2. Piper
two
piper
Feel Free To Work Your Fingers In Her
D ev’s hands hover apprehensively over my cat, inspecting her with the same cautious interest one might reserve for a slimy tapeworm peeking out of a pile of poop. “Does she bite?”
My lips curl into a smile. He’s making this too easy. “My pussy or my cat? Because depending on which one you’re asking about, it would be a different answer.”
For reasons beyond my comprehension, watching this gorgeous and intimidating man nervously consider how to pet a cat is both charming and hilarious. Seeing this softer side of him, so far removed from the imposing and influential man who came in not too long ago, eases my nerves and makes me feel more comfortable around him.
“Your pus—” The slightest tint settles on Dev’s cheeks, and I have to hold back my giggle. “Uh, this cat.”
“Oh. Then no, she doesn’t bite.” I smile at the gray and pink feline now curled on Dev’s lap before trying to suppress another yawn with the back of my hand. “Goodness, me! I don’t know what’s gotten into me today. I’ve been yawning all morning.”
Dev tentatively strokes Vajayjay’s back, his fingers exploring her wrinkled skin. I remember that feeling—the first time I held her. Her flesh felt like oiled leather, and I remember thinking how beautiful she was. Unique and misunderstood.
Mom’s always said the same about me.
Reaching for my phone, I adjust the lights and music to create a tranquil spa ambiance. Based on Dev’s preferences in his online profile, he prefers a spa setting to watching sports, unlike most of my clients. Though, now I’m curious if he likes hockey. Because if he doesn’t like hockey—especially my Bolts—this will never work.
Wait. What will never work? What is ‘this’ I’m even referring to?
Lord, I’m sleepy.
The lights dim just enough that I can still see what I need for his haircut before the sounds of a thunderstorm stream through the speakers.
Returning to my spot behind his chair, I place a hand on his shoulder. “Want me to move my Vajayjay off your lap?” I suppress another giggle at the way Dev visibly tenses under me. “I mean, I don’t have to. She can stay there while I shampoo your hair and massage your shoulders.” I press my lips together almost painfully before adding, “She’s a big fan of massages herself. Feel free to work your fingers in her.”
Dev’s eyes flick to mine in the mirror, and I struggle to maintain an innocent facade.
“I was talking about my pussy . . . cat, that is.”
The blush creeping into his cheeks is priceless, and while I should feel guilty about making him squirm, it’s too fun to mess with him. I wish I could take a picture because I can firmly say I’ve never seen something more endearing in my life.
He’s about to speak when Beaver and Snatch prowl into the room, stirring Vajayjay awake. She cranes her neck to give her siblings a warning glare, as if letting them know not to encroach on her territory.
To my utter shock, however—twice in the last fifteen minutes to be sure—the other two cats make their way, albeit hesitantly, toward Dev, circling his ankles.
What the hell is going on? Is this man a pussy whisperer of sorts? Does he emit a secret scent that lures felines? Am I a feline? Because I feel pretty damn lured in myself.
I’m transfixed by the scene unfolding before me: my three typically standoffish cats, who shy away from interacting with our regular customers, are willingly cozying up to this one as if he’s their favorite brand of catnip. Beaver even rubs his neck along the leg of Dev’s pants while he watches with unease and a hint of fascination. I’ll give it to him, though, he doesn’t move or wave them away.
As if laying a firm claim on her man, Vajayjay rises to her paws, arching her back and swatting in their direction with a hiss.
Beaver and Snatch finally get the hint, slinking away from Dev and making their way out of the room. A second later, Vajayjay jumps off Dev’s lap and saunters out, giving him a lingering backward glance. I swear there are hearts in her eyes.
Mouth still agape, I stare at Dev. “I have never seen them act like that.”
“How many of them do you have?” Dev asks.
“Just those three. The all-white one is Beaver; he’s not the friendliest, but he adores Nisha. For some reason, Sarina and I haven’t made his shortlist, though. And the overweight one with the brown-tipped ears is Snatch. She’s all about Sarina.”
I watch Dev’s expression during my explanation, realizing he’s likely regretting asking.
“Me and my best friends, Nisha and Sarina, rescued them about three years ago from a terrible situation. It was a whole ordeal with cops and fines. But then the three cats needed new homes, and since we suspected they were siblings, we didn’t want to separate them. I was going to keep all three, but since Vajayjay and Beaver aren’t fond of rabbits, we decided to keep them here. They’ve learned to stay out of trouble, and we make sure to lock away our tools at the end of the day.” I shrug. “Now they’re just a part of what makes this salon unique.”
“Rabbits? Do you have actual rabbits or is that another euphemism for . . . something else?”
“Oh, you mean like my rabbit vibrator?” I ask, placing a cape casually over his shoulders and making him cough unnecessarily. “I do have one of those, too, but in this case, I mean real rabbits, named Natalie Nutbottom and Kevin. I’m trying to become a breeder, you see, but it hasn’t been going well because, no matter what I try, they won’t bang.”
Dev blinks, probably wishing he never stepped foot into this salon. I don’t blame him, because I’m in full-blown oversharing mode again, talking like an auctioneer on crack. It seems Mr. Unflappable in my salon chair knows how to make me feel all out of sorts.
“I see.”
Trying to rein myself in—a task I’ve never been able to accomplish—I ask him to step over to the shampoo sink where he settles himself into the chair before resting his head in the curve of the basin.
