CHAPTER TWO
CASSY
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I fold the tinfoil back over my client’s locks of hair as my phone beeps in my pocket. I straighten and say, “Look’s good. Give it another ten minutes, then put the toner through it.”
“Okay.” Jenna, my most junior (and very eager) hairdresser, smiles.
She’s been with the team for eight weeks. I love teaching young stylists what I know and seeing them thrive. I had a mentor when I was training. It really helps to have someone believe in you.
“Use the seven tone that we went over last week to get the blonde nice and ash. Remember, it's one part toner to two parts developer.” I pat her shoulder. “I’ll be out back taking my break if you need me.”
I trust she won’t. Jenna might be a junior, but she has already impressed me during her time at Ink & Mane Studio.
My baby.
I started Ink & Mane five years ago when I was only twenty-four and it is thriving. I wasn’t going to let anyone, or anything, destroy what I’d created.
A phone call from the US Marshals earlier this week threatened my hard-fought peace.
You see, my father is a rock star. A very famous one. His face is inked onto a lot of bodies around the world. As is his band name.
Sonic Rebel.
Growing up in the rockstar world is far less glamorous than people imagine. Perhaps they don’t these days, but back in the nineties, it was perceived as cool.
The truth is, we had almost no privacy. Cameras were always in our faces the moment we drove beyond the gates of the mansion and reporters screamed at us to smile, wave, or say something.
Anything.
There’s a lot of money in it for them, so if they didn’t get anything juicy, they made stuff up.
Mom and Dad protected me from all the grown-up stuff most of my life, and so it wasn’t until I was a teenager that the media began to really pay attention to me.
That’s when things got serious.
And dangerous.
One of the journalists turned out to be a stalker, and it was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever been through.
Isaac Miller was eventually caught and put in jail.
It took a few years of therapy for me to really live again. Dad had retired, and I decided to become a stylist. I moved out of their home and slightly changed my surname from Cartwright to Wright to gain some level of anonymity.
It worked.
I started my own salon, and most people didn’t know my father was Blaze Cartwright from Sonic Rebel.
Until recently.
He and the members of his band came out of retirement with a new single, which of fucking course, went to number one.
Then the media went digging.
Where did sweet Cassy Cartwright end up? What happened to Cassy and the nationwide story about her stalker?
Well, they found me.
And my salon.
It has to be what triggered Isaac and made him escape from Leavenworth penitentiary in Kansas.
Or not. What do I know? I’m not an expert on sociopaths. But he has escaped and now law enforcement is searching for him.
When I got the call yesterday, I went into a state of shock. Then my well-meaning father sent over one of his boof-head security guys and I sent him packing.
I was still processing what this meant.
The media had already breached the precious freedom and privacy I’d worked hard to create over the past ten years. Now all of it was about to be taken from me.
I push open the staff room door and walk to the fridge.
Pulling out my Tupperware container filled with chicken salad, I grab a fork and drop both on the table.
Then I head to the coffee machine—a.k.a.
the lifeblood machine—and push the button, letting out a sigh as it hisses and creates liquid magic.
I fill my favorite mug, which reads I GIVE GOOD HAIR, and sit down for lunch, letting my smile fade.
I don’t have an appetite.
In fact, when I focus on what’s happening, I feel sick. I might be trying to pretend everything is okay, but I know it’s not.
Isaac Miller is coming for me.
I know he is. It’s because of me he was in prison in the first place. Or, as my therapist says, it was because of his own actions.
I push my salad away.
For most of my life, I was Blaze Cartwright’s cute daughter. I had my life documented in paparazzi photos. As a baby, as a child in pigtails on my first day at school, and as an awkward teenager.
The world saw me grow up.
My friends all lived in Hollywood Hills because their parents were actors or musicians like mine. We were all in the same boat so to speak. Mom was pretty clever disguising us in wigs and glasses, allowing us the ability to sneak in and out of places. She made it fun.
Until it wasn’t.
When I turned eighteen, things changed.
Or rather, Isaac happened.
I drop my fork, and as I’m letting out a sigh, the door opens and Scarlet, one of my senior hairdressers, strides in.
“Swear to god, if that woman wants to change her hair color one more time.”
I snort.
“You know that’s why they come here, right? We are hairdressers.”
