Pretend for Me

1. Piper

one

piper

You’re So Long and Thick

“ Y ou’re wearing two different kinds of sneakers.”

“Hmm?” I ask Nisha as I pluck a peppermint candy from the bowl at our cashier stand and pop it into my mouth. I quickly spit it out into my hand, giving the offensive thing a disdainful and betrayed look because I’d forgotten to take off the plastic.

My best friend gives me an unimpressed once-over.

After fifteen years, however, her once-overs no longer faze me like they did in high school.

I follow Nisha’s gaze to my feet, noting that, indeed, I’m wearing my black Chucks on one foot and my white Dr. Scholl’s slip-ons on the other.

“Huh,” I state, blinking at a sloth’s pace. My eyelids feel like they’re weighted down with anchors. “Well, would you look at that! At least one foot got it right.”

I’m talking about the foot concealed under my Dr. Scholl’s shoe, of course, because as every salon stylist worth their weight in salt will tell you, blisters are like vaginas—they can’t handle a little friction without making a mess. And standing some days for close to twelve hours meant I had little time for friction and messes in my footsies. My nether regions, however? I’ve always been more than amenable to friction and messes there.

My eyes climb back up to my upturned palm with the plastic-wrapped peppermint I’d spit out, as if seeing it for the first time. I unwrap it properly before popping it back into my mouth, hoping it’ll wake me up. At the very least, it should stop my yawning epidemic. I heard somewhere peppermint is supposed to help wake you up.

“Or is it lines of coke?” Hmm. My brows furrow in contemplation. Perhaps it was the lines of coke I’d heard about. Not that I’m going to conduct a scientific experiment to compare or anything. At this point, I’m hoping the peppermint comes through for me.

“Lines of coke? What?” Nisha’s stare stays on me, the little crease in between her shapely dark brows the only indication she’s wondering if I’ve completely lost my marbles. “Are you feeling okay? You’re acting weirder than usual.”

I grin at her, seeing her through the slits my eyes are now peeking out of. “How do you always find new ways to flatter me, bestie?”

Shaking her head, her silky black hair swaying like she’s starring in her own shampoo commercial, she taps the screen of her iPad with her stylus. “Anyway, we’ve got a packed day ahead. The Hammond party is coming in later this afternoon for Mark’s pre-wedding treatments. Both Sarina and I have them covered.”

“As if that’s a hardship,” I quip. “If Mark’s best men look anything like Mark, I’d be happy to cover them for you.”

Nisha continues, undeterred by my innuendo, “Mr. Rothschild should be in any minute, and since he refuses to work with any other stylist, I can get his regular service done in about forty-five minutes.”

My two best friends, Nisha and her sister Sarina, work as full-time stylists at my San Jose-based luxury men’s salon, Haircuts and Heartthrobs . While the lease is under my name—courtesy of my famous hockey star brother, Rowan Parker—Nisha and Sarina are both partners in the business.

She scans her bright screen, brows lifting. “Oh, and aside from several of your regulars, you also have that new client.” She eyes me warily, as if examining a suspiciously ripe avocado. “Dev Menon is coming in this morning at eight-thirty.”

“Yup, yup.” I nod, holding the back of my hand to my mouth, suppressing another yawn. Clearly, I should have gone with the cocaine instead. Kidding!

Nisha leans in, surveying me again. “Piper, are you on drugs?”

I snort at her unintended pun. “Nah, that stuff I said about the lines of coke was in reference to this peppermint.”

My best friend pinches the bridge of her nose in annoyance, a sure sign I’m skating on thin ice. “Do you need to go home? Remember who Dev Menon is? A man richer than God Himself. In fact, I’m pretty sure the Big Guy asked him for a loan.”

“Of course, I know who Dev Menon is.” Kind of. I’ve seen him on the cover of business magazines and on a few sidelines of some gossip rags. In each one, he looked like a character from a classic film noir—-tall, dark, and intriguing—with a gaze that could both charm and intimidate. “And I promise, no drugs in this system besides my regular baby blockers and multivitamins.” I pause, remembering one more. “Oh, and migraine meds. I took some right as I felt one coming on this morning, but I’m A-OK now.” I wave a thumb in front of her face with conviction.

She swats my hand. “Did you chase them down with tequila? I swear, you’re acting like a malfunctioning robot.”

“You and your compliments.” I poke my best friend in the arm, making her frown deepen, before I bend to pet Vajayjay. She’s decided to bid me a good morning, coiling around my Chuck Taylor-adorned ankle. I direct an equally warm greeting back at her, wiggling the tips of my fingers under her jaw just the way she likes. “Who’s the most beautiful pussy in the land?”

