“It doesn’t matter,” she yells over the dryer.
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”
“It’s not about what you want; it’s all about what you need.”
I squint at her, hoping the pointedness of my gaze boring into her eyes will accentuate my words. “Well, I need to not look like a cheap tramp.”
She’s immune to my non-existent superpower. “That’s not your decision. Trick will decide what you need. Don’t worry, I promise you’ll get the high-class tramp look.” Gemmie winks.
“Trick?”
“Yep. Trust me, you won’t care what he does to you once you see him.”
My face holds an untrusting scowl.
Gemmie smiles. “No worries. He’s a guilt-free pleasure.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s gay.”
Chapter Two
Perfectly-sculpted ginger locks withstand the brutal assault of the muggy July air as I pad across the street in my flip flops. After sitting in Gemmie’s chair for over an hour, the humidity has my dark jean shorts clinging to my ass like a sticker while my white button-down blouse has an equally appealing adhesive feel to my back.
Chipped grey bricks, peeling red-painted trim, and Rogue Seduction drawn on the window in white with the perfection of a five-year-old makes this joint look like a real hole-in-the-wall. Gemmie’s a miracle worker with my hair, but I’m not feeling as confident about how my face will look when I leave this dive.
Opening the door, Peggy Lee’s “Fever” fills the air with a surprise appeal for all of two seconds. Then I take in my surroundings with a few slow steps toward the heart of the room. The seductive classic plays from an actual turntable in the corner, which fits in with the rest of the swing and big band era theme. If my Grandma Carmichael’s ghost comes for a visit, I’m certain this is where she hangs out. This place reminds me of her attic: a pinup of Betty Grable, an old trumpet, a photo of Harry James, a Casablanca movie poster. It’s a clash of generations. There’s a photo of Marilyn Monroe next to one of Kelly Ripa and … I look closer …
“You must be Gemmie’s friend.”
No. Fucking. Way!
How does this happen to me? I don’t even have to turn around. That deep resonating voice has lingered in my ears all week. Squinting, I lean closer to the picture of Kelly Ripa. She’s perched with her signature grin on the same stool that’s next to me with the same trumpet hanging on the wall, and standing behind her is a guy that looks like a slightly gothic version of Patrick Roth. I turn.
Un—believable!
“Patrick?” I’m not sure why I sound unsure—it’s him.
“Darby … Carmichael.” My name sounds like sex dripping off his tongue. I feel dirty, embarrassed, pissed off, turned on, and scared shitless all at the same time. This city’s too damn big for me to see the same squirrel twice in one week.
“Patrick?” I need to find a new word; I sound like a parrot.
“Trick. Have a seat.” He tilts his head to the side, gesturing to the stool next to me.
Patrick was a wounded squirrel of very few words. He was a little dark and mysterious mixed with a whole lot of sexy. Trick is dangerous and intimidating—the lion circling the sheep. His sex appeal isn’t just distracting, it’s unnerving; a fitted white T-shirt exposes his toned arms and yes … tattoos. God, I love those tattoos!
I swallow; actually I gulp.
My torso sways forward a smidgen to inspect his face or what appears to be dark shadows under his eyes, doubling their intensity, in fact—oh hell, I think he’s wearing black eyeliner or guyliner. I went through a brief goth phase in my early college years, but the guys I was with back then looked like amateurs with Crayolas for makeup. Trick looks like he stepped off the cover of Rolling Stone.
I ease onto the stool, propping my feet up on the lower bar. He moves in front of me—staring. I look at his eyes; I look away. I wet my lips then bite them together. I fold my hands then drop them to my sides. Then I repeat this cycle of nervous gestures over again.
“Look at me.”
O-kay …
I’ve had my makeup done before, but this is a visual interrogation. Gemmie’s parting words ring in my head. He’s gay. It’s weird that doesn’t calm my nerves, cease the slow leak between my legs, or soften my nipples. Time’s up! I can’t look at him anymore.
“I’m thinking something soft and sophisticated.” I look down at his black boots and black jeans, his hand still bandaged, and black leather wristbands cuffing the end of his sleeve tattoo. Steven wears a medical I.D. bracelet for his nut allergies, but it’s not as sexy as Trick’s leather bands.
“It doesn’t matter what you’re thinking.”
I cock my head to the side, and if I were a dog my ears would be pricked forward. “Excuse me?”