Into The Light (Three Rivers #1)

Chapter 7

Seven

BEAR

L ux Locks Salon is in the heart of downtown Three Rivers on Main Street between Tompkins and Brookline. The whole front is picture windows with planter boxes underneath filled with a profusion of colorful flowers. Couldn't say what kind, though. There's an upscale women's clothing boutique on one side and a running gear store on the other.

Noelle unlocks the glass front door, ushering in Panzer and me and then re-locking it behind her. Inside, the space is open and airy and light, with six stations on each side facing each wall. Each station features a black leather chair with chrome accents, a stand for each stylist's equipment, and a large mirror. Along the back wall are another half a dozen weird sinks with chairs in front of them, the facing lip of the sink divoted like an executioner’s block. A long, low, sleek leather couch sits under the front windows, and a heavy glass coffee table nearby is stacked with magazines. A small counter with a computer screen and a credit card reader stands near the couch. It smells like shampoo and floral air freshener.

Noelle leads me to the weird sinks at the back. "Have a seat."

I lower myself carefully into the seat, my back to the sink. "What's this?”

"Gotta wash your hair first," she says, and the sound of running water splutters to life.

"Took a shower after work yesterday," I tell her.

She rests her hands on my shoulders, gently guiding me to lean backward until my neck fits into the divot of the sink—the setup makes sense, then. She gathers my hair so it hangs into the sink.

"Oh, I know. But…um." A brief hesitation. "Can I ask what you use to wash your hair?"

"I dunno. Bottle of some shit Riley picked up for me at Target the day I got out."

"And let me guess, you wash everything with the same bottle? Hair, beard, and body?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Water sprays me in lukewarm droplets. "Too hot or too cold?"

"Cold."

The water warms until it's pleasantly hot. "Good?"

"Yeah."

"So, I'm guessing you didn't intentionally grow your hair out? You just sort of never cut it when you were in jail?" She asks, gathering my hair in her hands and dousing it with the hot water.

"Right."

"And you never trim it, or tie it back, or anything?"

"Nope.”

“Okay, well, a few things, here. The all-in-one stuff is…convenient, I suppose, but for hair as long and thick and glorious as yours, you need better products. You need a good shampoo and conditioner, for one thing—separate bottles.” She pinches a dry strand of hair and shows it to me. "Feel it."

I run my forefinger and thumb over the strands. "Okay?"

She bends over me so her hair dangles over my face. Her scent washes over me, making blood rush to my head…and elsewhere. Lavender and vanilla and roses…and something else that's just indefinably female. And intoxicating.

"Feel mine."

As gently as I can, I slip a lock of her hair through my fingers—it's soft, cool, silky. "Totally different."

"Yours is dry, Bear, that's the only difference. It needs proper hydration. It’s just thirsty.”

"Water doesn't hydrate it?" I ask, feeling stupid.

She giggles, not unkindly. "Seems counterintuitive, I know, but no. The chemicals in the stuff you use are what dries it out. Good shampoos and conditioners are specially formulated to help your hair stay healthy. The same goes for your beard. We don't stock men's products here, but after I'm done we can swing by Target and I'll help you pick out better stuff. And then your hair and beard will be healthy, shiny, and not in your way all the time."

"Sounds good."

All this time, she's been rinsing my hair, kneading it, squeezing the water out, and re-rinsing. Now, I hear a bottle cap click open, a soft fart sound as she squeezes shampoo into her hand, and then she starts applying it to my hair.

She even lathers my hair differently than I do—I just glop it onto my crown, rub it in for a few seconds, and then rinse it out. Noelle rubs her hands together and then starts at the ends of my hair, scrubbing and lathering her way up to my scalp. Once she gets to my scalp, her strong, nimble fingertips knead and massage all over, from my hairline by my forehead to the back of my neck to around my ears.

It feels fucking incredible. It's so…intimate. Almost sexual in feeling. I want to let out a moan, it feels so fucking intense.

I let my eyes close, sunlight bathing my eyes with yellow warmth, and her massaging fingers dance and knead endlessly over my scalp. Her fingers pinch my ears, running down the cartilage to my earlobes and then pressing in behind my ears, focusing for a moment on the tender dips where ear, skull, and mandible meet.

