Chapter One #2
“Hey.” Sitting backward on what Chloe recognized as one of the chairs from the dining table, Gwen turned to scowl at them.
Freckles dotted her pale skin, and most of her chestnut-brown hair was piled on top of her head.
The hairdresser’s cape wrapped around her shoulders rustled when she shoved her glasses up her nose and glared out of eyes the color of bitter chocolate. “Why do you get dibs?”
“Because I called it.” Bailey snapped on a pair of gloves and rubbed the hair at the base of Gwen’s skull, yellowed now with bleach, between two fingers. “You’re almost ready to rinse out.”
“I’m the one sitting here with noxious chemicals on my head,” Gwen protested. “Tell her she doesn’t get dibs, Chloe.”
“She called it,” Chloe said absently, taking in the rest of the bathroom. There was enough floor space to line dance, the glassed-in shower could’ve fit the Detroit Lions offensive line, and Bailey was going to be able to swim laps in the tub. “Okay, weird question. There’s a toilet, right?”
“In there,” Bailey said, pointing.
Chloe poked her head behind the smoked glass partition. “Ooh, a toilet and a bidet!”
“Really?” Gwen turned to look, then jerked back. “Ow! You’re ripping out my hair.”
“Then stay still,” Baily advised. “Okay, let’s rinse.”
“How?” Gwen wanted to know.
“Good question.” Bailey eyed the sink. “Can you bend over backwards?”
“What is this, Cirque du Soleil? No, I can’t bend over backwards.”
Bailey planted her hands on curvy hips. “Well, then we’re going to have to do this in the shower so I don’t get bleach in your eyes.”
“We’re not doing it in the shower,” Gwen protested. “The bleach will run down into my hoo-ha.”
Bailey rolled her eyes. “It will not. If anything, it will roll down into your butt crack.”
“I don’t want that, either.”
“Bleached assholes are all the rage, but fine. We’ll put a towel around you.”
Gwen’s eyes went wide behind her glasses. “Bleached assholes?”
“Why can’t you lay down on the counter?” Chloe interrupted. “There’s enough room, right?”
Gwen blinked. “Oh. Good idea.”
“That’ll work,” Bailey decided. “But first, we need a toast. You gonna open that bottle or what?”
“On it.” Chloe peeled off the foil and the wire. “Glasses ready?”
Bailey snatched them up. “Ready.”
Holding the bottle in one hand by the neck, she took a firm grip on the cork and with a practiced twist and yank, pulled the cork free with a celebratory pop. Wine bubbled over, and Bailey shoved a glass under the flow.
Chloe filled the glasses, then set the bottle down. “What are we drinking to?”
Bailey held up her glass. “Our thirtieth year.”
“Technically, we’re already in our thirtieth year. Years,” Gwen corrected.
“We turn thirty this year,” Bailey reminded her.
“Yes, but this is our thirtieth year. See, when you were a baby, before you turned one, that was your first year. Then when you were one, that was your second year. And when you turned three—”
“Jesus Christ, whatever. To our thirty-first year, then.”
“And new hair,” Gwen added, raising her glass. “I think.”
“It’s going to look amazing,” Bailey assured her.
“To taking new risks,” Chloe chimed in.
“Which reminds me, you’re getting new hair, too,” Bailey said.
Chloe started to voice an instinctive protest, then shrugged. “What the hell. New year, new risks, new hair.”
“This feels like a ‘famous last words moment’,” Gwen commented, “but I’ll drink to that.”
“That’s the spirit,” Bailey cheered over the ring of crystal as they tapped glasses, then downed the champagne.
“Hey, hey,” Gwen protested. “You can’t get drunk until you finish my hair.”
“Relax, one glass of bubbly isn’t going to impair me.” Bailey patted the countertop. “Come on, let’s get you rinsed out so I can get your color on.”
Gwen stood. “It’s going to be subtle, right?”
“Trust me,” Bailey said.
Gwen just stared for a second, then drained her glass and passed it to Chloe. “Fill me back up. I’m going to need it.”
Chloe eyed the gleam in Bailey’s eyes. “Me too,” she decided.
* * * *
Forty-five minutes and three glasses of champagne later, Chloe was sitting in the chair in front of the mirror, trying not to panic.
“Stop hunching your shoulders,” Bailey ordered.
“Sorry,” Chloe said, flinching at the snick of the scissors. “Shit. Sorry.”
Bailey’s exasperated sigh echoed off the marble. “You can open your eyes, you know.”
Chloe started to shake her head, then thought better of it. “No, I can’t.”
“If it makes you feel any better, my hair looks really good,” Gwen piped up. “You can hardly see the purple.”
“Because you chickened out,” Bailey accused. “If you can barely see it, then what was the damn point?”
“I know it’s there,” Gwen declared loftily. “And that’s enough.”
“Maybe I should just get a trim,” Chloe began, clutching her champagne glass harder. “You know, start small.”
“It’s a little late for that,” Bailey said. “What happened to new year, new risks?”
“I changed my mind?”
“No, you didn’t. You’re just panicking.”
“Well, yeah.”
“I’m surrounded by chickens,” Bailey muttered. “Do you want me to stop?”
Chloe started to say yes, then hesitated. “Do you promise it’s going to look good?”
“I’ve been cutting your hair for ten years. Have I ever made you look bad?”
Chloe bit her lip. “No.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes, but I’m scared.”
“Yeah, well, suck it up.”
Gwen snorted. “Nice pep talk.”
“Shut up, chicken. Am I stopping or not?” Bailey demanded.
“No.” Chloe thrust out the champagne flute she was clutching. “Fill me up.”
