15. Chapter 15
SEAN
THE STREETS OF MANHATTAN ARE crowded with the usual lunch rush: suits power-walking while talking into AirPods, tourists standing in the middle of sidewalks to take photos, delivery guys on bikes weaving through it all like they've got a death wish.
I'm just another body in the current, except I'm swimming upstream.
Mike's face when I told him I had a 'quick personal errand' was priceless. The guy can't hide his thoughts for shit. I could practically hear him wondering what I might be doing because I'm never so shady.
I let him think whatever. Better than explaining the real reason.
I pass a hot dog vendor and my stomach growls, reminding me I skipped breakfast again. Food can wait. I've got something important to do. Something I'm actively dreading: getting a haircut.
Apparently, I'm five and scissors are scary.
There's a reason for this madness, though.
Londyn.
I think of her pleased look when she thought I'd broken her date's finger. Most clients want their security to be invisible and handle threats without making a scene. Not Londyn. She wants fingers broken. Scenes made. Explicit damage done to anyone who crosses her boundaries.
She has a little dark side, and I'm digging it.
Still, the fear in her eyes that night keeps replaying in my head. She looked at me like I was the scumbag, and even though she explained her reaction, I don't like how that memory makes me feel. It's like I'm carrying around a boulder that shifts position every time I breathe.
I need to relieve the pressure, and it all starts with a haircut.
A businessman barrels into my shoulder without even glancing back. I let it go, even though the combat-trained part of me reviews exactly how to put him on the ground in three moves. New York has its own rules of engagement, and apparently, 'excuse me' isn't in the playbook.
The interruption doesn't distract me long; my thoughts shift back to her .
She's fucking courageous, and it has nothing to do with physical confrontation and everything to do with facing your own mind when it's turned against you.
I've seen hardened Marines break under the strain of their traumas.
Whatever happened to her, Londyn's still standing, still functioning, still trying to live her life.
She's strong.
I've always had a thing for strong women.
Plus, she has excellent taste in books. That won me over from the start. The quantum consciousness book she picked is dense as hell, but fascinating. It's exactly the kind of mind-bending shit I gravitate toward when my own thoughts get too loud.
"She's a client," Mike's voice echoes in my head for the hundredth time.
"I know," I mutter to myself, earning a side-eye from a woman walking her dog.
I fucking know .
But I'm a person just like any other, and I have feelings and attractions that are beyond my control.
All I can do is control how I react, what actions I take, even though I can't deny that this job is becoming more than just work.
It's more than a favor or a twisted form of atonement.
I'm starting to care, and not just about keeping her safe, but about how she sees me.
I care about her .
Up ahead, the salon finally comes into view. I slow my pace. I've never actually set foot in a proper hair salon. It was either military regulation cuts or DIY with whatever scissors I could find in my kitchen.
This might be the most intimidating thing I've ever done. And I once had to walk through a minefield at night, hoping I didn't accidentally trigger an explosion that would rip off my limbs.
After entering and getting smacked in the face by the smell of bleach and hairspray, I check in with a woman at the front desk. The waiting area smells like chemical fruit or whatever that artificial scent is they put in hair products to make them seem 'tropical.'
"Sean?"
I glance up to see a guy with leopard-print hair—actually leopard-print, yellow with black spots—smiling at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen all day. He can't be older than twenty-three, with arms covered in colorful tattoos and more piercings than I can count without staring.
"That's me," I say, standing.
He waves. "I'm Rich. Come on back."
I follow him past a row of styling stations to a chair at the very end, which I appreciate. At least my inevitable awkwardness won't be on display for everyone who walks in.
"First time here?" Rich asks as I lower myself into the chair.
"First time anywhere," I admit. "I usually just handle it myself."
Rich's eyes widen in the mirror. "You cut this yourself? Not bad, actually." The slight tilt of his head says he's going over ways he could improve it while also being impressed I didn't butcher myself.
He runs his fingers through my hair, fluffing it out. It's grown long since the last time I cut it, the bangs now past my chin. I've been slicking it back everyday, which probably makes the resemblance to Alan—whoever the fuck he is—even stronger.
