Page 5

“Yeah, of course. I got you, girl.”

I hear a sigh of relief on her end, followed by, “Thank you so much, Lyd. I owe you! Seriously, you are the best.”

“No worries.” I pause. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s my son. He’s in trouble at school again. This time, the principal sounds even more pissed than the last.”

“I swear that kid is a carbon copy of his father. Are you considering boot camp yet?” I ask, without thought. I internally curse myself and my nonexistent filter. Thankfully, Carly Joe knows me well, and she doesn’t miss a beat.

“Girl, I already have the damn papers signed. He’s gonna learn the hard way this time.”

“Oh, damn. Okay, girl. I see you.” I laugh.

“Honey, you know I don’t play with these boys,” she says, pausing to catch her breath. “Anyways, thank you so much. I’ll buy you lunch, take you out for a spa day, whatever you want.”

“It’s a date,” I say. “Talk to you later, girl. Have fun!”

Hanging up the phone, I head to my bedroom to wash off last night’s hangover and change out of Callum’s shirt. If I leave the damn thing on for a second longer, I might never take it off. He’s crazy if he thinks he’s getting this thing back after his attitude this morning.

My unmade bed is caught in its usual disarray as I walk past it. The dark blue duvet hangs over the side, dragging on the deep brown hardwood flooring below. On my way to my bathroom, I grab a change of clothes from my dresser. I finally discard the shirt, folding it neatly, and setting it on the vanity. Not a chance in hell am I washing his intoxicating scent off of that thing. Call me crazy, it’s fine. I’ve been called worse.

Hopping into the shower, I grab the shampoo to lather my hair as steam begins to fill the space around me. The smell of sweet citrus and vanilla fills my senses as I spin around and allow the water to rinse last night’s regrets down the drain. Reaching for the conditioner, I intend to make this quick when I spot the damn intoxicating shirt lying on my vanity.

In an instant, my senses are filled with the dark aroma as if it’s traveling through the air and right to me. I close my eyes, imagining the way Callum looked sitting on his floor beneath me. His broad chest and beautifully sculpted arms infiltrate my thoughts, and I visualize the way the black ink coiled up and down every inch of his corded muscles. I latch onto his honey-brown eyes, remembering the way he watched me with a quiet intensity that set my nerves on fire.

Before I know it, my hand is traveling down my body. I run a wet thumb over my nipple, squeezing it between my fingertips before moving to my opposite one. Turning my body, I move backward and sit down on the large bench carved into the shower tile. My thighs part as I run my hand down my body, leaning back against the shower wall.

“Oh, god,” I moan, tossing my head back and rubbing slow circles around my clit.

I imagine Callum stalking toward me, his brown hair falling loosely at his shoulders. His large muscles flex with each predatory step he takes, and his imaginary gaze transforms into one of feral need. Fictional Callum growls, fisting his hands at his sides, as if it kills him to want me the way that he does. I lift my gaze to his looming frame as I imagine reaching out to run my hands down his abdomen.

I massage my clit with intention now, dipping a finger inside my center. A low moan escapes me as I imagine Callum grabbing my hand to stop me from touching him. In my mind, we’re still in his bedroom. He pushes until I fall back against his mattress, locking my wrists above my head. I imagine him reaching for me, and I feel my orgasm climbing to the surface at a rapid pace when his skin touches mine. Reaching up, I grab the shower head and angle it down until the steady stream hits me at the perfect angle.

“Yes, Callum, I love it when you touch me,” I pant out as I quickly fall over the edge.

My legs spread farther apart, and my back arches as I ride out the remainder of my orgasm. The shower head falls to the tile floor, my chest heaving as I come down from the utter bliss.

Imaginary Callum is sexy as hell. It makes me wonder what the real him would be like. I know I shouldn’t be wondering at all—his reluctance to even be in the same space as me should warn me off. Yet, I can’t stop my mind from going straight to him and the possibility of something brewing beneath the surface. Why would he even take me out on a single date if he hadn’t entertained a similar thought?

I think back on the past few months as I ponder that last question. I’ve been drawn to this man ever since the first moment I spotted him on the stage in his mask. Graf, the impenetrable and elusive drummer for Reverb. I felt his darkness through the walls he’s built around himself. He conceals his emotions behind ironclad armor, always in control. But I swear that I saw him slip today. I caught a glimpse between the cracks before he sealed them back up—airtight, just the way he prefers it.

Steam clings to my skin as I step from the shower, dragging the towel down my body in slow passes. I catch sight of the shirt waiting on the vanity, shooting it a conspiratorial wink. Mine now. I wrap the towel around myself and cross the room, scooping up the shirt like a stolen treasure. A smug smile pulls across my face as I head for my bedroom and shove it deep within my T-shirt drawer for safekeeping. I head back into my bathroom and over to my closet, allowing the towel to fall in a heap near my feet as I tug on a long, flowy skirt and tank that ties around the neck.

I squeeze the excess water from my hair before giving it a quick blow-dry. The warm air caresses my skin as my hair falls to my shoulders in natural waves. A few practiced motions tame my bangs into their place above my brows, and I stand tall to glance at my reflection in the mirror. At least my mother gave me her good hair genes.

Grabbing my go-to items, I lightly apply some black mascara, a dab of serum, and a sweep of blush over my cheeks. Smiling at my reflection one last time, I leave the bathroom to head downstairs. I grab my black purse on the way out, swinging it over my shoulder as I close the door behind me.

My vintage Toyota Land Cruiser, circa 1980, is parked beside my house. She’s green, to match the forest, of course. Her name is Juniper, Junie for short. Junie and I go way back. She might be a bit old, but she’s got more soul than most people I’ve met on Earth. I smile up at Junie, slap the hood, and climb into the driver’s seat. Inserting the key, I turn the engine not once, but twice to get her started.

“Good ole girl, Junie. Now get me to work,” I say, tapping the steering wheel and heading toward the dirt road that leads out to the main highway toward Hollowcrest.

The drive to the city is quiet and slow, the perfect recipe to clear my mind before entering the bustle of downtown. I cruise through the back roads, humming “Levitate” by Sleep Token aloud to myself and to Junie. She loves it when I sing to her. Plus, the radio is as old as dirt and doesn’t work anymore. I haven’t gotten around to fixing it, and I don’t particularly mind the quiet. I think that in a world full of noise, we could all use a little silence from time to time.

I pull into a spot near the front of the salon, easing beneath a hand-painted sign swaying slightly above me—The Tangled Nest sprawled in looping script. Stepping out of my truck, I pause a moment to take it all in.

I’ve worked at this salon since I was seventeen years old, when the owner, Jane, took me in. Jane has been good to me, great even. She’s been the mother figure that I’ve always craved, the beacon in the storm that was my childhood. She gave me everything. A job, a place to stay until I could afford my own, and an identity. Jane taught me how to stand on my own and how to look good as hell while doing it. I owe her my life, and I’ll be forever indebted to her kindness. She plans to hand the salon down to me when she retires. I wince at the thought of having to live a day on this planet without her. What a cruel day that will be.

I head for the door to the salon, swinging it open as the little bell chimes overhead. I wave at all the girls, smiling as I head for my workstation. The chatter around the space is loud as usual, layered between the sounds of running water and indie folk music filtering in overhead. I start setting up for Carly Joe’s client, pulling items out of drawers and arranging them on a portable tray to my right. I pull open the second drawer to grab my shears and stop short when I see a bright green sticky note attached to the left inside wall. How long has that been in there? I don’t recognize it or the handwriting on it. I tilt my head, reaching for the small paper. I bring it closer to me so that I can read it.