommy needs a new hair-do to go with her new work clothes.”

“The clothes aren’t exactly new but…”

I glance up at the shy woman occupying a seat in the waiting area. She looks skittish and unsure of herself.

That won’t do.How is she going to land this job without some confidence?

I sashay toward her. “Oh, baby, look at you.” I gesture to her face and make a cradle motion. “Those cheekbones are fire. And has anyone told you that you have the perfect bone structure? It’s pure symmetry. You’re a walking sculpture.”

I’m pulling compliments out of my butt crack, but the tension in the client’s shoulders eases and she begins to look more relaxed.

“I’m nothing like you,” she sputters.

“Exactly, baby. If I were like you, I wouldnotbe humble.” I bump her with my shoulder.

“Thank you.” She smiles shyly. “Uh, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re exactly what I expected.”

“What do you mean?” I gesture for her to follow me to the washing station. Distractedly, I motion to her daughter. “Baby, you can turn the television to whatever channel you want while I take care of your mommy’s hair, okay?”

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