Baby Daddy Page 20

  Talk about a change of pace! And that’s why Brad and I chose this storefront. Sure, there were a ton of challenges with the historic landmark issue, but it’s right in the middle of the main road leading up to the resort, where we can serve both the upper-crust tourists and the middle-class townies. And the landlord’s been a sweet man, who told us, “As long as the county landmark people don’t shit themselves, you’re free to do whatever you want to fancy up the place.”

  When the landlord said that, I was a little terrified about what Brad would do. After all, I’ve seen some of his date photos. But I shouldn’t have worried. Brad’s always been artistic, even before he started focusing on makeup, and I have to admit that the result of his interior design vision is spectacular.

  From the street, the big sign streetside has only been modified. The classic cowboy that has been there for fifty years now holds a pair of scissors instead of a Winchester, and the neon underneath reads Triple B Salon instead of Duke’s Drive In. We’ve kept the old-fashioned pull-in spaces as parking, while the kitchen and sit-down diner area were gutted. Three black- and white-striped awnings catch your eye, drawing your eyes through the huge plate-glass windows to see the crisp white salon chairs and bubblegum-pink walls. The pink was my only demand . . . well, request, because demanding things with Brad is a surefire way to start a riot. And he fights dirty, too. He’s not above taking a can of Aqua Net and using it like the LAPD uses pepper spray.

  So pink had to be a suggestion. But it’s my current favorite color, and the girliness of it contrasts perfectly with Brad’s preppier style, giving the impression of chic extravagance. Besides, it gives the whole thing a sort of throwback vibe too. Clear out the salon chairs, and I could see someone doing a classic sock hop instead. We’re just missing a baby-blue Chevy Bel-Air parked out front. I thought about it, but Brad and I both decided we weren’t that throwback.

  With a happy sigh, I look up and down the street for Brad, who was supposed to meet me here ten minutes ago. My best guess is that he’s still working on making his eyebrows perfect. The man’s got one flaw to him and that’s eyebrows that would make Hepburn herself go running for a razor. But we’ve got to do our last walk-through to be ready for the grand opening this weekend. Getting the business license was harder than dealing with the historic landmark people. And we’ve still got some work to do, fucked up eyebrows or no fucked up eyebrows. It’s why I’m dressed down right now in jeans and a t-shirt instead of my normal fabulousness. I’ve got fucking work to do.

  As I scan, I spot a beautiful motorcycle parked outside the mechanic shop across the street. I know jack shit about bikes, but I know a work of art when I see one and have a momentary daydream about riding down the highway with that bad boy humming between my legs. Actually, the idea of any bad boy humming between my legs has me smirking a little. It’s been too long since that’s been a reality for me unless you count my favorite vibrator. Still, riding a bike like that, holding onto a warm hunk while the vibrations send ripples through my pussy, and wrapping my arms around his six-pack abs . . . sign me up!

  My fantasy is cut short when I hear a little ahem behind me. Turning, I spot Brad, who looks like a walking fashion show, as always, with his slim khaki pants, plaid button-down shirt rolled to his elbows, and polka dot bowtie. And his eyebrows. Yep, I knew it. Freshly done behind his stylish bold black frames. “Glad to see you made it.”

  “Me? I wasn’t the one spacing out!” Brad says with a laugh. He catches sight of the bike across the street and whistles. “I’d love to ride that hog!”

  “The bike or the owner?” I ask, and Brad gives a smirk. “Gotcha. Doesn’t make a difference. You’ll just pick the hotter one.”

  “Damn right. So, honey, you ready for this? We’re T minus forty-eight hours till the grand opening. I almost can’t believe it! Who’d have thought we’d be out of Hollywood, in a little town, doing bridal hair and prom makeup again? Or more importantly, that we’d be so happy about it?”

  I look at him carefully, evaluating because that sounded a little tight. Brad’s always sarcastic, snarky, and hilarious, but that’s a bit over-the-top even for him. “You okay? We’ve been planning this and busting our asses for months and you’ve been a hundred percent with me the whole time. You having last-minute second thoughts?”

