CHAPTER EIGHT
“You sure about this, butterfly?” Rambler turns down another street, making me feel even more lost in this maze of a city. “I make enough scratch, you ain’t gotta work.”
I squeeze his hand where it rests on the gear shift. “I appreciate that, honey, I really do, but if I’m going to get my life back, I want to work.”
He grumbles under his breath about stubborn independent women, making me giggle.
“What are you doing today?” I ask, trying to change the subject while watching the piles of snow that line the streets. It’s the weirdest thing, seeing these mountains of white pushed up against buildings and into corners of parking lots.
“Gotta head over to Eternal Peace,” he says, his eyes never leaving the road. “Undertaker needs some help with a situation.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I nod, still finding it strange that the club owns a funeral home. That doesn’t exactly scream outlaw biker, but what do I know?
Rambler takes another turn and stops in front of a little white house with a bright purple door. The sign out front reads Shear Madness Salon in swooping purple letters.
“How stinking cute is this place?” I press my hands to the window, taking in the colorful exterior.
“Seriously, babe?”
I look over my shoulder as Aaron’s brow goes up. He’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t keep the smile off my face. This is my first day at the salon, and I’m as excited as a chihuahua. I might pee on the floor.
Okay, not really, but I am excited.
“Where’s your phone?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.
I pull the new iPhone he got me out of my bag and show it to him. “Right here.”
He nods, his gray eyes serious. “You’ve got my number. If—”
I wave him off before he can finish. “If I need anything at all, I’d better call you or you’ll tan my ass.” He’s only told me that a half dozen times this morning.
His lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “Yes.”
Sucking in a lungful of air to steady myself, I reach for the door handle.
“Whoa, whoa, woman,” he growls. “You’re forgetting something.”
I turn back to him with a furrowed brow, playing dumb even though I know exactly what he wants. “I did?”
He growls and wraps a strong hand behind my neck, pulling me close. “Gimme that mouth.”
His lips slam down on mine, and I sink into the kiss, my body turning to jelly as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. He tastes like coffee and cigarettes, and I can’t get enough.
When he pulls back, I’m breathless. “That should hold me over,” he grumbles.
“You’re crazy.”
“About you,” he counters.
Shaking my head, I slide out of the truck. The man has a one-track mind.
I carefully maneuver across the icy sidewalk up to the door, gripping my new purse like a lifeline. I wave over my shoulder at Aaron and step inside, knowing he won’t leave until I’m safely in the building.
A gorgeous Latina woman with rich mahogany hair and tattooed arms looks up from the client she’s working on when I walk in. Recognition flashes in her eyes, and her ruby red lips turn up into a megawatt smile.
“You must be Pinky!” she calls out, waving her color brush in the air.
I smile back, my nerves settling a bit at her warm welcome. “That’s me. Well, Savannah, actually.” I wave my hand in front of me, feeling suddenly awkward.
“Which do you prefer?” she asks, setting her brush down on the color bowl.
I shrug, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Pinky’s fine. I sorta got used to it.”
She nods, then puts a processing cap on her client’s head and pops her under a dryer. “I’m Mercy, by the way,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel as she walks over to me. “Owner and chaos coordinator of this fine establishment.”
I laugh, instantly liking her. She can’t be more than five feet tall, but she has a presence that fills the room. Her arms are covered in colorful tattoos, and she’s wearing platform boots that add at least four inches to her height.
“Come on, I’ll show you around.” She hooks her arm through mine like we’re old friends and leads me deeper into the salon.
The place is even more charming on the inside. The walls are painted in bold colors—purple, turquoise, and coral—with black and white tile flooring. Each station has a big mirror with Hollywood-style lights around the edges.
Mercy leads me through the main floor, which has four styling stations, and then up a narrow staircase to the second level. “We’ve got four more stations up here,” she explains, waving her hand around. “Plus the break room and an extra bathroom.”
The upper level is just as colorful as the downstairs, with more of the same eclectic style. A few stylists are working up here, and Mercy introduces me to each of them.
“This is Maya,” she says, gesturing to a tall woman with box braids and a nose ring. “She’s our natural hair specialist.”
Maya gives me a warm smile and a little wave, her hands full of a client’s hair. “Welcome to the madhouse, doll,” she says with a laugh.
Next, Mercy introduces me to Heaven, a heavily tattooed woman with jet-black hair and sharp bangs who specializes in creative color.
“And this,” Mercy says as we head back downstairs, “is where you’ll be working.”
