Phantom’s Healing (Hurricane Heat MC #2)
Chapter 1 Poppy
POPPY
“Is it always like this?” a snarky voice asks.
I almost drop my color bowl when I look into the mirror and meet the eyes of the client currently sitting in my chair. She’s brand-new to the salon. She isn’t supposed to be my problem, but she’s been nothing but a problem since she walked through the door.
She had an appointment with my sister, but my sister is home sick in bed with the flu, along with most of the shop.
I knew when I opened my salon that owning a business requires blood, sweat, and tears. But nobody ever told me about all the illnesses that are involved—like fevers, coughs, and congestion.
Today is the last Saturday before school starts back after summer vacation. That means my salon—along with all the others in town—is packed with teachers needing haircuts and students wanting fun colors before they go back to the grind.
Busy Saturdays are one thing, but thanks to this nasty late-summer flu virus, I’m three stylists short and have clients backed up waiting in chairs.
I have been run ragged since I opened the doors, trying to cover as much of the work that I couldn’t cancel and questioning every life choice that has brought me to this moment.
Another quick peek in the mirror confirms I don’t look nearly as hot and flustered as I feel.
“No, it’s not typically like this at all.
Saturdays are always really busy, but usually, it’s not quite so chaotic.
” My voice deserves an Academy Award for sounding professional and even perky.
Though, inside, I feel like screaming. “This is absolutely not normal,” I assure her.
“I’m really sorry about the extra noise and wait time.
We really try to make the salon experience luxurious, but… ”
I start to smile, I really do, but when I meet her eyes in the mirror, this customer, Shayla, is scowling at me like she smells something foul. Her grumpy expression shakes what’s left of my composure and calm.
I’m tired. God knows I’ve been tired for the last eight years.
But in all the years I’ve owned this place, I’ve never had to deal with so many people out sick at the same time.
I’ve needed to pee for the last forty-five minutes, and I’m so dehydrated, if I don’t get a sip of water, I’m going to start coughing like my sister was when she called me this morning.
It’s going to take every ounce of what’s left of my charm to get through this day. While I know this can’t be the greatest first experience for Shayla here, I’m doing my absolute best. I only wish that were enough.
“Half my staff caught the bug that’s going around, so rather than cancel your appointment at the last minute, I wanted to cover you myself.
I am sure next time you’re here, things will be much quieter,” I explain again, telling her the same thing I did in my voice mail messages—all of which she clearly ignored—from early this morning.
Shayla shifts in her seat so dramatically I have to yank my brush back so I don’t get any color on a place I don’t want it.
Today is not the day for corrections. This woman doesn’t seem like the patient type.
I want to get her color done and move on, finish up her daughters, and just get through this day.
Shayla booked a color and cut for herself and her teenagers. This should be a large bill and a really nice bit of return business—if she ever decides to come back.
I wait until she stops fidgeting, then finish her color, peel off my gloves, and rally another big smile. “I’m going to go check Daisy’s color. I’ll be right back.”
I’m already hustling over to another station, where I’ve got a bright panel of teal-blue color processing right around the younger girl’s face, when I hear Shayla snap, “Can I get a magazine or something?”
“Oh yes, of course,” I say, trying not to let my frustration show as I grab a few magazines from the table that is within arm’s reach for her.
I smile at the adorable girl who’s playing a game on her phone while I check her color. She has shocking blue eyes—crystal clear and bright like the ocean after a storm. She told me she’s thirteen and about to start her last year of junior high.
“This is going to be beautiful,” I tell her, getting sincerely excited. It’s just one bold panel that frames her face, but it’s going to set off her eyes beautifully. “You doing okay?” I ask her, folding the foils back down. “You need just a few more minutes.”
This is what I love about my work. The technical aspects of making something artistic and creative come to life. Her hair was damaged by the at-home colors she used all summer, so I’m thrilled to see the blue saturation is turning out exactly the way I hoped.
“I’m good, thanks.” Her smile is guarded but friendly, and she goes right back to her game.
Her elder sister is still in the waiting area, her head down, absorbed in her phone. I was hoping to get all three of them done close to the same time, but seeing how backed up we are, there is just no avoiding some waiting.