  Brad sighs as his eyes settle on the storefront’s embossed nameplate that we put right next to the front door. “No, not second thoughts, just nerves I think. We’re on our own, you know? It’s always been someone else’s risk and we just cash the checks. I’m a magician with a makeup brush, and you’ve definitely got a flair with hair, but business owners? I’m lucky if I remember to pay my own damn bills, and now we’ve got this too? Knowing my luck, we’re going to be prepping some double-booked wedding because one of us brain farted, and that’ll be the exact time that the power company cuts the damn juice just as we’ve got three harpy bitches with chemicals in their hair. Just . . . it’s a lot of pressure and I want us to do well.”

  I have to hold back a smile at Brad’s language. His flamboyancy isn’t a put-upon act . . . well, most of it. Harpy bitches? Who else besides Brad would come up with that? Instead of smiling, I give him a light punch in the middle of his well-defined if skinny as hell chest.

  “Do well? Fuck ‘well’, honey buns. We’re going to rock this shit. We’ll hire an office helper to do the bookings and pay the bills so we can do what we do best. If we do well enough, we can even make sure the office help is six foot two, styled like a mofo, with an eight-pack of abs and a big package for you to drool over. It’s gonna be epic, Brad. You’ll see.”

  “Oh, great,” Brad mock-complains as I give him a huge smile, wrapping him up in a hug. I can feel the tension leave him, and he takes a big breath, hugging me back. “You’re going to get us a lawsuit for sexual harassment.”

  “It’s only harassment if it’s unwanted,” I joke back. “He’s gonna love me, no doubt about it. You? We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Brad laughs, letting go of me and looking inside at the salon. He nods as if to himself and pats me on the back. “All right, let’s check everything out so we’re good to go for Saturday.”

  Unlocking and opening the door with a dramatic ‘ta-da’ from Brad, we step inside . . . and it’s perfect. Even though we’ve been here off and on through the renovation process, it feels different to see it cleaned up and devoid of workers and realize just how fabulous of a job Brad has done. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think if makeup ever falls through on you, you’ve got something hot waiting in interior design,” I reply honestly. Walking through the reception area with throne-like hot pink leather chairs, I see that there are already magazines fanned out on the sleek metal tables. Further in, the black floor gleams under the spinning white chairs that face ornate mirrors that light up from behind, creating a shadow of lace on the pink walls. The hair wash station is set up with all of my favorite products, the same ones lined up perfectly on the shelves in reception to sell to customers. A lot of people would be surprised how much product sales can add to a salon’s bottom line.

  Brad’s makeup station has quilted leather drawers to organize all of his products, with more hidden in cleverly disguised drawers around the station because he has so many doodads that he’d never find a way to look sleek if it were all visible. As I do a spin in the middle of the floor, I feel like I should be wearing a full skirt instead of jeans, letting it all twirl out and around like a Disney princess.

  I’m so giddy that I squeal in delight. “Brad, it’s so, so gorgeous and fancy and amazing and . . .” I’m rambling, trying to think of more adjectives, when I realize that he’s staring at a wall in the reception area. Actually, as I freeze my spins, I see that he’s ping-ponging his eyes from one wall to the opposite one, tapping a finger against his lips. “What’s wrong?”

  “Babycakes, we have a problem,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “We need art. Here and here,” he s
ays as he points to one wall, then the other. I walk back toward him, eyes flicking back and forth like his did. The walls are bare, but I don’t mind the minimalist nature of the reception area. I’ve done too many haircuts in crowded trailers or chaotic backstage areas with shit going off everywhere. A little minimalism sort of works for me.

  “I think it’s fine, but we can rush order some if you want. Just remember, we can’t cover up the plaque from the county.”

  Brad hums, glancing over at the plaque, which we installed to note the historic nature of the salon building. “No problem, and I want. I definitely want. It’d be great if we could do black-and-white portrait shots of us, just a little mark of our style to give it a little personality.”

