Chapter 6: Lauren

Chapter Six

LAUREN

" W hat are you doing here?" I wince at the squeakiness in my voice.

He doesn't answer right away, and I start to fidget. Is my fly open? Is there any way to check without him noticing? Is he staring at my mouth? Oh, shit, do I have lipstick on my teeth?

I curl my lips around my teeth only to catch sight of myself in the mirror behind Griff and realize I'm making a stupid, weird face. Immediately, I rearrange my mouth into a close-mouthed smile. What I wouldn't give to act like a normal person for once in his presence.

Because it's him, my internal voice exclaims, and he looks like a whole snack in his distressed jeans, black boots, and black T-shirt that hugs his defined pecs like a loving embrace.

The silence stretches awkwardly between us. Maybe he expects me to turn myself in? To hold out my hands for handcuffs? I don't know how this works. Slowly I reach both arms forward while also taking one step back as my body doesn't know what it should do. Give up or run.

"I'm here for a haircut," he says finally.

"Not to arrest me then?" I say like an idiot.

The corner of his mouth twitches up. "Not here to arrest you."

It's the relief that makes me dumb. I drop my arms. "The haircuts here—" I look around to make sure no one can hear me, but the waiting room is empty. Still, I lower my voice. "They're $200 for a simple cut. You could get a hot towel, shave and haircut for like $75 from a barbershop off of Broadway. In fact there's a nice place over near the Academy where you live."

"I don't live at the Academy. Only Evers does. He runs the place. I'm the muscle."

You certainly are . I swallow a sigh. When I look at his boots and the cut of his clothes, it reminds me how we are not cut from the same cloth even though he's a bodyguard of some type. Like it's easy to deceive myself into believing we're both working the grind—me at cutting and styling hair and him protecting rich people. But we're not anything alike. His circle in life would have never overlapped my circle had it not been for the fact I tried to steal from a school, for crying out loud. My brother has spent more time behind bars since he turned eighteen than he has outside of them. My mother's an aging escort who spends what little extra money she has on medi-spa procedures and still refers to herself as a girl. Griff wears thousand dollar boots and knows people with serious money. The only thing I know is family debt.

The man is here to get a haircut, I remind myself. And he can afford it, so do your job. I straighten and try to adopt the most professional demeanor I can. "Tell me what you'd like in a haircut, sir."

His eyebrow shoots up to his hairline at the word sir.

I really can't do anything right around him.

"You cut it however you want."

"Would you like a fade? I have some pictures here—" I reach for a nearby tablet to show him some examples.

A large, tanned hand reaches out and curls around my wrist. All thoughts of fades, undercuts, and pompadours evaporate at the contact. My lungs seize. He's never touched me before—not even when he was apprehending me when I broke into the Academy—so I didn't know that it'd feel as if I'd been plugged into an electrical outlet, energizing every nerve ending.

The solid carpeted floor under my flats turns to mush, and I have to reach out with my free hand to steady myself against the wall of muscle in front of me.

"You okay?" he asks. His other hand comes to cup my arm.

No. Not really. I'm having an erotic reaction to you touching my wrist . I think that is the very definition of not okay, but since I can't lean forward and lick the hollow just above the collar of his T-shirt that winks in and out of view, I gather my last two brain cells and draw back.

"I lost my balance," I say. "Anyway, back to the hair. What do you want?"

He shakes his head impatiently. "You're the professional. You decide."

Behind us, someone clears their throat. I look over my shoulder and spot Katy, the shampoo girl, watching the two of us with bright, curious eyes.

"Is the consult completed?" Her gaze flits from my face to Griff's and then down to where his fingers are still closed around my wrist.

I had forgotten he was still touching me—or, perhaps, I'd just never wanted the contact to end.

I force myself to move away. For a fleeting moment, his fingers tighten as if he is just as reluctant to let me go, but maybe I imagine it because my hand drops easily to my side with only the ghost of his touch lingering.

"Yeah. Griff, this is Katy. She's going to take you for your shampoo and hot towel treatment." I ignore the tightening in my stomach at the thought of pretty Katy running her fingers through Griff's hair, massaging the tension out of his neck, bending over until her breasts nearly touch his forehead.

"No," I blurt out.

"No," Griff says firmly at the same time.

"No?" Katy's eyes bounce between us.

"I'll do it."

"I want her to do it."

"But—" Katy starts to protest.

"I'll cover your tip," I say hurriedly, not wanting to make a big deal out of this. "I don't have another appointment for an hour, so it's fine."