She turns her head while filling her coffee mug and glares at me. I might be the owner and her boss, but Scarlet is also my best friend. She gets away with a little more than everyone else, though I try not to make it obvious.
“Not for my dazzling conversation?” Scarlet deadpans.
I chuckle.
She’s talking about Roxanne, who first came to us six months ago and has been a bit of a nightmare. Some clients are and you just have to smile and keep your thoughts to yourself.
“Just do what she asks and take her money.” I reply as she flops down in the seat opposite me, throws her head back dramatically, and lets out a groan.
I think if only this was the greatest worry in my life, feeling no pity for my best friend.
Still, Roxanne would challenge even the most patient stylist, and in reflection, I should’ve passed her over to someone in the team with a little more patience.
“She wanted black hair last time. Black. She’s as blonde as Marilyn Monroe.
I told her it would be a process, not something we can do overnight.
Pro - cess.” Scarlet sips her coffee, cringes, and then leaps up to get the sweetener.
“So today in drama-llama Roxanne’s world, she decides she wants to go back to blonde.
I explained how damaging this was for her hair, and she counters with, and I quote, ‘Perhaps we should cut it short then.’”
Shit.
“Short, Cassy. Shorrrt. Jesus F. Christ,” Scarlet says, holding her mug out in front of her for emphasis.
“Please tell me you didn’t.” I scrunch my nose.
We don’t have an issue with customers making bold decisions with their hairstyles, but it’s wise to consider the big picture of their life.
Are they turning thirty or fifty or sixty? Life milestones can be a time when women tend to change their appearance. Like a divorce. Or when they have a baby, or even a major success.
Before we pull out the scissors, we start with a conversation to understand their motivations and ask them to reflect on whether it’s something they really want to do.
I’m all for spontaneity, but I never want one of my clients to wake up the next morning, look in the mirror, and hate how they look. That’s the opposite of why I became a stylist.
But there are the few, like Roxanne, who like to make rash decisions regularly and blame the stylist.
Over and over again.
“I said no. Well, I told her to think about it as we didn’t have time to do both a cut and color today, and that she should come back in a few weeks if she still wants to cut it off.”
She might have brushed Roxanne off, but the truth is Ink & Mane Studio is booked up eight weeks in advance.
Since opening the doors, I’ve been fortunate to not only have a loyal customer base, but a roaring trade.
And it has nothing to do with my changed surname as people don’t associate me with my famous father.
That was until this damn new album hit the news across America.
“Nice.” I nod, pushing my fork through my salad. “Did you tell her to bring some images with her?”
“Yup.” Scarlett flips open a magazine. “Told her to screenshot them. Fifty bucks says she won’t. Or she’ll want to go red this time.”
“Don’t let her get to you. You did the right thing. Customers like that are never satisfied. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“They should just buy wigs.” Scarlet says as she flips the pages. “Are we doing drinks with the gang this Friday?”
And just like that, she’s let it go.
Not much sticks with Scarlet. She says it like it is and is loyal as the day is long.
I’m more even-tempered. Perhaps because I had to keep my thoughts and emotions to myself in public for fear of it being shared in every tabloid. With my friends, though, I can be myself and relax.
On Fridays we always go out for drinks. I have the day off, so we head to the bar and let the night lead us wherever it may. Sometimes that’s home in bed by nine. Other times we hit a club until two in the morning.
This week we won’t be going.
With Isaac Miller on the run, I know it’s going to impact my life. I’m just trying to resist it for as long as I can. It makes me mad that he once again has power over my life.
I start to answer and my mouth shuts. The delay causes Scarlet to glance up.
“What’s going on?” she asks. “Is this about the media stuff? It will pass, babe.”
She’s right. It will. The last piece was about the handbag I was carrying last week when I went to the mall. Now, I wish it was just my fashion they were talking about.
But it’s not.
She obviously hasn’t read the LA Herald this morning. It read: Cassy Cartwright’s Stalker on The Run.
After speaking to the woman from the Federal Bureau of Prisons who phoned to advise me of the escape, I asked whether she thought he would reach California.
“That’s not something I can advise on,” she said. “I need to ring the witnesses and make sure everyone is informed. You take care.”
I had stared at the wall for a few minutes before calling my father.
“I’ll be fine, Dad. He can’t exactly jump on a flight in orange overalls.”
