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“What does that mean?”
“It means getting caught talking to the FBI while trying to pretend I’m a buyer would look pretty bad.”
“Huh. I guess I can see where that would screw you over.”
“Yup.”
I resist the urge to scratch my head. The burning has intensified tenfold, and I started sitting on my hands about three minutes ago. I look to the sink and then the ceiling, the tub, the door, the floor, trying hard to distract myself.
A few more minutes go by and I look to Dan again. He looks at his watch. “I think that’s good.”
I rush off the toilet and shove my head under the faucet. He turns it on, and the burning finally starts to fade. He rubs out whatever is on fire, and I can’t even enjoy having his hands on me because I’m concerned my hair is going to fall out.
After a minute of him shampooing out the mess, using the three little bottles the motel supplied, he wraps a towel around my head, and I stand for a minute, letting the blood flow normally through my body again.
“Whew,” I say, giving a little chuckle, embarrassed that I was so impatient. I start rubbing my hair with the towel, drying it as much as possible, then I flip back over and face Dan. His eyes go to my hair, and his small smile fades. “What? Is it bad?”
I turn to the mirror and gasp in horror. My hand goes to my mouth, and tears spring to my eyes. I move my head side to side, looking at the new hair Dan has bestowed upon me, touching it like it’ll set me on fire. I mean, it looks like fire.
“Oh my God,” I whisper at the same time I hear Dan mumble, “Shit,” under his breath. “My hair is orange!” Turning, I point my finger in his face and scream, “Why is it orange?!”
