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“I’ll get a haircut, Tim, but that is all. This woman means more to me than even I understand. She’s special, but I’m not going to trick her by pretending to be something I am not.”
“Mitchell, you don’t ever have to do that. I was just teasing. You know how I love a guy makeover,” he said, shoving me in the shoulder.
He was right. I knew Tim didn’t really think I needed to change. At least, not on the inside. But anyone worth anything to you deserved you at your best. That’s what our mom always told our dad when she wanted him to dress up and take her out for a night on the town. He did too. Reluctantly. But they were the best couple I knew, and if their example didn’t inspire me, nothing else would.
It was eleven hours since I’d left Martina in her bed, and my Wolf was eager to be with her again. Yeah. I could sit through a haircut.
“You drive,” I told Tim and grabbed my phone.
Davian had texted me Martina’s number yesterday before I picked her up from that broken down POS car she’d borrowed from her now, hopefully, ex-boyfriend. My Wolf didn’t much like that she’d been seeing someone, but it was in the past and I wasn’t such a Neanderthal that I couldn’t handle the idea of her having had a life before meeting me. Besides, it wasn’t like I was some pure as snow virgin, either.
“Are you texting her?” Tim asked, grinning from ear to ear. “Tell her you’ve been thinking about her all day! No wait, say something sexy! Ask her what she’s wearing!”
“Jesus, Tim, is that what you think women want to hear? I thought you were supposed to be sensitive and shit,” I said.
“Oh yeah, I’m sensitive, and you’re just a football loving, Coors drinking, nacho loving motherfucker, right, Mitch?”
“Fuck football. You know I watch soccer. I prefer IPAs. And I know you know that nachos give me gas,” I replied, my smile matching his.
I loved teasing my gay brother with all that stereotypical shit. He gave as good as he got, and it was just one way we bonded with each other. Men were men regardless of who we were sexually attracted to, straight or gay or bi, it didn’t matter. Basically, men were idiots.
But as long as we stayed within the boundaries we set, everything Tim and I said to each other was all in good fun. I couldn’t say whether or not that was true for everyone. And I didn’t know if we had a special bond because we were relatives, or maybe it was because of the fact we had the same point of reference for our senses of humor. Growing up in the same house, raised by the same parents, tortured by the same sisters, Tim and I were best friends, as only brothers could be. Were we politically correct? Probably not. But it worked for us.
“Are we done generalizing?” he asked.
“Yep, I think so,” I replied, trying like hell to figure out what to text.
“Good. No, just text her something she’ll likely remember from last night. Like a picture you guys took together or something,” he suggested.
That was actually a good idea. There was one selfie we took together that was promising. I clicked open the photo album on my smart phone and scrolled down to the picture I wanted.
Martina’s cheek was pressed against mine and she had a small, secretive little smile teasing at the corners of her pretty, pink lips. Her violet eyes shone with hints of purple and I was looking down at her, a grin on my face. Damn, she was beautiful. And we looked good together.
Send.
Three tiny dots appeared at the bottom of the screen, and I was so intent on waiting for her reply, I didn’t realize we’d arrived atPete’s Place. The name of my brother-in-law’s barbershop was simple, but it was effective. It really wasthe placeall right, with a waiting list a month long. Pete was a fucking artist. Tim was pulling me out of the car and leading me up the stairs and inside to Pete’s chair while I stared at the screen like a zombie.
“What’s wrong with him?” my brother’s mate asked.
I ignored him, watching those three dots without blinking.
“He’s beenass struckby a woman,” Tim informed him, and I barked a laugh, still not taking my eyes off the screen.
Fucker.
“Ass struck? I see,” Pete replied.
I grunted. The place was jampacked, but it was Saturday and I expected nothing less. Pete and Tim chatted while he wrapped a small towel around my neck, then whipped a shiny black cape around my chest, and snapping it closed. Finally, a message appeared, and my heart pounded like mad inside my chest.
Cute.
“She replied!” I shouted. Tim screamed, and Pete jumped, sharp as fuck scissors in hand.
“Baby, please! I could have killed your brother,” he grumbled.
“What did she say?” Tim asked.
He leaned over my shoulder opposite where Pete was cutting my hair. Fuck. I didn’t tell him what I wanted. Not that it would matter. He was what I liked to call a mood barber. In other words, the haircut you received atPete’s Placedepended entirely on his mood. He looked at my brother with love and indulgence on his face, and I knew I was gonna get a good one.