“He could steal a car and be here in a few days, Cassy. I’m sending Jono,” Blaze said.
“Do not send Jono. I need to think.” I’d snapped.
But he had.
He asked me to move in with him until Isaac was apprehended, to which I cringed and said no.
Mom and Dad never sold the house that Isaac broke into the first time. Visiting is one thing. Going back to the scene of the crime, knowing he could be seeking me out, is...well, fucking insane.
So I’m staying in my own home.
Last night I barely got any sleep, so my patience is short and I’m still in denial.
Surely, they will catch him today. Right?
Scarlet is my bestie, and we have two other close friends, Trixie and Parker. They all know what happened, although I shared more details with Scarlet.
And clearly none of my friends or staff watch mainstream news. So, I need to tell them.
“My stalker has escaped from prison,” I tell Scarlet.
She drops the magazine, and her mouth falls open. “Babe. No. That Isaac cunt?”
I snort. “Yeah. It’s all over the news. But it will be fine.”
“No, it won’t. Shit. Isn’t he in Kansas?”
Good question.
“Yes, so they’ll catch him.” I push my salad farther away, feeling sick now that I’m talking about it.
Scarlet glances around as if she is about to go on the defensive to protect me. My face drops as I hide my smile.
God, I love this girl.
She’s been my best friend since we met while training to be stylists. But she’s only five foot three and a size four.
The only thing she’s fighting off is bad fashion. Assuming the fashion police haven’t seen her winter pajamas.
But who am I to talk?
Warmth over fashion when under forty degrees—that’s the rule.
“I’ll run the salon. You move into my place. We can get Trixie and Parker to do food delivery,” Scarlet says. “Parker can do security.”
I laugh, despite the situation. “Parker? He’s like five ten and I’m pretty sure someone could break him in half, he’s so slim.”
“He’s not slim, he’s athletic. We’ll get him a kung fu t-shirt, so they think he knows dangerous martial arts,” Scarlet says.
For a moment, I wonder if she’s serious.
It’s possible.
“You think the stalker will stop to check out Parker's t-shirt, then reconsider his plans because he might know kung fu? After breaking out of jail?” I ask as my brows lift.
Scarlet stares back. “Could happen.”
I start chuckling.
Then we’re both sober and I see the warmth and concern beyond her deep gaze. I feel bad. I hate that this impacts the people in my life.
My new and carefully curated life.
“What are you going to do?” she asks seriously.
“I was hoping they would catch him, but it’s been over twenty-four hours now—”
“A whole day and you are telling me now!” Scarlet cries. “Cassy! I thought it happened this morning. Goddam it.”
“Well, he was in Kansas, so I was hoping they’d catch him.”
“Dude.” Scarlet shakes her head. “Is that why your dad’s security guy showed up yesterday?” When I nod, she continues, “I thought it was because of the media. I didn’t want to say it, but I was gonna text him and say, ‘Couple of weeks late, Blaze.’”
I snort.
Scarlet and my dad hit it off the moment they met. She couldn’t care less that he’s a celebrity. She gives him shit, and he loves it.
“Still, bad ass calling the cops on him. Even if you should’ve let him stay.”
I groan.
Just then, my phone texts one after the other. Trixie and Parker have just seen the news. I guess it’s lunchtime and they’re scrolling.
I text back, saying I’m fine and will call them later.
“What if they don’t catch him? What if this goes on for months? Years?” Scarlet asks after I show her the messages.
Would that mean a permanent security team or a new identity? I just don’t know. It never came to that a decade ago because he was caught. In the back of my mind, I know this could get worse before it gets better.
You asshole, Isaac.
You psychopathic piece of shit.
“I don’t know,” I reply as two employees walk in, glance at us, and head to the fridge to get their lunch. “I’ll tell everyone when they’ve finished lunch. Tonight, I’ve been invited over to Dad’s house for dinner to chat. So I guess it’s time to face reality.”
When I shut the salon, one of my father’s drivers will be waiting for me outside to drive me to our family estate in Hollywood Hills.
Dad’s scared.
I am too. If they don’t find Isaac, he will find me.
Scarlet reaches out and gives my hand a quick squeeze. “We should all get the kung fu t-shirts. Just to be safe.”
I chuckle softly. “You’re an idiot.”
“You love me.” She grins.