Words that bleed from me.
Words that soothe me.
Words that untangle some of the mess sitting heavy in my chest.
It’s not until my phone starts going off with text messages from Harlow that I realise four hours have passed.
Harlow: I’m coming over and taking you to Roxie’s.
Harlow: Did you get my message? I’ll be there soon.
Harlow: I’m pulling up outside your place. Be ready for me.
Me: I missed all your messages. I’m not ready.
Harlow: I’m almost at your door. Come let me in.
She is so damn persistent.
I throw the door open with “I’m not going.”
Her face breaks out into a huge smile and she pushes her way inside. “I’ve already worked out what you should wear. I’ll go get it from your closet.”
Before I can slow her down, she’s in my room, searching through my shit.
“Harlow,” I start at the same time she turns to me, holding my black tank that has Angel scrawled across it in white lettering. “This top with your ripped black jeans and leather jacket.”
I cross my arms. “I told you, I’m not going. Besides, I don’t need my hair cut.” Roxie’s salon is where all the Storm girls go. Usually on a Friday. They insist on a standing invitation for me. To date, I’ve never said yes and don’t intend on ever saying yes.
“A girl might not need a haircut, Scar, but she can always do with a wash and blow-dry or some other form of pampering. You’re going.”
“Is there something in the air at the moment?”
She frowns. “Huh?”
“Wilder bossed me into taking the day off and now you’re trying to boss me into this. For the record, I’m not into it.”
Her frown morphs back to the incessant smile that rarely leaves her face. “Good to know.” She shoves the tank at me. “Now put this on. I would say brush your hair, but you don’t even need to do that since Bobby’s gonna do it for you.”
My eyes widen as I watch her leave my bedroom, knowing full well there’s no way she’s leaving here without me.
“I’m in a bad fucking mood,” I yell after her while ripping my shirt off to put on the tank she chose.
“You’re always in a bad mood,” she yells back.
“Yeah, well today’s mood puts them all to shame,” I mutter as I fight with my clothes. “And why the hell are you putting on the clothes that Harlow chose? Surely you’re capable of selecting your own outfit. And fuck me, why are you talking to yourself out loud?” I shut my mouth and proceed to switch to thinking all my shitty thoughts.
“Are you talking to me or to yourself?” Harlow calls out. “Because I missed it if you were talking to me.”
I don’t bother answering her. I finish dressing before forcing myself to meet Harlow in my kitchen, where she’s inspecting my fridge.
Reaching for my bag that’s sitting on the counter, I inquire, “Hungry?”
“No, just making sure you have food.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, I have food. I have water. I make sure I put those things in my body at regular intervals. You don’t have to worry about me.” This is something Harlow does every now and then. It’s like she thinks I’m a child.
“Good. But you know I’m always going to worry about you. It’s what friends do.”
“No, friends don’t check on the consumption of food. Mothers do that. Friends check on other things.”
“Well your mother isn’t here, so someone has to check on your consumption of food.”
“Do I look like I’m not eating?”
“You do look like you’ve lost weight.”
I roll my eyes again. “That’s because the people I spend my time with stress me the hell out. Can we go already?”
She grins. “See, you do want to go.”
“If it will end this conversation, I’m all about it.”
We head out to her car and make the short drive to Roxie’s salon. It’s close to my place, but the Saturday traffic ensures the drive takes twice as long as it usually would.
Harlow finds a park and I try to find my ability to be friendly.
Five minutes later, we enter Roxie’s salon, and Bobby blasts me with a bored expression. I’ve met him a few times when he’s come to Salty Girl for dinner and drinks with Roxie. I like him and his bored expression.
“Fuck,” he grumbles. “I lost the bet.”
I smile. It stumbles across my face before I know what’s happening. “How much did you lose?”
“Twenty bucks.” He jabs a finger at me. “You owe me a free cocktail next time I’m at Salty Girl.”
Roxie joins us, looking as gorgeous as she always does with her indigo eyes, flawless skin, stunning make-up, and delicate features. I even like her purple hair, and I don’t usually like pink, purple, blue, or any brightly coloured hair.
The thing I like the most about her, though? Her inability to indulge assholes and princesses.
“Bobby thought he’d be spending the afternoon sitting on his ass doing nothing,” she says. “Such a shame for him that he won’t be and that he owes me twenty bucks.” At my questioning look, she adds, “I knew you had zero chance of getting out of this if Harlow was the one in charge of getting you here. Also, it’s about time you came. They’ve only been trying to get you here for a year or so.”
I drop my voice and lean closer to her. “They scare me.”
Roxie laughs. “Bullshit. Nothing scares you.”
I shrug. “Maybe, but if anything was going to, it’d be a girl squad trying to kidnap me.”
Bobby bustles about getting himself ready for me while Harlow settles herself in the seat next to Madison, who looks over at me and says, “Are you having a cut, Scar?”
Before I can answer, Bobby says, “Of course she’s having a cut.”
I eye him. “I’m not.”
He places his hands on his hips and lifts both brows in a “don’t argue with me” look. “Yeah, you are. I saw those split ends. They’re dying a quick death today.”
Madison laughs. “Good luck winning that fight.”
Sophia, Griff’s old lady, smiles at me from the other side of Madison. “Maybe run now. Once he gets you in that chair, there’s no hope of getting your own way.”
“She’s right,” Layla joins in. Blade’s wife is one of my favourites. She’s tough as hell. I’ve seen her take on some assholes at Trilogy and put them in their place.
I stare at Bobby, unsure of exactly how I feel about this. It’s odd for me because I usually know exactly how I feel about everything. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“I never kid,” he says.
“It’s my hair.”
“And this is my job that I take very seriously. When you walk out of here, your hair blazes my name. No way am I allowing it to look anything less than its best.”
When he puts it like that, I get it. I’d be the same if I was a hairdresser. “Okay, so how much are we talking here?” I grab my hair and look at it. “A centimetre?”
Bobby looks at me like he feels sad for me. “Oh, sweetie, no.” He comes closer so he can inspect my hair. “Two inches minimum. We’ve got some work to do here.”