“Fill her up,” Bailey ordered and resumed snipping.
* * * *
“Maybe it’s the four glasses of champagne talking, but this is a good haircut.”
“Told you,” Bailey said smugly and popped a grape in her mouth.
They were in the living room, a fire in the fireplace and the fruit and cheese tray sent up by room service spread out on the coffee table. The second bottle of champagne they’d found in the bar lay empty on the rug, and Chloe was sprawled next to it, examining her reflection in the silver bucket.
“I mean, it’s short.”
“Really short,” Gwen chimed in from one of the sofas and nibbled on a wedge of aged Gouda.
“Stop trying to freak her out,” Bailey said. She was lying on the other sofa, her feet propped on a stack of pillows as she studied the room service menu. “Let’s order oysters.”
“I’m not trying to freak her out,” Gwen protested. “You think she can’t see it’s short?”
“I know she can see it, but if you keep talking about it, it’s going to freak her out. What about the oysters?”
“I’ve never had oysters. Are they good?”
“They’re slimy,” Chloe answered, still examining her hair.
Her shoulder-length blonde tresses had been reduced to a short, shaggy cap.
Spikey bangs dipped down to flirt with her eyebrows, somehow making her blue eyes look bigger, and she’d have sworn her mouth looked fuller. “It’s kinda punky, this haircut.”
“You should let me color it pink,” Bailey told her. “And oysters are not slimy. They’re delicious.”
“Now who’s freaking her out?” Gwen muttered.
“Does my mouth look fuller?” Chloe wanted to know. “I feel this haircut makes my mouth look fuller.”
“I don’t think so,” Gwen said, leaning over to peer into Chloe’s face. “But your cheekbones look cheekbonier.”
Chloe beamed. “Really?”
“You’re both drunk,” Bailey decided and reached for the phone on the end table. “I’m ordering oysters.”
“It’s almost midnight,” Gwen protested. “You can’t order food at midnight.”
Bailey was already dialing. “Five-star hotels have twenty-four-hour room service.”
“Oh, cool. Then get me some fries. And a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“It’s almost midnight?” Chloe struggled to sit up. “I have to make my birthday wish.”
“S’ok. You have, like, ten minutes,” Gwen assured her.
“Oh.” Chloe flopped back onto the floor. “Okay.”
Gwen rolled belly-down on the sofa so she could look down at Chloe. “Is it a good wish?”
Chloe smiled dreamily at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “It’s a great wish.”
Bailey hung up the phone. “Food’s on the way. They said half an hour. What are we talking about?”
Chloe struggled to sit again. “Did you order me a club sandwich?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You didn’t say you wanted one.”
Chloe pouted. “I always want a club sandwich.”
Bailey rolled her eyes and reached for the phone again.
“Tell me what it is,” Gwen prodded.
“It’s a sandwich with turkey and bacon and cheese with lettuce and tomato and a third pieced of bread in the middle—”
“Not that,” Gwen interrupted. “The wish.”
“Not until midnight. It doesn’t count until midnight.”
Bailey hung up the phone. “Okay, your club sandwich is ordered. What are we talking about?”
“She won’t tell me what her wish is.”
“Not until midnight,” Chloe repeated. “I don’t want to jinx it.”
“Must be a good wish,” Bailey commented. “Is there any more champagne?”
“No. We finished the second bottle.”
Bailey lurched up from the couch. “I’m seeing what else we have. We have to have something to toast with at midnight.”
“Give me a hint,” Gwen urged Chloe as Bailey rummaged through the bar. “One word.”
“No,” Chloe said, giggling. “You have to wait until midnight.”
“Can we toast with blackberry brandy?” Bailey called.
“I’ll throw up,” Chloe called back.
“What about absinth?”
“We’ll go blind,” Gwen protested.
“I think that’s a myth,” Chloe told her.
“It also tastes gross.”
“Fair.”
Bailey came back with a bottle of Kahlúa. “Give me your glasses.”
Gwen grimaced. “Coffee liquor? For a toast?”
“You lushes guzzled all the champagne, so I don’t want to hear any bitching.” Snatching the glasses, Bailey poured a shot into each, then set the bottle aside. “Okay, Chloe. Make your wish.”
Chloe patted her pockets one-handed. “What time is it? Who’s got a phone?”
“Here’s mine.” Bailey picked up her phone from the coffee table. “Two minutes to twelve. Close enough.”
“No, I have to make the wish exactly at midnight. It won’t come true otherwise.”
“Fine.” Bailey tapped the phone screen, then held it up to show the clock counting down. “Happy?”
“Yes, thank you.” Watching the numbers tick down, Chloe wiggled to get comfortable. “I’m nervous.”
“Why?” Gwen wanted to know. “We do this every year.”
“I know, but…” Chloe bit her lip. “I really want this wish to come true.”
Bailey and Gwen exchanged glances. “Do you have any clue what she’s talking about?” Bailey asked.
“None. How much time is left?”
“Twenty-four seconds.”
“This is killing me,” Gwen muttered and lifted her glass to her lips. “Hmm. Kahlúa’s not bad. Do we have ice cream?”
“I could call room service again.”
“They’re going to hate us.” Gwen peered at the clock. “Ten seconds, Chloe.”
“Okay.” Chloe raised her glass. “For my thirtieth birthday, I, Chloe Elizabeth Bell, wish for…”
“What?” Gwen demanded.
“Spill it,” Bailey ordered.
“A threesome,” Chloe finished as the timer went off, the bells of the alarm clanging to ring in the new year. Chloe tipped back her glass and drank while Bailey and Gwen stared at her in open-mouthed shock.