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Peri Welsh.
Humans are pretty close to animals, at least I feel that way sometimes.
Especially when Peri’s around. I’ve started to feel like I’m a caged tiger.
I trade the house phone for my cell and throw myself into my recliner, stretching out for a texting session.
Orion: 911
Peri: I’m working.
Orion: No one can cut my hair before the reunion. Help me?
Peri: Oh sure, come on down. I’ll hose you off and put you in the rig like a wild husky.
Orion: I’m serious. You can cut my hair, right?
Peri: I work with PETS not people.
Orion: Fine, but don’t hate me when I cut it too short or wrong and I slice into the beard so deep that I just have to shave it all off.
There’s a long pause as thinking dots come and go on the screen. I’m hoping she’ll take the bait. She could hardly stand the idea of me losing my beard when we first began this makeover.
Peri: Fine.
Yes!
Orion: Tonight? I’ll cook dinner.
Peri: You’ll cook me steak if you know what’s good for you, Orion Steele Granger.
I chuckle as she throws my middle name at me. I need her to be in a good mood with sharp tools in her hands.
Orion: Yes ma’am. Steak it is.
Peri: I’ll head that way when I close the shop.
Orion: Please shower before you get here. I do not need to be sneezing.
My allergies around animals are something fierce.
Peri: Awfully demanding for someone I’m doing favors for.
Orion: But steak …
Peri: Fine, but you better shower too. I don’t need to be pulling bits of sawdust from your hair.
Orion: Understood. See you soon.
A storm is on the horizon and I’m glad Peri’s arrived safely and not out driving when it hits. The roads on the mountains weren’t impervious to rain and mudslides can do anyone dirty. Plus, with her fear of bridges —and thankfully there’s only one short one to get here— I don’t want her freaking out while driving with the challenge of the weather adding to her freak out.
All my senses are picking up the incoming weather: the petrichor scent of the rain and the dark clouds rolling in with distant growls of thunder. Even Peri’s damp, freshly showered hair is wild with the electricity in the air.
She’s thrown on a dress, barely held up by the thinnest cotton straps I’ve ever seen. It hangs loosely but fails at hiding her curves the way the material catches at her hips and slides across her breasts when she moves. It buttons from the top of her cleavage all the way to her calves where the dress ends. She’s brought a small bag with her, and it clinks loudly when she tosses it on the table.
“What’re those?” I ask, struggling to tear my eyes off the freshly scrubbed skin of her cherub cheeks below her bright emerald eyes.
“I can’t cut your hair with my fingers,” she reminds me with her sassy attitude on full display. “But chores later, dinner now. I’m starving. I dealt with the hairiest of clientele today.”
