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But that doesn’t stop the chill from slithering from the base of my neck all the way down to the bottom of my spine. It’s the eyes—they’re so dark, they look black. Unsettling.
Shaking off my first impression, I paint a bright smile on my face. A customer is a customer, and I need every single one I can get. Money is tight these days.
The stranger sniffs and casts a haughty gaze around my tiny shop. I’m sure he misses nothing: the three rickety chairs with their worn, red vinyl upholstery, the cracked black-and-white tile floor, the militant neatness. My hard work and pride are etched onto every inch of these two hundred square feet, on display for all to see. For all to judge.
Including him, whoever he is.
“Can I help you?” My smile creaks around the edges as I fight to keep it in place.
Black eyes come to rest on mine. “Your rent’s going up in September.”
A stack of papers slaps onto the small desk to my left, released from the towering height from which he drops it. I jump at the noise, then hate myself for my reaction. Pressure builds in my stomach, my chest, and I grind my molars to regain control over myself.
Uh-oh. I can feel it coming. The dragon is waking inside me, that beast with fiery breath and onyx eyes. If Dad were in the shop right now, he’d be throwing his hands up and backing away slowly. He’d put on a bad Steve Irwin-style Australian accent to warn people away from the danger.Crikey, he’d say.She’s mad as a cut snake.He’d go on and on until I had no choice but to drop my shoulders and let my temper melt into reluctant laughter.
But Dad isn’t here, and the dragon cracks an eyelid. A curl of smoke drifts from my nostrils.
The.Nerve.
On principle, I’m not opposed to paying more rent. Things get more expensive as time goes on—that’s capitalism. Not to mention the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Thomas are charging way under market value for this space. My barbershop has a living space in the back, where my daughter and I have lived since she was born. The Thomases were kind enough to rent me the commercial space at a reduced rate, including the two-bed apartment out back in the price as a kindness to a pregnant, single mom. So it’s not the rent hike itself that gets to me. That sucks, it’s a shock, but it’s business. I’ll have to cut more costs, or really bust my butt to make ends meet.
I’ve survived this far; I can keep going.
No, what bothers me is that I don’t even know this guy’s name, yet he feels entitled to treat me like an insignificant worm. It bothers me that he’s so big he makes me feel small, and he has to know it. It bothers me that upon entering the shop, all he had to do was cast a look around my sanctuary to dismiss my worth. He did it without having to say a word.
Itbothers methat he makes me feel the way my ex-husband did before I worked up the courage to divorce him.
I cross my arms. “Says who?” My words come out like jabs. Sharp, quick, precise. “Last time I checked, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas make decisions about my rent. Not some blow-in wearing a cheap suit.”
He blinks. It’s a slow, deliberate movement that stretches the silence between us while the rest of him remains stone-still. “Says me,” the man replies. “I’m your new landlord, and this is your new lease.” A long finger descends on the stack of papers, taps once for emphasis.
His voice irks. It’s deep and rumbly, with only enough inflection to make it seem like he’s used to being obeyed.
Well.
The dragon pushes my hip out and forces my eyebrow to arch. “Listen, buddy. I don’t know what game you’re playing here, but Mr. Thomas comes in once a week for a cut and shave. I think I would know if he’d sold this place to some yuppie who never learned his manners. He would have told me himself instead of sending some B-movie goon to do his dirty work for him.” I pause for dramatic effect, then point at the supposed new lease marring my tidy desk. “I’m not signing anything.”
“Then you’ll get an eviction notice as soon as is legally allowed.” The words are delivered blandly, like he’s telling me what day the garbage truck comes by. His gaze holds mine for a beat, then coasts down to my toes, taking in all the curves and valleys along the way. My chest and stomach flush hot, and a strange prickling sensation sweeps over my skin.
He takes his time, drinking me in, letting his slow perusal bring him all the way back up to my furious, clenched jaw.
And he snorts. HE. SNORTS.
Now, listen. I know I’m not some twenty-one-year-old, fresh-faced beauty. I’ve carried and delivered and raised a child. I’ve been through a divorce, a career change, and all the hardships that go with starting a new business as a single mom.
I’m starting to sag and wrinkle in places that I’d rather not. But I’m worth more than a snort!
Especially not from this oversized lump. This brainless, arrogant mammoth. This six-and-a-half-foot pillar of monosyllabic meat. This—this—
He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a business card, flicking it casually onto the offending stack of papers on the desk. Then he meets my gaze, twitches a brow in my direction, and turns for the door.
He has one foot on the sidewalk when he pauses and looks over his shoulder. “This suit cost more than three months of rent for this place.” His knuckle hits the doorjamb, and his eyes slide to mine. “Thenewrent, that is.”
I want to punch him until that long, straight nose has no hope of healing right. Instead, I say, “Sounds like we both got ripped off.”
A laugh echoes toward me, mocking. I vibrate, my rage heightening. Then the door slams closed, and the man disappears from view.
Wanting to tear his stupid business card into tiny little pieces, I march to the desk and pick it up…and all the fight leaves me. I slump like a deflated balloon.