Which is when a little grunt of pleasure does escape me.

Her soft giggle is close, her breath warm. "Feels good, huh?”

"Fucking intense," I mutter.

"Never had your hair professionally washed and cut, I assume?"

"Nope. Before prison, Gerard's mom would buzz me every couple of weeks. once I went in, I just sorta…forgot about it. Didn't care what I looked like. So it just grew."

"So you've not touched it in ten years?"

"Nope."

"Well, I'm honored to be your first proper haircut." She shifts to stand over me, looking down at me as she begins rinsing the lather away. Her breasts hang a few inches from my face. "There's nothing like a good scalp massage, though, is there?"

I shove my hands under my thighs before they do something stupid, like touch her. “Best thing I ever felt,” I admit.

She sniffs a soft laugh. "I find that hard to believe."

“Nah. It's the truth."

She pauses her rinsing to look down at me. "I mean, it can’t be better than sex." Her eyes fly wide and her cheeks flush bright red. "Forget I said that?"

I swallow hard. "Been so long I barely remember. All I know is that scalp massage was fuckin' incredible."

I hope she doesn't look at my crotch—I'm fighting arousal. Not sure what it is—her proximity, her smell, the massage—but I’m rocking a partial erection that I can't do shit to hide.

She smiles and resumes rinsing. "Well, good. I'm happy I could give that to you."

She repeats the lathering process with some other product—conditioner, I guess, whatever the hell that is. And then the scalp massage again, and then more rinsing.

Eventually, she's satisfied with how rinsed my hair is and squeezes it out, snaps a towel open, uses that to squeeze my hair dry some more, and then guides me to sitting up before working the towel over my hair a bit more.

"Alright," she says. "Come on over to my station."

She leads me by the hand to a station along the lefthand wall near the middle, littered with jars of scissors and combs in blue liquid, a tangle of cords, a hair dryer, clippers, and a clear plastic tray full of neatly organized guards. There are several framed photographs of Noelle, with who I assume is her family. One is her with her mom and dad—her mom is short and somewhat bottom-heavy, with long, wavy gray hair and a bright, happy smile and the same green eyes and freckles that Noelle has; her dad is tall and whipcord lean, with smile-lines at the corners of his dark eyes, graying blond hair in a neat, classic side part, and a short, neat beard. The other two photographs are of Noelle with her sisters and Noelle with her brothers; her sisters are so alike it’s almost freaky, with long platinum blond hair and dark eyes. They’re stunningly beautiful in a slender, model-type way—not as sexy as Noelle, though, if you ask me. Her brothers are as identical as her sisters, and they too are tall and lean and blond, with pretty-boy good looks.

Once I take a seat, Noelle drapes a black plastic cape over me and buttons it behind my neck. Standing behind me, close enough that her breasts press against the backs of my shoulders, she runs her fingers through my hair, which is dark, damp, and heavy.

"So, unless you wanted it short, I was thinking I'd just trim some of the length off and give your hair some shape," she says, playing with my locks with a professional eye. “Thoughts?"

I shrug. "Whatever you think. Kinda like it longer, so maybe don’t hack it all off."

She presses herself against my back, tits squishing against my shoulders and neck, hands sliding down my chest. "There will be no hacking, you have my word."

Thank god for the cape—it hides my monster hard-on. I know the press of her chest against me is innocent. I know she's just a touchy sort of person and probably unaware of the contact; I feel kinda dumb for even imagining that it could be on purpose.

I do not pretend she's attracted to me in that way. How could she be?

Still. I long to reach up and take her thick braid in my hand, tug her down, and kiss her. I know I’ll never be able to. I don't deserve a woman like her. Someone so clean, so good, so generous and kind and beautiful.

She's not for me.

I don't fit in her life.

But it's nice to wish. Being on the outside means I get to wish. I get to hope. I just have to be realistic. A man with my past has no place thinking I could ever be with a woman of Noelle Harper's caliber.

