Chapter 5: Griff

Chapter Five

GRIFF

T he Blue Salon is located on the second floor of an old townhouse that's been chopped up into four different businesses. All of them are centered around making sure the old rich people in the city stay looking as young as possible and the young rich people looking richer.

The carpeted floor in the reception space has probably never seen boots like mine. And, if I was tortured, I might admit that this place—with its gold and white shit everywhere— makes me a mite uncomfortable. I don't show it though. The first thing they teach you in special forces training is that the enemy can always sense your fear.

I approach the desk as if I visit these types of places all the time. I give the Wednesday Addams look-alike behind the desk a chin nod.

"Griffin Harris. I've got a hair appointment."

To the girl's credit, she doesn't question me or even give my questionable appearance a once-over. She merely checks her iPad, flashes a red smile in my direction, and rises. Carrying her tablet, she comes around the corner and beckons for me to follow.

"Yes, Mr. Harris. If you would follow me. I'll show you to the lounge."

We walk through an automatic set of doors. I clock the security camera in the upper right-hand corner. The placement is bad. There's about nine feet to the far left that's a blind spot. I could probably maneuver a worker into the corner and no one could see what I'd do to her. I make a mental note to talk to the security team about this. Lauren could be hurt.

There's no security in the long hallway that the goth girl leads me down. Plus, it's dimly lit by sconces on the wall. I grind the back of my teeth together. This place is a fox trap.

"Is there something wrong?" the girl asks.

Yeah, but nothing you can do about it . "No."

"Right, um, anyway, if you'll wait here, Lauren will be right with you." The girl gestures limply toward an even darker lit room. "While you wait, can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea? Wine? Beer?"

Each option is said in a little higher pitch. The girl's obviously scared of me. She should be scared. I'm twice her size, and she led me down a barely lit hallway with no cameras. There were several doors I could have popped open and dragged her body into. This waiting room is darker than a restaurant on Park Avenue at night with each chair separated by privacy screens. I could've assaulted her a half dozen times and no one would know. Lauren works in a security black hole.

I glower down at desk girl. "No." It comes out clipped and a little mean.

She nods her head and scurries away in relief. At least she has a couple live instincts left in her small frame, but, Christ, what is the point of this? Is it designed intentionally so that the workers are placed in the most dangerous positions possible?

First thing I'm going to need to know is who is the head of security. Then we're going to install cameras. We'll get rid of the privacy screens. Increase the wattage by about one thousand percent and?—

"Mr. Harris? I'm Lauren, your stylist…"

Lauren pops around the corner.

My internal rant dies off. I don't notice she's stopped talking. I just drink her in.

My woman. Lust rises up. I could so easily throw her down on the sofa behind me. Her black jeans would be down around her ankles and her black T-shirt would be lying on the floor next to my jeans. I'd part her sweet pussy and plunge into her wet, welcoming depths.

The look on her face is one of fear. I swallow down my lust and wipe any expression off my face. I've never had to woo a woman before, but I think I'm going to have to learn quick.