Vajayjay responds with a royal meow to her awarded title before letting me pick her up. She’s one of our trio of resident hairless cats at the salon, and the one who’s taken the most liking to me. The other two—Beaver and Snatch—have found their own favorite human in my best friends.

“Yes, you are,” I coo, scratching her behind her ear before following Nisha down the corridor with my cat in tow. When my best friend turns to look at me over her shoulder with that same concerned look, I wave at her with another yawn. “I’m just a little sleepy, that’s all.”

“Sleepy?” Sarina pokes her head out of her room, her ringlets a stark contrast to that of her twin sister’s sleek mane, despite their shared tan complexion. “You sleep at ten and wake up at seven. I’m pretty sure bears hibernate in shorter intervals.” She scrolls her eyes down my torso, taking in my rainbow-colored cropped top and low-hanging ripped jeans, before landing at my feet. “And what’s with the Coachella cosplay? Did you lose a bet with a hippie or something?”

My other best friend, Sarina Arora, ladies and gentlemen. A fierce single mom, and the reigning champion of brutal honesty, if Sarina has ever minced her words, it was only to season them with sarcasm and sass. She’s also the only twenty-nine-year-old I know who prefers spicy mustard in an unhealthy sort of way. That, and the show, Unsolved Mysteries .

I roll my sleepy eyes. At least, I try to, but it’s entirely possible I look like one of the zombies from The Walking Dead , having lost my pupils somewhere at the back of my head. “Oh, hush.”

I suppose I don’t look the part of a luxury salon owner on any given day, but I might be stretching even my own style limits today. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out what my problem is. Why the hell am I so sleepy?

Sarina isn’t wrong. I do tend to maintain a pretty regimented sleep schedule—at least on days that the Oscar Mayer brothers aren’t tag-teaming me well into the night. But I try to keep those to a minimum of one night over the weekend. As much as I love my vagina getting pummeled by two beautiful men whose names I can’t remember even six months after having met other parts of their bodies, a girl’s gotta prioritize her beauty sleep the rest of the week.

Omar and Miles?

Oden and Murphy?

What are their names? I wonder for the next twenty minutes while I prepare my station, ensuring I have the tools and products I need for the day.

“Ugh, whatever,” I muse, setting Vajayjay on the ground. It’s not like it really matters if I remember their names. They’re happy being dubbed Oscar and Mayer based on their rather, uh, endowed endowments, and I’m content not exchanging mundane small-talk, pretending we’re interested in anything more than our physical attributes and prowess in bed.

It’s the reason I give most men I sleep with names like Jimmy Dean and Bratwurst. Keeps things nice and uninvolved. Untangled.

Joshua, our receptionist and salon manager, waltzes into my room, offering his cheerful morning greeting, though it dims slightly as he assesses my outfit. He hands me a load of laundry I’d placed in the dryer last night.

While Haircuts and Heartthrobs is always booked out, the fall season tends to be our busiest, with Nisha, Sarina, and me in back-to-back appointments. We have other service providers at the salon, too, including two full-time massage therapists, a duo of manicurists, an esthetician, and an acupuncturist. Despite our occasional conversation to expand our stylist team to accommodate the seasonal rush, we’ve managed a delicate balance with our current staff that none of us wants to shake up.

Vajayjay hangs out in her cat tree in my room while I fold the hair cutting capes and towels and set them in a cubby. Afterward, I scroll through the pictures Rowan sent me of him and Shayla with my six-month-old niece at Kai’s first hockey game.

My little brother is a defenseman for the Boston Bolts and lives with his wife Shayla, her son from her previous marriage Kai, and their new daughter Kiara. And while my brother and I don’t see each other often, given I’m in California and he’s in Massachusetts, we talk almost every day.

Though currently, I’m a little peeved at him, too. It’s not his fault per se, but since I have no one else to take my frustration out on, he’s the lucky guy.

Earlier this summer, Haircuts and Heartthrobs was set to launch a new marketing campaign, with Rowan as our embodiment of refined masculinity and timeless elegance, given my brother is known for his off-ice style and fashion sense. But just recently, Mane Masters, a well-known men’s grooming chain, secured sponsorship rights with the Boston Bolts, so Rowan had to drop out as the face of our salon to avoid a conflict of interest.

I’m mid-yawn, my eyes heavier than they were when I walked in, when there’s a knock on my door. I tear my gaze away from my phone, thoughts still swirling with who could replace Rowan in the campaign, when I see Joshua standing beside another man.

A man who could put every other high-powered, high-browed, high-maintenance man who walks through this salon to shame.

A man who’d exude power and wealth, despite his richer- than-God billionaire status, for the mere fact that he’s breathing at all.

A man so handsome, my nipples pearl inside my bra.