  I laugh, gesturing around me. “Uh, Brad, personality is in full effect here. But yeah, I’m never opposed to a little photo shoot.” I fluff my big, juicy curls a bit, putting on a model’s accent. “Just tell me where to stand and where to smile at the camera and we’re good. But we probably can’t get anything done for this weekend unless we did pictures right now. One thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “This pink is too damn good to be kept black and white. I want the hair colorized.”

  Our eyes meet for a beat as our faces break into huge grins, and without a word, we both run for our stations to get prepped. Touching up my curls and adding a fresh pop of color to my lips and eyes, I ask, “Whatcha thinking for the shots?”

  Brad looks thoughtful, then says, “I’m gonna grab a vest from my apartment first, but we’ll need to head out to the woods. I want a nature shot, maybe take a stool to perch on, and get the sun behind me. You got any ideas what you want?”

  With a flash in my brain like a lightning bolt being hurled into my head from Zeus himself, I know what I want. That motorcycle across the way is perfect, and in black and white, it would be all sexy curves, just like me. We could even colorize the chrome. It’d go with my hair in a great way. Grabbing the camera we use for before and after shots, we head outside into the bright morning light and walk across the street.

  Brad sees the resting machine and agrees it’s perfect. I knock on the door to the shop to see who the owner is, but there’s no answer. Great. Find my dream, and nobody’s home. Kind of like most of my dating life, actually.

  I look over at Brad, who’s admiring the curves but staying well away. To hell with it. I untuck my t-shirt and tie it tight under my boobs. I’ll make this good. “All right, so I just won’t touch it. I’ll stand in front of it and the owner will be none the wiser. You good?”

  Brad gives me a dip of his head, but I can tell he’s not comfortable with this. “I’m not saying yes so that I can keep plausible deniability if the owner sees the pic and throws a shit fit, but you should definitely stand over there for the shot.” He gestures toward the motorcycle, and I can’t help it, I get into it. I’ve seen plenty of other women make love to the camera, and I decide to hell with it, I’m gonna do while the doing’s good. I smile and begin posing, popping a hip out to face the camera full-on, turning and leaning forward to stick my ass out.

  As I pose, I get caught up and lay one gentle hand on the handlebars and the other on the seat. Brad continues clicking away, getting into his inner fashion photographer himself.

  “Yesss, girl. Look here” —click— “and off toward the front tire” —click— “arch your back . . . that’s it, now caress that chrome like it was the perfect cock.”

  I reach out, biting my lip and looking over my shoulder when suddenly, I hear a deep, sexy, but still furious growl. “What the fuck are you doing to my motorcycle?”

  Evan

  I rub at my temples, washing down the second of the damn horse pills the VA gave me for bad times with a swig of coffee and wincing. It’s already been a shitty day, and it’s only eleven A.M. Even on good days, I’m getting no more than four hours of sleep a night, and I know my caffeine habit is getting the best of me. But I didn’t sleep at all last night, not that that’s anything new since I got back from my last tour and the nightmares started.

  Well, nightmares might be putting it lightly since the dreams that plague me are more like sleeping reenactments of the worst moments of my life. I see them all the time, the ghostly images that I know are supposed to just be in my head but sometimes seem so damn real at two in the morning. I rolled out of bed at seven simply because I couldn’t stand to lie around anymore. I felt like an extra in The Walking Dead, but I sucked it up and drove on, as we used to say. I took a shower, skipping the shave today because fuck it, and got ready to hit the day because that’s what you do when you’re responsible for helping out at a family business that provides both a needed distraction and the funds to survive.

  What you don’t do is what too many of my buddies have—fall into drinking, drugs, and for some of them, eating the end of a pistol barrel. I can’t call them pussies. Some of those guys were the hardest-core motherfuckers any man could hope to meet. But that’s not me. I’m not looking for congratulations, but damn if I couldn’t use a little slack today.

  Not that I’ve gotten any. As soon as I walked into the shop, my brother TJ started giving me shit about not pulling my weight when I drag-ass in an hour late and run off potential clients with my lack of customer service skills. “You can’t just get by with being good with a wrench, goddammit!” he yelled at me. “You have to actually talk to people!”