She stays like that for a heart-stoppingly long time, pressed against me, hands on my chest, breath against my ear, cheek to my cheek. For a moment, I give in. Let my head sink back against her. She turns her face toward mine, her soft warm cheek against mine. Her lips part.

I could kiss her.

Fuck, I want to kiss her so damn bad it hurts.

"Bear…" she whispers. I smell the coffee on her breath.

I pull a hand out from under the cape. Trace the sharp line of her cheekbone. Her jaw. "So fucking beautiful, Noelle."

Her lips slip closer to mine. Hope burns in my chest, warring with disbelief, freighted down by fear.

A sharp knock on glass shatters the moment.

"Darn it," she breathes, sounding irritated. She touches her lips to my cheek, pressing a soft, slow kiss there. "Be right back."

She glides gracefully across the salon to the door, unlocking and opening it an inch.

"We're closed today, sorry. Private appointment."

“Oh, okay. Thank you."

"I know we have some walk-in slots open on Monday morning, though."

"Wonderful," comes the elderly female voice. "I'll come back then."

"I look forward to seeing you Monday, ma'am. Have a nice weekend."

“You too, dear."

She closes and re-locks the door and returns to her station. "Haircut time."

For the next half an hour, Noelle uses a pair of scissors to snip here and there, pinching the ends between her index and middle fingers and trimming away the extra. No one cut makes anything look different, but when she steps back, sets the scissors down, and feathers her fingers through it, my hair does, somehow, look a hundred times better. Cleaner, lighter, healthier. The shape of it looks…neater. Less like a wild man who just came down from a winter in the mountains.

“Now your beard," she says, spinning the chair around so my back is to the mirror.

She runs her fingers through my beard a few times the way she did with my hair, assessing and scrutinizing. “Yeah, you need some oil and a good brush. Your skin underneath is all dried out. It must itch, huh?"

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess, "I admit, realizing only as she points it out that I do have a habit of scratching at the skin under my beard a lot.

"For now, I'll just update the shape. I'll show you how to oil it and brush it later."

Standing between my knees, Noelle leaned forward, her scissors snip-snip-snipping away, sending curly red tendrils fluttering to the floor.

Her cleavage is right in front of my face, and the angle of her forward bend means I can see down her shirt, revealing the cups of a black bra and a whole hell of a lot of skin. I fight myself tooth and nail, my selfish desire to see more of her beautiful body at odds with my determination to be respectful. Eventually, I have to close my eyes because I can’t seem to look away.

After a while, the snipping stops, and her fingers trail down my cheeks, trace my jawline, and then feather down through my beard. "There, much better."

I open my eyes—she's so close, standing between my legs, her hips wedged between my thighs. Her green eyes search my face, a smile on her lips.

"I didn't mind you looking," she murmurs. "But it's super sweet that you didn't."

My cheeks burned as I realized she knew I was staring and why I closed my eyes. “Noelle, I…” I trailed off, unsure what to say. “I can’t take my eyes off you."

Her smile brightens, taking my breath away. "The way you look at me, Bear. It's…you make me feel pretty."

"Pretty ain't the word, Noelle. Not even close."

She trails the backs of her knuckles down the side of my face, a gesture that makes it hard to breathe and hard to swallow. "You're pretty dang handsome yourself, you know."

I huff, shaking my head. "Need glasses, if you think that."

She frowns, laughing and shaking her head. "I have twenty-twenty vision, thank you very much." She tugs my beard through her fist. "Can I do one more thing?"

"Anything you want," I answer.

Her fingers work swiftly and nimbly in my beard, gathering sections and braiding them together into the three separate plaits, which she then weaves together into a single thick, complex braid, tied off at the end with a black hair tie. Moving out from between my legs, she stands behind me again and pulls the topmost section of hair around my temples and crown and braids them as well, leaving them to hang just behind my ears. The rest of my hair she leaves loose, but now, with the braided section out of the way, it's out of my face.

She turns the chair to face the mirror. "What do you think?"

I'm speechless. I mean, I’m a man of few words in any case, but the Bear I see in the mirror is a whole different person than the one who walked in.