He regards me from head to toe, clearly noting my eclectic get up. Yeah, I’m with you, buddy. I look like a hot mess. Why he’s not turning around to head for the hills right this second is anyone’s guess.

“H-hi!” I stammer out a high-pitched greeting, sounding like a chipmunk with a helium addiction.

“Piper, this is Mr. Dev Menon?—”

“Please, just Dev,” Dev interrupts, cutting Joshua off mid-introductions, the deep tenor of his voice betraying his nonchalance.

The man is about as nonchalant as high-noon tea with the Queen.

“Very well. Dev, this is Piper. She’ll be taking care of you today.” Joshua gleams, waving over to me before leaving.

With some effort, I pick myself up from my seat near the shampoo bowl and find my hand encapsulated in his rather large, warm one. My heart races as my eyes connect with his.

“I’m Piper.” I give his hand an overly enthusiastic shake and ignore the wave of goosebumps traveling up my arm.

“So we’ve established,” Dev replies, a tiny smirk betraying his stony, well-manicured demeanor.

“Right. Well, just making sure you heard me loud and clear. Never know when a client is hard of hearing.” My words tumble out like a runaway train. “Piper, not Peeper or Pipper. My brother sometimes calls me Pepper; he even has me saved in his contacts as such. But nope, I’m just plain old Piper Parker .” I enunciate for his benefit, “Piper Parker picked a peck of preening peacocks.”

Seriously, someone punch me.

Dev stares at me in half-concern and half-bewilderment while I laugh in full embarrassment. But clearly, my embarrassment doesn’t outweigh my self-preservation because mortifyingly, I trudge on.

“My parents were going to name me Peter, you see.” Dear God, please stop this verbal sewage. It’s rare, but this is what happens whenever I get nervous. I babble on until someone—usually Nisha—slaps me upside the head like an old glitching TV. “You know, Peter Parker, like Spiderman?”

Dev blinks at me without so much as a word. He’s not a talker, this one.

“You know, ‘With great power comes great responsibility,’ and all that?” I continue, trying to explain Spiderman’s curse. “But then I turned out to be a girl and?—”

“Ms. Piper?” Dev finally interrupts me, releasing his hand from my never-ending handshake. “Could we get started, say, in this decade? I have an important board meeting in an hour.”

“Yes! Yes, of course.” I jump into action, waving him over to the salon chair. “Can I get you something to drink?”

He shakes his head before his sharp eyes sweep over my room, adorned with masculine decor and hues. An oversized TV dominates one wall, while shelves lined with vintage whiskey bottles and grooming products flank another. He also takes note of the cat tree in one corner but doesn’t question it.

He settles himself in between me and the mirror, and I adjust his chair to the correct height, noting the thickness of his locks and the clear whites around his deep chestnut eyes. They’re framed with a dark thicket of lashes that would make models weep.

And let’s not even get started on his razor-edged jawline or the perfect amount of dark scruff over his tanned cheeks. And I’ll definitely steer clear of his apparent rows of abdominal muscles and biceps that could crack walnuts. Focus on the haircut, Piper. Leave the ogling for later.

From my limited knowledge, Dev is the heir to his father’s multi-billion-dollar tech business. His father is of Indian descent, his mother American. And while Dev was born and raised solely in the States, he’s fluent in over seven languages.

Things you learn while Entertainment Tonight is blaring in the background as you beg your rabbits to breed . . .

I sweep my fingers into his hair, grazing my nails over his scalp, feeling Dev shift in his seat with a clearing of his throat. Our eyes connect in the mirror before he quickly averts his gaze. “God, you’re so long and thick.”

Eyes colliding again, my cheeks heat in mortification, but I swear the slightest flare erupts inside his molten browns.

It’s my turn to clear my throat. “I mean, your hair is so full and wavy. A hair stylist’s dream, really. Now, what are you thinking of doing today? A trim or going shorter?”

“Just a trim, please.”

“Can do!” I say, just as my curious cat makes her way out to inspect our new client. I’m sure she’s wondering the same thing I am: what is that delicious cologne he’s wearing?

Dev follows Vajayjay through the mirror with mild discomfort. “Is that . . .? What is that?”

Before I can answer, and to my utter disbelief, Vajayjay hops into his lap. This abused feline, distrustful of all men—the same one we rescued with her siblings from a run-down trailer park after discovering the junkies living there were putting out cigarette butts on their flesh—actually decides to cozy up on a man’s lap for the first time in the three years I’ve had her.

My jaw drops, and considering everything else that’s spewed past my lips over the past few minutes, I really should have snapped it closed again.

But of course, I don’t.

“She’s my hairless pussy, Vajayjay. And it seems she’s rather fond of you.”