  He’s probably right, but the last thing I need is my little brother telling me how to live, especially when he’s had a cushy life here at home, never having to battle a damn thing other than some nerves when he asked his flavor of the week out for a drink or a fuck, her choice.

  So I’m already near my boiling point when I walk outside to grab another coffee and a cigarette to clear my head so I can tackle the engine rebuild on my schedule today. It’s not a bad one. Old GM small blocks are pieces of cake compared to European builds, but I want to be able to focus, and that means coffee. I just step out the door when I see some chick damn near lying on my bike.

  Before I can even think, all of my anger from the morning boils over as I charge forward like a raging bull, exploding from deep in my chest. “What the fuck are you doing to my motorcycle?”

  I see her jerk back, startled by the noise. Who does she think she is? Hands off my baby. I built this cycle from the frame up, and nobody, not even my brother, gets to touch it without my say-so.

  The woman turns to face me, a placating smile already on her red-painted lips. “I’m so sorry! It’s just such a gorgeous machine, I couldn’t help myself.” She dips her chin and pulls up one side of her smile a bit more, her head tilted slightly, and I can tell she’s used the practiced pose to get her way more than once. Considering the smooth, creamy skin she’s showing off under the tied-up t-shirt she’s wearing, she probably doesn’t have to ask twice either.

  I huff, but that act isn’t going to work on me. “It is gorgeous. Know what else it is?” I wait a half-beat, but before she can even open her mouth, I answer my own question. “Mine. Back. The. Fuck. Up.”

  She’s taken aback by my vehemence, her eyes going wide as her full lips round, taking in a gasp of air. She is hot, not like most chicks I see around here. I mean, she’s rocking metallic pink hair like it’s nobody’s business, and the jeans she’s wearing do look natural on a bike like mine, but that’s only if invited first. She stutters and swings off my bike, letting me see the rest of her, and she’s no less hot in that tight t-shirt that shows off a front side nearly as curvy as her backside. “Again, I’m sorry. I knocked on the door to ask but nobody answered—”

  “So you knew that it wasn’t right but went ahead and touched my bike anyway? Yeah, you sound really sorry, Princess.”

  I can see the switch flip in her eyes instantly as she goes from nicely trying to apologize to nuclear. Guess she’s got a button to push.

  “I’m not a damn princess, asshole,” she fires back, turning and jabbing a finger at me. “I just wanted
to take a picture with your bike for our new salon. I’m sorry I touched it. Obviously, that’s my bad. But you don’t have to be so fucking rude.”

  As she rants, I’m suddenly struck by how the fire crackles in her wild eyes and the flush moves down her cheeks. She’s gesturing all around with her hands like some caricature, pointing at me, the bike, and vaguely across the street. She’s cute when she’s pissed.

  I can’t help but laugh, but it’s a snarky dark chuckle that she takes as my still being rude, though it wasn’t really my intention. She plants her balled-up fists on her hips while the guy, who’s looking like he wants to be anywhere but here, shakes in his overly tight khakis, holding his camera like a shield.

  My eyes are mostly filled with the pixie in front of me that’s about to go apeshit on me. “What? What the fuck are you laughing at?”

  I can’t help it, her boldness makes me laugh even harder. “Did you really just try to tell me that you’re not a Princess? Have you seen yourself? Pink nails flicking all about, and makeup done like you’re in a damn movie? And that hair? You look like a Powerpuff Girl or something. You’re a walking, talking Pink Barbie Princess, honey.”

  Her voice drops to a throaty growl, and I know for sure that she doesn’t appreciate being called Princess. A part of me that isn’t pissed off and caught up in my throbbing headache sort of wonders why. “Don’t call me Princess. If you want to address me, my name is McKayla, but I think we’d be better off if you just didn’t call me anything, ever again. Sorry for touching your precious bike, asshole.”

  With a hair flip, McKayla pivots in her heels and stomps away. She’s obviously pissed as fuck, flipping me off as she talks faintly to herself about what a jerk I am. But with every stomp, her ass bounces and sways, creating a sexy image if I ever saw one.