She points to an empty station near the window, complete with a black styling chair and a counter covered in hot tools.
I run my hand over the smooth surface, excitement bubbling up inside me.
It’s been so long since I’ve held a pair of shears, since I’ve felt like I had a purpose beyond just surviving.
“It’s perfect,” I say, my voice catching a little.
Before Mercy can respond, the bell above the door jingles, and Cleo walks in, her purple hair a vibrant pop of color against her black leather jacket.
“Pinky!” she squeals, rushing over to wrap me in a hug. “You made it!”
I hug her back, grateful to see a familiar face. “I did!”
Cleo pulls back, her eyes bright with excitement. “And just in time for my root touch-up.”
Mercy claps her hands together. “Perfect timing! Pinky, why don’t you go hang up your coat and put your bag in the break room while I mix Cleo’s color? Then you can chit-chat while I work my magic on this wild one’s hair.”
I nod eagerly and head to the break room Mercy pointed out earlier. It’s a cozy space with a small table, a fridge, and a coffee maker that looks like it costs a mint.
Hanging up my coat on one of the hooks by the door, I tuck my bag into a cubby.
When I get back to the main floor, Mercy has Cleo caped and is starting to section off her hair.
“So,” Cleo says, catching my eye in the mirror, “still loving all this snow, Florida girl?”
I wrinkle my nose. “It was cool at first, but now I’m over it.”
Cleo laughs. “Congratulations, you’re officially a St. Louis girlie now. First stage is excitement, second stage is resentment.”
“What’s the third stage?” I ask, leaning against the counter.
“Hibernation,” Mercy answers with a grin. “You stock up on hot chocolate and coffee cake, and refuse to leave the house until April.”
We all laugh, and I feel some of the tension I’ve been carrying melt away. These women are so easy to be around, so welcoming. It’s a far cry from the nervous tiptoeing I did around the Jacksonville clubhouse, always afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing.
As Mercy applies color to Cleo’s roots, Cleo’s eyes find mine in the mirror again.
“So,” she says, a mischievous glint in her eye, “how are things going with Rambler?”
I can’t help the dreamy sigh that escapes me. “So good.”
“Oh?” Cleo raises an eyebrow, clearly fishing for details.
“He, um...” I bite my lip, a blush creeping up my cheeks. “He made me his ol’ lady.”
Cleo squeals so loud that Mercy almost drops her color brush. “Oh my god! That’s amazing!”
“Which one’s Rambler?” Mercy asks.
“He’s a nomad. I don’t think you’ve met him,” Cleo explains.
Mercy shoots me a curious look. “You tamed the Nomad, huh? Good for you, girl. I’ve known most of the Bastard Saints for years. They’re all amazing men.”
My heart swells at their words. I still can’t believe that Aaron chose me.
“So that means you’re here to stay?” Cleo asks, her eyes hopeful.
I smile, feeling a certainty I haven’t felt in a long time. “Looks that way.”
“Well, hot damn,” Mercy says with a grin. “We’d better make sure my girl gets that license transferred fast, then.”
My smile widens. My girl. I like the sound of that.
The rest of the day flies by. Mercy shows me around the salon, explains their booking system, and introduces me to the products they use. I help with shampoos, blow-dries, and mixing colors when the girls start falling behind.
By the time the sun starts to set, I’m exhausted but happier than I’ve been in a really long time.
When Cleo left hours ago, she promised she’d see me later for girls’ night at the Underground. The thought of going to the club’s fight venue makes me nervous, but I’m excited to spend more time with Cleo, Demi, and McKenna.
I’m sweeping up hair from around Mercy’s station when the bell above the door jingles. I look up, and my heart does a little flip when I see Aaron standing there in his cut, looking like sex on legs.
The women in the salon seem to agree. One client under the dryer actually whistles at him, and another one stops mid-sentence to stare.
Aaron, ever the charmer, tips his baseball cap at them and winks, making them giggle like schoolgirls.
I shake my head, a smile playing on my lips.
He’s such a flirt.
“Hey, butterfly,” he says, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine. “Ready to go?”
I nod, quickly finishing the sweeping and setting the broom aside. “Let me grab my stuff.”
I hurry to the break room to collect my coat and bag, then come back out to find Aaron chatting with Mercy, who’s looking at him with a mix of amusement and approval.
“You take care of our girl,” she says, pointing a finger at his chest.
Aaron holds up his hands in surrender, but his lips twitch with amusement. “Yes, ma’am. I know better than to cross you.”