I stare at my weary reflection. How much do I really look like the guy? The fucker I'd like to maim by breaking each of his fingers and toes.
I'll happily break his bones.
Currently, I just look tired. There are bags under my eyes that are more pronounced than usual, and there's a tightness around my mouth. Greece feels like a distant memory, some other life where I was still pretending I could outrun everything.
"So," Rich says, interrupting my moody thoughts. "What are we doing today?"
I study my reflection for a long moment, then sigh. "No clue. I need something completely different. I need to look like a different person."
The excitement that lights up Rich's face is almost comical. "Are you asking me to surprise you?"
A nervous laugh escapes me. "I guess. It's my first time, though, so be gentle."
Rich's smile turns flirtatious and he places his hands on my shoulders, squeezing the curves of my muscles. "Oh, I'm always gentle with virgins."
Despite everything, I laugh at that. Rich spins the chair around, and I decide I can only accept what comes next and not stress about it. I'll let Rich surprise me.
He mists my hair with water, then the sharp snip of scissors near my ear makes me flinch. Rich notices but doesn't comment, just adjusts his approach.
"So what prompted the change?" he asks, combing through sections of my hair with slender fingers. "Bad breakup? New job? Witness protection?"
I snort. "Something like that."
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
"Go ahead," Rich says, stepping back. "I need to find my thinning shears anyway."
I pull out my phone to check the notification.
Mike: It's been nagging at me, but I finally figured it out. Check this link.
I tap the link, not sure what Mike is talking about.
A video plays and two seconds in, I realize I've seen this before.
The tiny living room on my screen is familiar because I used to watch this sitcom.
I didn't watch it religiously or anything, just caught episodes here and there when I was unwinding.
The show was about a chaotic family, and it was actually funny.
I thought it was good. It ended several years ago, though.
Seven seconds in and I understand why Mike sent me this clip: Londyn appears.
It's her, but also not her. The hair is different—lighter, longer.
She's wearing clothes that show her curvy figure, even pushing her cleavage up to her collarbone.
Her character's make up is loud and pronounced, changing the shape of her natural features.
But it's definitely Londyn, and she's playing a character named Dee who's just returned from a bad college interview.
The scene unfolds with her trying to tell her family about it, but they're too caught up in their own ridiculous drama to notice her.
Rich leans over my shoulder, scissors paused mid-air. "Oh man, loved that show." He laughs at a line Londyn delivers with perfect timing. "I hated when they killed Dee. Made no sense at all. Wasn't the same after that."
I nod mindlessly and stop the video. This feels like I've invaded Londyn's privacy. She's clearly been keeping this part of her life hidden, so it feels wrong to have discovered it before she wanted to tell me.
But the information is out now, and my brain is already trying to puzzle together the fragments. Goddammit, Mike.
"Hold still," Rich says, returning to his work. "I'm gonna try some layers."
I barely register his words. As he snips away, I keep my head still while opening a browser on my phone and typing 'Dee actress sitcom.' The search returns a name: Elle Livingston.
Elle. Not Londyn.
Rich moves around to work on the other side of my head, and I see him reach for a stack of aluminum foils. Then he sets up some bowls and bottles. I don't want to know what those are for, but I think he decided to add color.
Fuck me.
I ignore it, scrolling through search results. Headlines jump out:
"RISING STAR ELLE LIVINGSTON ENTERS REHAB FOR HEROIN ADDICTION"
"LIVINGSTON LEAVES OSCAR-BAIT ROLE"
"PRODUCERS CONFIRM LIVINGSTON'S PERMANENT DEPARTURE"
The articles tell the story of a young actress who experienced a dramatic fall from grace due to drugs and the dark underbelly of Hollywood.
I don't know how true that is, but those were the rumors.
According to the articles, she left a major film role to enter rehab.
They recast her role and the movie went on to win seven Oscars.
The actress who replaced her was nominated for Best Actress, but didn't win.