Chapter 23 #3
Eris’ hair wasn’t virgin, but it was long, strong and glossy, and must have some value. It cost nothing to ask.
Her hand lingered on the door. She loved her hair. It was like a safety blanket, a barrier between her and the world. How would it feel to lose it?
Not worse than a conviction sentence, that was for sure.
Inside, the smell of hairspray was so strong she had to breathe through her mouth. Garish lights, too many mirrors. Hairdryers at work. A phone was ringing somewhere.
“Morning, miss.”
A tall, gangly man came forward, the ringing phone sticking out of his pocket, ignored. He was dressed like a model ready for a runway, save for a pair of shoes that looked like they’d been taken right out of a dustbin.
“I saw the sign in the window. The one about—”
“Let me have a look.”
Bony fingers picked up a lock of her hair. She tried to maintain her composure as the man examined it way too close for her comfort.
“Dyed... What a pity.”
There was no denying the obvious: the dusty blond of Eris’ natural colour was showing in the roots and in the undercut. She’d dyed it several shades darker a while ago with this fancy product she’d pinched out of an oblivious girl’s shopping bag.
The man couldn’t hide his disappointment. He kept raking his fingers through Eris’ lengths, muttering to himself.
“It really is a shame. You don’t see hair this healthy every day. Twenty-five inches…” He hummed pensively. “I can give you three hundred, since it’s so thick and shiny.”
So little. Without the undercut, it could’ve been five-hundred. Still barely enough to buy her a couple of hours of Matthieu Auclair’s services.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
She left with the salon’s business card and a bitter taste on her tongue. She had an option, at least. Her knuckle knife could get her another hundred quid, if she found a collector. It was vintage, custom made. Her father had never said where it had come from. Stolen, probably.
If she sold it, she’d part from the last connection she had with her brother.
She knew what Micah would have to say about it.
‘Get rid of that trinket, Eris. No one should have a knife as a keepsake of their childhood.’
* * *
“I got this close to selling my hair to that salon near the post office.”
Denny nearly dropped her cup of tea.
“Don’t you dare!”
They were snuggled on the couch, watching Shrek 2. They had an ongoing challenge about who knew the most lines by heart. Denny was currently ahead.
“I’d sell a fucking kidney, if I could find a buyer.”
“Eris.”
“Do you know how much my bloody hair is worth? All of it?” Denny sighed with a resigned shake of her head. “Three hundred quid! What the hell would I do with three hundred quid? That’s pocket money to a solicitor!”
She wished the cup of tea she was holding had been a beer. It would’ve been, if they hadn’t run out. Getting drunk would have been wicked, but she would’ve hated to inconvenience Denny with a hangover. It was bad enough that that was how they had met.
“I’m not afraid of going to jail,” she clarified.
“Just a few months ago it would’ve been welcomed.
” Her gaze was lost into nothingness, scanning memories backwards to the night a badass blond princess had barged into her life and turned it upside down.
“But now I have you,” she said, a bit rabidly, and she had no idea why, because Denny was the best gift destiny could’ve bestowed upon her.
“I have you, and things are good, and I’m terrified of losing the one good thing I’ve ever had. ”
Some tea spilled on her hand. Denny gently pried the cup away and set it down on the coffee table with her own, then muted the movie.
“You have a right to be. I’m scared, too. If anything happened to you—”
“You’d suffer because of me. I’ll die before I let that happen.”
Denny’s eyebrows pinched up in silent sorrow. ‘Then let me help you.’
It was despicable of her to be so lovely. If there was any such thing as intoxicating cuteness, Denny had invented it, specifically to tear down all of Eris’ defenses and seduce her helpless heart.
Eris reached out to caress her cheek, warm and rosy from the hot tea. She could’ve traced the pattern of those freckles by heart, pinpointed each dark speck in the ever-changing green of those eyes.
“What are you even doing with me?” she wondered, well aware that there would be an unflinching answer for it, as unacceptable as it might be. “You’re made of all the good things in the world and I’m just a hot mess.”
Denny pressed a kiss to Eris’ palm. “Emphasis on hot.” With a swift movement, she pulled Eris across her lap. “You know what they say: birds of a feather…”
“Frolic together?”
A spark of amusement coloured Denny’s adoring expression. “You’re a menace.”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
Denny’s hand clasped around Eris’ jaw, eyes solemn and focused. She drew her into a kiss that was unlike any they’d shared, rough and urgent, almost possessive. The intensity of it whispered something to Eris’ soul, a promise she hadn’t heard in over a decade.
‘I will protect you.’