“Great!” I wouldn't know what to do if he didn't.
With that, I circle back behind him to hide my blush. That’s happening to me way too much these days. I’m not usually a blusher. Hurriedly, I put on my gloves and busy myself with the bleach. Application is an easy and mindless task, but I still find myself focusing on it like it's the most important step. Once that part is done, I wrap it up, discard my gloves, and set a timer. I forgot how long of a process it is just to color someone’s hair. It feels different when I’m doing my own hair. I just hope that he’s happy with the end product.
Especially when I only have one color,I think.
“So, if your hair doesn’t grow back, and you can see your reflection, what other myths am I missing?” I ask as I sweep up his hair.
“Plenty,” he says. “For one, silver can be deadly to us. Mirrors used to be made with them, and jewelry…”
My eyes bulge as I snap upright, my gaze falling on him. Gray shifts the chains around his neck to the side and I see the bright, angry red of his skin marked from the accessories. Thoughtlessly, I extend a hand out to touch him. The ridges of his irritated skin are raised and hot to the touch, as if he’d been burned. Gently, I skirt my fingers along the indents, stopping short of his collarbone, which is where I linger for one second too long.
“Are you… okay?” I ask, choking on the question. When I lift my eyes to his, I find him watching me with a careful, steady look. My hand doesn’t move, even though I know I should pull away and break whatever connection this is.
“I am,” he says lowly.
“Still.” I lick my lips. “Maybe you shouldn’t wear that.”
“No?” he asks, one hand closing over the hand hovering above his collar. With a slight tug, I fall forward and barely catch myself as I brace against his shoulders. “Go ahead then, darling. Take it off.”
I swallow. I know he’s talking about the necklace, but the way his hands are planted firmly on my hips, my first thought is taking off my shorts. Nixing that entirely, I plant my feet firmly on the ground and reach around his neck for the clasp. The second it comes away, he hisses with relief. I take the chains and hold them close, whispering a small ‘thanks’ as he sets me upright.
“Appreciate it.” His throat bobs as he pulls his hands away. Tension coils in the pit of my stomach.
“Of course.”
I feel the ghost of his touch well after, even more so when I’m back at my workstation checking his progress. This is dangerous territory, and I’m walking myself right into a minefield of unknowns. To save myself the mind-numbing practice of self-doubt, I shift my focus back to his color. Satisfied with the lift, I haul him into the kitchen, where I rinse it all out. I feel better and less sexually frustrated when he’s back in the chair and I’m mixing up his color.
“Do you do this often?” he wonders as I start dabbing the color into his bleached hair.
“Not anymore,” I start. “I got my license after high school. It was fun for a while, but I wanted to do what everyone else was doing, so I went to college. Eventually, it got to be too hard to balance classes and a job, at least until I stumbled across String Theory.”
It wasn’t a bad gig. Classes during the day, stripping at night. I made a fat chunk of change taking off my clothes for randos more than I ever did cutting and coloring hair. Still, it felt like a waste, and I didn’t want to lose the skill, so I colored my own hair and sometimes someone else’s when I felt like an extra five bucks or a coffee on campus.
“This was all still new when I… well, when I went to sleep.”
“Was it?”
“Mhm,” he hums. “Though none of the women I knew then were quite as colorful as you.”
“Is that a bad thing or a good thing?” I apply the last of the color and set the bowl aside, wrapping his hair again for the final stretch.
“I suppose that depends. You’re only the second mortal woman I’ve bothered to acquaint myself with.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“It means”—he stands from the chair and shoulders his shirt back up—“I’ve only truly known two mortal women. The rest have been inconsequential.”
When he finally turns to face me, I’m sure I look confused. “And I’m consequential?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” He doesn’t bother to button up, instead letting the shirt hang open. His chest is still red, outlining the spot where the chains burned him. I wonder how long it will take for that to go away. “We do have a deal, don’t we?”
I nod, dropping my eyes to the floor. That’s a definite fact. Just a deal and nothing more, so there’s no sense in getting all hot and bothered over him. I toe at the floor with my bare feet, and before I can stop myself from asking, I open my mouth, “So, who was the first?”
He’s quiet as he considers answering.
“Francesca,” he replies. “She was a nun.”
“A nun?” I think back to the night I met him, and the careful way he approached me. Would he have withheld himself from taking a bite out of me if it wasn’t for the costume? There would have been nothing to stop him from killing me if that was the case.