I turn on the water, adjusting the temperature. “I’m still reeling from the way my cats took to you,” I say, bemused with what I’d just seen. “Those cats don’t like anyone. Hell, aside from Vajayjay, they can barely tolerate me!”
“I can’t fathom why,” he deadpans.
Ignoring his sarcasm, I press on, determined to crack the shell of my all-too-reserved client, who would be perfectly content not to speak for the duration of his service. “I see in your profile you were referred to the salon by my friend Hudson Case. How do you know Hudson?”
He steeples his hands over his abs, and I notice a multicolored temporary tattoo peeking from under his sleeve, a complete contrast to his polished attire. “We’re friends.”
I wait for him to expand, but Dev just closes his eyes, dismissing any further conversation.
Well, I’m nothing if not persistent. “Did you attend his and Kavi’s wedding? She’s so beautiful, isn’t she? Big Daddy was such a grump before, you know? Well, he’s still a grump, but?—”
“Big Daddy?” Dev’s brow lifts as he looks up at me.
I shrug. “Oh yeah, I’ve always called him Big Daddy. He hates it, but to be honest, it’s better than what I call some of the other men in my life. Not that Hudson is a man in my life in that way. No sirree, we’ve never Netflix and chilled, if you know what I mean. I’m referring to the others who I, on weekly occasions, do the horizontal Mambo with. I can’t ever seem to recall their names, but the two I hang out with often are Oscar and Mayer. Those aren’t their legal names, of course. I mean, they could be; they’re perfectly good names. But they don’t strike me as an Oscar and Mayer. I had to break things off several months ago with the man I called Franklin, because, frankly ,” I snort, caught off-guard by my own wit, “he was a stage-five clinger. I mean, listen buddy, this was only supposed to be about sex and?—”
“Piper?”
“Uh, yes?”
“Please continue the rest of the service in silence.”
Well, okay then . I mean, I was just getting to the good part about how Franklin and I were arrested for indecent exposure but, clearly Mr. Reserved and Cocky isn’t into stories that aren’t actively making him bazillions.
Duly noted .
That’s the last time I opened my mouth!
The warm water cascades over his scalp as I rake my fingers through his soft, wet hair, struggling to keep myself from imagining doing this outside of this salon, where he’d be more than just my client. Because those images—me with him in any other capacity—are utterly ridiculous. The man is only tolerating me because of his precarious position in my sink. And no, unfortunately, “my sink” isn’t a euphemism for my vagina.
He wants me to be quiet and get my job done? Fine. That’s what I’ll do.
Though, I won’t lie, it’s fucking hard.
I work shampoo into his silky strands, watching Dev’s shoulders sink deeper into the edge of the basin. My eyes fixate on the vein on the side of his neck, pulsing with every breath. His broad chest expands with each inhale, and I catch myself stealing glances of his plush lips.
Plush lips that have no business being on a man so pompous and distant.
Once his hair is rinsed and towel dried, I guide him back to the salon chair to massage his shoulders. The rumbling sounds of thunder and rain filter through the speakers, providing a soothing backdrop as I knead his tense muscles. They’re like metal cables under my touch, but gradually yield as I work. My thumb finds a particularly tight knot in his upper back, and Dev moans, sending an unexpected zing down my spine.
Except it’s not enough to keep another yawn from slipping past my lips. God, what is wrong with me? Here I am, hands on this gorgeous man, and I’m struggling to stay awake.
Minutes blur. I reach for my shears, and though I manage to trim his hair without slicing my fingers, my eyelids drag over my eyes, each blink akin to pulling up dead weight.
Usually, I have enough energy to light up a city, but I’m dragging today. The soothing thunder and rain sounds aren’t helping, and neither is my quiet and reserved client.
Could I be getting sick? I did wake up with that ocular migraine sign. Thankfully, I caught it in time with the meds I took, though.
I’ve never been a fan of the quiet, the silence, the hush. While some mistake it for peace and tranquility, I find it unsettling. Perhaps because it’s in the quiet that my thoughts become deafeningly loud. Or perhaps I’ve always seen it as a harbinger of chaos and calamity.
A chaos and calamity I likely would have seen coming had I been feeling more like myself.
A chaos and calamity that would soon flip my life on its axis.
A chaos and calamity that would leave me reeling, unsure of my footing, for days to come.
With Dev now scrolling on his phone, I reach for my clippers as a distant thought filters through my mind—a fuzzy image of the side effects label on the new migraine pills. I’d just switched from my old prescription, since it always made me nauseous.
Did it say it can cause severe drowsiness in some people?
Am I “some people”?
Time slows as another yawn sneaks up on me just as I place the clippers—forgetting to adjust the guard—on the side of Dev’s head, right above his ear. My hand slips, and in a blink, the clipper takes a detour so close to his skull, it would make a Marine proud.
At once, all the sleep vanishes from my eyes, which are now two giant saucers on my face.
“Oh my God!” I gasp, my hand finding my mouth for reasons other than to stifle a yawn. “Oh God, oh no!”
I watch in horror as Dev rises from his seat, much like King Kong from the depths of the ocean to wreak havoc on Manhattan. Except, if King Kong also had a toothache and a bad haircut at the same time. Either way, I’d probably still take King Kong over this beast because maybe then I could be his Ann Sparrow—the only woman to calm the beast. But alas, I’m having the opposite effect, as Dev’s livid and appalled glare finds me in the mirror.
I gingerly reach for his bicep. “Dev, I can fix?—”
My words are swallowed by the roar that erupts from him, practically sending my ass to the floor. “What the actual fuck?!”