Before, my hair was a wild explosion, riotous, frizzy, and dry, and my beard was just as bad, bursting down from my jawline in a ragged, unkempt, unruly mop.

I look like a Viking warrior from a TV show that used to play in the afternoons in the dayroom. The braided beard looks cool as fuck, and my hair is clean and silky smooth and shiny, pulled back to expose the angles of my face, letting my eyes show, whereas before, they were often hidden or obscured by my hair.

"Holy shit," I mutter. "Who the fuck is that ?"

Noelle laughs, resting her hands on my shoulders. "You, silly. I think Thomas would say you're hot as balls."

I meet her eyes in the mirror. "What would you say?"

She swallows hard, gnawing on her lower lip, eyes searching mine in the mirror. "I think you're the sexiest man I've ever met." She runs my hair through her hands. “A good cut and proper styling just reveals how hot you really are."

My heart crashes in my chest at her words. "Noelle, I…" I shake my head, unable to find words. "I don't how to thank you."

Moving slowly, she circles to stand in front of me and then lowers herself to sit on my lap, legs hanging sideways over mine, arms circling my neck. "You just did."

I shake my head. "I feel like a new man. Never looked this good before. Thank you."

One arm across the back of my neck, she runs my beard braid through her fist. "My big, handsome Viking warrior."

Her big, handsome Viking warrior? My heart flips, and my stomach twists, and hope is no longer a germinating seed but a tender shoot soaking up the sunlight of her attention, her touch, her affection.

"I'll never be able to make it look this way on my own, though," I say.

She grins. "Good. That way you'll have to keep me around."

"Your time and your skills are valuable, Noelle. How much do I—"

Her hand covers my mouth. "Absolutely the heck not. Don't even think about paying me. I'd be insulted."

"Don't want to insult you, I just don't wanna take advantage of your generosity."

Her smile is soft and warm and tender. "So sweet and so thoughtful." She cups the side of my face with her palm. "You'll just have to keep spending time with me. Okay?"

Hesitantly, I bring my arms away from the armrests and circle her with them. Inexplicably, this makes her smile burn hotter, and her eyes flick to my lips. "Favorite thing in the world," I murmur, "Spending time with you. So damn lucky to know you."

"I feel the same way," she says.

And then she leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder, one arm around my neck, the other circling to clasp hands on my other shoulder. I hold absolutely still, barely even breathing. My arms circle her soft, warm body, one hand around her middle, the other draping to rest just above her hip. Instinctively, my hand runs across her thigh and back to her hip.

She hums happily, nuzzling closer. "I love the way you hold me, Bear."

My breath is lodged in my throat—I expect to wake up any second and find myself back on the hard bunk of my cell in Holbrook.

"Doesn't seem real, "I whisper.

"What doesn’t?” She asks, pulling away to look into my eyes from mere inches away.

“You. This. Getting to…to hold you. To touch you. Feels like it shouldn't be allowed."

For some reason, this makes her eyes water. "Gosh, Bear," she whispers. "You can't say things like that to me. You're killing me."

"Sorry."

This makes her laugh. "I didn't mean literally," she says, bumping her forehead onto my shoulder, laughing. "Geez, you're very literal."

"I…" I frown, shaking my head. "Still don't understand you."

More bubbly, happy laughter. "What's not to understand? I didn't think I was all that complicated."

I shrug. "Keep waiting for you to come to your senses. But you don't. You're still here. Letting me talk to you. Letting me touch you. Don't make any damn sense."

This makes her brows furrow. "We'll have to pull that statement apart at some point. For now, just know that I'm in full possession of my senses."

She lets go of my neck with one hand and runs it down the outside of my arm, caressing my bicep, fingertips tracing the horseshoe outline of my tricep and then gliding down to my forearm. Her hand covers mine. Moves my hand from her waist to her hip. Pinning my eyes with hers, she slides my hand further down to cup the taut curve of her ass.

"Does that clarify things?" she whispers.

My erection goes full-bore. I can't help it, can't fight it down any longer. Surely she can feel it. I keep still, barely breathing, rocked with disbelief.

"Noelle…" I growl. "Crazy woman."