I head over to one of the voices who called my name earlier, my absolute favorite shampoo girl, Cynthia. She’s giving me a look while she washes one of my regulars, an older lady who is so sweet and loving, I wish I could adopt her for myself.
“Everything okay?” I ask, immediately concerned.
My client Grace lifts a shaky hand toward me and clears her throat with a rattle.
“I know you’re swamped today, honey, but do you think you could bring me some tea when you have a moment?”
Even though I have absolutely no time to run in the back and make tea, Grace has been one of my most loyal customers. There were weeks in the early days when I first opened the shop that she was the only client I had.
She has a birthday party to go to tonight or else she wouldn’t even be here on a Saturday instead of her usual Monday for her weekly wash and set.
I reach down and clasp Grace’s hand in mine. It feels so frail and cold. “Are you feeling all right?” I bend low and ask the question near her ear.
She squeezes my hand and clears her throat. “My throat’s just feeling parched today. You know me. I hate to be a bother, but…”
“You are never a bother. I’ll heat some tea right up for you. Herbal? Something with no caffeine?”
“Perfect,” she wheezes, the scratch in her throat almost making me cough.
Ugh.
I do a quick scan of the salon and see every single shampoo bowl occupied.
The stylists are a blur of capes and brushes, curling irons and color carts.
Every hand in the place is working frantically to manage their own clients.
As much as I want to keep moving people through, there’s no hand free to make tea now except mine.
Without wasting another second, I rush into the employee lounge and click on the electric kettle. It’s ice-cold since I haven’t offered tea to anyone since we opened, so it’s going to take a couple seconds to heat up.
I wash my hands thoroughly since I just held Grace’s hand.
It’s going to take a miracle for me to avoid catching this bug, but I stopped believing in miracles years ago.
I don’t even let myself dream about them anymore.
If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s to keep my head down and rely on the power of my own hard work.
I scrub viciously, willing those germs down the drain.
Just as the electric kettle chimes to let me know the water is ready, the lounge door opens.
“Poppy, the client at your station is asking if it’s time to wash her out,” my newest employee says with a frustrated frown. “I told her you set a timer, but she’s insisting I ask.”
“I’ll handle it.” I briefly close my eyes to gather my composure.
“Will you take this tea to Grace, the nice older woman at the shampoo bowl? Make sure you give her a guest tray so she doesn’t have to hold it while she’s getting washed out.
Put one of those honey sticks on the side in case she wants sweetener.
I forgot to ask. Thank you.” I hand the girl the mug of tea, but then I realize if I’m going to get through this day, I’m going to need more help.
“Sarah,” I say, “I know you have no free hands, but can I borrow you, please?”
With the guests I have in the chairs and the colors and cuts I could not cancel, I’ll be here tonight until way too late.
My son sleeps over at his best friend’s house almost every Friday night so the boys can play together on Saturday while I work.
I do the friend’s mom’s hair for free as a thank-you, because at times like this, when my sister is sick, Mom is off saving the city from itself, and I’m stuck at the salon, I don’t know what I’d do with Jax if he didn’t have someplace fun to be.
I give Sarah a list of things I need her to do, repeating them slowly and making sure she remembers to take Grace her tea. Then I rush through that long-overdue bathroom break. When I finally walk over to the new client, she’s got her eyes closed and is frowning.
“Hi, Shayla.” I try to sound upbeat as I peek under her foils. “Ready to wash?”
She draws in the world’s longest sigh and lifts an eyebrow at me. “I’ve been ready,” she says. Then she gets out of the chair and storms to the bowls like she owns the place, not me.
“Okay, great.” My bubble of enthusiasm is bursting.
Just a few more hours, and I can go home and cry in private.
“Oh, I love this,” I say, giving Shayla a hand mirror so she can see the back of her cut and color. “What do you think?”
She grimaces as she looks at her reflection. I’m holding the back of her hair between my fingers, lifting and fluffing it so she can see the layers and how the colors blend. “It’s darker than I expected,” she barks.
I feel defeated inside. The color is literally exactly what she asked for, and there’s no denying that it looks beautiful. There’s depth and subtlety to the dimensions of blond. She’s going to be able to go maybe six full months without touching this, based on how slowly she said her hair grows.