My coworker's mouth turns up slyly. "Okay, then. Enjoy your time here at the Blue Salon," she singsongs.

I'm going to get a grilling later.

"What was that about?" Griff asks once the door closes behind Katy.

"Usually you get your hair washed by someone else. It frees up the stylist to spend more time on each client," I explain as I lead him to the shampoo stations. "And Katy's a student, so she comes here and gets on-the-job experience. It's good for everyone."

He doesn't need to know all this shit. He's not interested, but I vomit words when he's around. I can't stop talking. Part of the problem is that he doesn't say much so I feel compelled to fill these silences.

"What's the tip thing?"

"Oh, well, you get a massage and a hot towel treatment along with your cut and style. If the shampoo girls do a good job, they usually get a tip. Katy always gets a tip. She has strong fingers."

Two other clients are getting prepped. The shampoo girls, Nat and Penny, blink in surprise to see me instead of their coworker. I give them a tight smile and pat the leather barber's chair.

"Have a seat," I say in a quiet tone.

Griff lowers himself into the seat and swings his long legs around. His heavy boots dangle off the end and his wide shoulders dwarf the leather backrest.

Lying down, he's a total feast. The muscles in his arms bulge as he folds his arms against his chest. The fabric of his T-shirt stretches tight across his abdomen, revealing tight, rigid slabs.

Someone sucks in a breath. It's not me because I'm holding all my air in, trying to gather up my control so I don't climb on top of the chair, unzip his jeans and ride him until we're both soaked with sweat and too exhausted to move.

With shaky hands, I flip the faucets on. I grab a hot towel and place the rolled one onto the neck rest. "Lie back," I croak out.

He does. His blue eyes flick up to meet mine. There's something in those deep, intense depths. I curse my own lack of experience. Maybe if I got out more, had more contact with men, dated more, I'd understand what I see in them, but I'm in the dark.

I take another hot towel and flick it out. It's best that I treat him as any other client. Even if it was lust swimming in those blue pools, it wouldn't change anything. Lust gets you nowhere. Mom is the perfect example of that. She trades sex for things, and for a while, it paid her bills and filled her closet with pretty things. Now that she's older, her closet is empty and her wallet is filled with maxed-out credit cards.

I fold the towel around Griff's face, running my hand along that hard jaw, patting the heated cloth into his high cheekbones, covering his perfect forehead.

I want love.

Griff can't give that to me. For him, I'm the type of girl you'd screw in the bathroom of a club or maybe I'd warrant a bed for a few hours, but you don't bring criminals home to sleep over, hang out with your friends, or meet your parents.

"Tell me if the water is too hot," I say.

Knowing all of this doesn't make my want go away. I slide my hand over his scalp, enjoying the feel of his silky hair threading through my fingers. Acknowledging that I wouldn't stand a chance in hell of having a happily ever after with him doesn't reduce my need. I bring up the spray wand and test out the temperature against my wrist. Admitting he's way out of my league doesn't put an end to the fantasies, and so I let myself drift in this moment because it's one that I'll never allow myself to repeat.

It's too dangerous to be this close to him. I'm too weak of a person to resist this sort of intimacy more than once. If I have my hands on him again, I'll probably fall to my knees and beg him to take me.

But just this once, I'll indulge myself. I'll lower my guard and let myself enjoy the feel of him under my hands.

I scrape my nails over his scalp. I dig my thumb into a knot at the base of his skull. I rub my index finger along a tendon that runs from his neck to his shoulder bone. I pretend I've gotten soap on his earlobe and caress that soft, tender bit of skin.

I get lost in the process of molding his head between my hands. His wet hair feels like silk and looks like glossy ribbons against the dark ceramic bowl. I marvel at how perfectly his head is formed, how symmetrical it is. There's no stubborn cowlick that I'll have to work around. I could cut his hair in any fashion and it would lie perfectly.

A quiet beep pulls my attention to the clock on the wall. I start in surprise. For thirty minutes, I've been washing Griff's hair.

He's a client and not the kind my mom takes care of, I berate myself internally. What was I thinking? I've probably made him uncomfortable. The other two shampoo girls finished with their clients several minutes ago, and I have another appointment in thirty minutes.

Everything runs like clockwork here at Blue Salon. If not, you're docked pay. I can't afford that—not even for the man in front of me.

Hurriedly, I shut off the water, grab a towel, and flip the chair into a seated position. After quickly toweling him dry, I move to the end of the hallway.

"If you'll follow me, we'll finish up over here." Too embarrassed to face him, I walk briskly toward my station.

This will definitely be the last time I ever see Griffin Harris.