"Why am I crazy?"

"Playing with fire."

"So burn me."

I give in to need—graze the side of her face with my palm, soaking up the exquisite softness of her skin with the rough calluses of my big, hard, clumsy hand. She nuzzles into my palm, and my breath boils in my throat at the movement.

Her beautiful face is inches from mine, her deep, burning, verdant green eyes searching me ceaselessly. Her lips are parted, and her tongue darts along them, moistening them.

Fuck, I want to kiss her so goddamn bad.

All indications point to her wanting me to. I just…it's hard to trust that. Hard to believe she'd want that—with me .

I'm a brute. A criminal. A monster with a horrible, violent past. She doesn’t know half of it.

She covers the side of my face. “You're not ready yet, are you?”

"For what?"

She doesn't answer. instead, her lips touch my cheek next to my nose. My cheekbone. The corner of my mouth. Teasing. Tempting. Tantalizing. "This."

My dick turns to steel, aching under the firm weight of her lush backside. My hand curls into the soft cotton of her pale green dress, and beneath the thin material, her skin is warm and her curves generous and supple. I can't help but seek more, my hand spreading to greedily cup more of her full, soft bottom.

She lets out a sigh that contains a note of a moan—of pleasure. She nuzzles my jaw with her nose and then kisses my cheek again. "I like that," she whispers. "A lot."

My breathing is ragged, harsh. "Noelle."

"Yeah, Bear?"

"You’re too good for me."

"I happen to feel otherwise."

She brings her face in front of mine, noses tip-to-tip, lips almost touching. I feel her breath. I can almost taste her mouth.

A sudden, sharp, loud trill jars the moment, and she jerks upright, gasping in shock. “Holy crap, that scared the poop out of me."

Without leaving my lap, she reaches past me to snag her phone out of her purse, glances at the screen, and pulls an annoyed face. "Gotta answer it. It's my dad." She swipes the answer slider. "Hey, Dad. What's up?"

A pause as she listens; I can hear him speaking on the other end, but it's muffled and tinny and indistinct. "Yeah, I'm planning on coming, of course. Oh, um…sure. Yeah. Okay, I’ll pick it up and be there soon. Okay, yeah. Yup—love you too, bye." She ends the call and leans past me to toss the device back in her purse. "They need a few extra things for the cookout, and Mom wants me to help her prep the food."

"Oh. Okay."

She slides off my lap and stands up, smoothing her skirt down. "I'll need to swing by my house first, though. I need to rinse off and change." She holds my eyes. "Unless you don't want to come."

My chest is tight. "Um. I…" I work my jaw, fighting for breath as the iron band around my lungs constricts. "I don't know."

She unsnaps the cape and whips it off, folds it up, and puts it away. "I get it if you don't want to."

"Not that I don’t want to. I do. Just…"

She puts the scissors in the jar and then puts her backside to the cabinet, looking at me. “Just what? You can tell me anything."

"It's your family. A family get-together. Not sure I belong." I shrug, looking away.

She gives my beard a gentle, playful tug. “It's an informal barbecue. My brothers and sisters have brought friends and dates over before. No one will think anything of it."

"Don't want to impose. Or…" I shrug and shake my head. "Be in the way."

She just laughs. "You're silly. Let me clean this hair up real quick and then we can go."

"How'm I silly?" I ask, leaving the chair so she can sweep.

She brushes the red curls and commas of my hair into a pile and then into a small trash can-like device that turns on with a whirr and sucks the hair away.

"I'm inviting you. Therefore, it's not an imposition. You will be welcome."

"I guess it's more than that,” I growl in frustration as the right words seem to evade my tongue. “It’s…who I am. I’m worried I don't…" I sigh. "Fit."

She puts the broom away and comes to stand in front of me, both palms on my chest, gaze soft with understanding. "You're definitely not what they'll expect when I tell them I'm bringing a…a friend. They may have questions, I won't lie, but just remember—you don't owe anyone an explanation. Okay?"

"We’re friends?" I ask.

"I mean, I sure hope so. At the very least." She pats my chest. "Don't worry. It'll be okay. Promise."