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“What are you doing in here?” I say on a breathy gasp.
He slowly lowers the towel from his head, but he still doesn’t cover himself. Cover yourself! “This is my room, Pearl.”
I move my eyes left. Right. Look past him at the curtains. Oh shit. I take one step back into the corridor, craning my neck and counting the doors to this one. Idiot. I close my eyes briefly and take a breath. “I didn’t mean?—”
“Sure.” The door slams in my face, and my mouth falls open. What the hell? I throw the wood the filthiest look, hoping it burns through and burns him. Wanker.
It’s an effort not to barge back in and give him a piece of my mind, but I resist, going to my room—the right room—and pushing my way in. I fall against the wood and look to the ceiling. What the hell is his problem? I’ve heard he’s moving as soon as his burnt-out apartment is restored to its former, bachelor pad glory. I wish the builders would hurry the hell up. Being civil toward one of the bosses is getting harder by the day. With one word, he could have me out on my arse.
And I’ll be found faster than Brad Black can draw his gun and fire, and I’ve heard that’s pretty fucking fast.
The salon I find has the best reviews. I’m no expert in hairdressing, although I have completely put myself up shit’s creek by claiming I studied it at college back home. I wish. But what else could I tell them? The truth? I was scrambling for something, anything to share that would mean I could avoid the truth. Because the truth could have me killed, either by Brad, Danny, or James for lying, or by the monsters who’ll find me when I’m inevitably thrown out. But I’m in a different country. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
But back to my more immediate problem: I’m no hairdresser, and Rose thinks I am. The closest I got to any kind of education after I turned ten was the library where I’d lose myself for hours in various books. No one else read them. That library wasn’t there for reading. It was a status symbol. And it came with the ridiculous house my father bought.
I study the stylist in the mirror as she pulls chunks of my thick red hair out with a comb, one eye closing, measuring, snipping, until my chin-length bob is back, just long enough to tie back if I want to. She puts some waves through with the straighteners and spritzes it with some gloss spray. It’s my first proper haircut in over eleven years. I pay with my own money, smiling as I do, then I walk across the road for my next appointment, taking a deep breath as I push my way through the door.
Des and Drake eye me with an edge of curiosity as I wriggle out of my denim jacket. “Pearl?” Des asks, his chin lifting a little. “What you doing putting holes in your face, girl?”
“You’ve no need to worry.” I pat his suit-covered arm. “Unless they’re bullet holes.”
“That’s not funny.”
I smile and wander into the club, finding it surprisingly quiet for . . . I look down at my phone. Eleven. “Where is everyone?” I ask Mason. He’s checking the glasses, holding them up to the light before slipping them onto the shelves behind the bar.
“I was told to limit staff this afternoon as there are some interviews.”
I dump my bag and coat on the bar. “I didn’t know we were hiring.”
“Dancers.”
“Oh . . .” I press my lips together and lower until I’m crouching on the floor, my black knee-length jersey dress stretching to allow it. “I might audition.” Mason looks over the bar at me, his eyebrows high. I’m always mystified when he does that. How can he lift them with so many rings through them? “Did you get another piercing?” I ask, rising.
“Did you?”
I pout, nibbling at my lip ring, feeling the clink of metal on my teeth. “It’s old but new.” I smile mildly, swallowing discreetly.
Mason smiles, jerking his head. “Come on, help me with these glasses.”
I leave my jacket and bag on the bar and round it, grabbing a towel and a highball. I won’t ask him why the other staff aren’t here but I am. Turns out I’m rather good at this bar malarky. Or perhaps my initiative and willingness is simply because this is my first job and my enthusiasm is off the charts. I’m happy here. Safe. “What time do the interviews start?” I ask, closing one eye and holding the glass up.
“Any minute.”
“You had a haircut, girl?” Drake says as he passes.
“I have, indeed, had a haircut.” And it feels so much better. Swishier. Thicker. And much neater than when I hacked it off myself with blunt scissors. “You like?” I feel at my nape.
“You got a fella?”
“What?”
“A man?” Drake smiles.
“No, why?”
“Show me your hands.” He makes it to the bar, nodding at my hands, and Mason chuckles beside me. “Show me.”
“Show him,” Mason adds.
