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“Oscar came in today,” I said to Mom.
“Really? How is Oscar?” Mom replied, feigning innocent surprise.
“I don’t know, since most of the time he was there he was yelling at Eddie in Spanish and the rest of the time he was yelling at him in English and any leftover time he was yelling at me.”
“Oh dear,” Trixie murmured.
“That didn’t go as planned,” Mom said to Trixie.
My mother.
If I didn’t love her, I’d kill her.
Trixie started mixing some gunk in a little bowl with a wide flat paintbrush and shrugged at Mom.
“Everything’s okay with Eddie so you can stop meddling,” I told them.
“I better call Javier,” Mom said quietly.
See what I mean?
“Howokayare things with Eddie?” Trixie asked, giving me a wide-eyed, nosy stare.
I looked to the ceiling and asked for deliverance.
God clearly had better things to do that day.
I guided them off the subject of Eddie. I fell asleep during the pedicure with a head full of foil wrap and had to be woken up to get my hair rinsed in the kitchen sink.
“Voilà!” Trixie said, handing me a mirror when she was done.
I stared at myself in disbelief.
Okay, I had to admit, it looked good.
No, really, it looked great.
She’d cut off a couple of inches so my hair just brushed past my shoulders and she gave me deep thick bangs that were parted well to the side and looked almost sexy. It did actually brighten me up. In fact, my eyes looked more green than hazel and my skin looked kind of glowy.
“It’s great,” I said.
“It is! It’s you! It’s perfect! You’re a whole new Jet,” Trixie announced.
I wished I was a whole new Jet with a whole new life, but I’d take the new ’do because I wasn’t going to get the other, that was for sure.
Trixie did my makeup for Smithie’s, which also looked better than I could ever do and I was an expert at makeup. I celebrated my new look by wearing my sexiest slut shoes with my Smithie’s uniform. They were black patent leather, closed, pointed toe with double-thick straps with a dual buckle at the ankle. Smithie called them my dominatrix shoes and he wasn’t wrong.
JoJo and I were only five minutes late when we swung through the door. Smithie was at his usual place behind the bar. He turned when we entered, opened his mouth to say something smart and his mouth just stayed open when he saw me.
I put my purse and cardigan on the bar.
“Please tell me you did that to your hair ’cause you’re gonna dance a pole.”
“I’m not dancing a pole,” I told him.
He handed me my apron and, as usual, I slid my cell into the pocket. I always did this. I was never without my cell, just in case Mom needed to call.
Smithie kept talking. “So, then, it was to throw me off the fact that you didn’t call me to tell me some dickhead held a knife to you last night.”
