Page 13

THIRTEEN

HALE

Did I tell Syd that she’s not allowed to move her lips or open her eyes while I do her makeup, even though I’m doing one of the lightest applications I’ve done for a client in years?

Absolutely.

Is it because I’m nervous that if we start talking, one of us might say something weird and, well, make things awkward between us?

Bingo.

At least she obeys. That’s a nugget of information that I’ll be saving for later.

Then again, she could just be scared of getting poked in the eyeball with a makeup brush or tweezers as I apply rhinestones right before she goes on stage in front of a massive crowd.

Either way, I’m taking it as a win. The hand that only leaves my waist when I step away from the chair to grab new products, though, is feeling awfully possessive and may be saying something on its own.

“You know, I never usually let our regular makeup artist put this much effort into me,” she mumbles, seemingly trying her hardest not to move a single muscle in her face. She’s taking my no-talking rule seriously.

“There’s a lot of photographers here tonight, and I know Estrella’s going to take some kick-ass shots.

The rhinestones will bring everyone’s attention straight into these gorgeous blue eyes, just like it should be,” I murmur in return while I carefully apply each stone in an outlined wing shape around the outer corner of her eye.

The silver stones are small, but will catch the perfect amount of light paired with her dark eyeliner.

A stunning contrast of light and dark, especially with her facial structure.

When she peeks open an eye, I’m standing there admiring not only my work, but her beauty like an idiot. Pretty sure she sees the entire image of me, slack-jawed and all, but she still chooses to grab my hand and pull me between her legs where she sits.

“You’re the expert, baby. Are we done?”

I melt when she calls me baby. My insides turn warm, and the feeling of Sydnee locking her arms around my body while looking up at me is pure heaven. I still have so much to learn about this girl, but everything in me is assured I won’t mind the time it’ll take.

“I guess.” I pout. “Are you sureeeeee I can’t do anything with your hair? I saw these really cute bubble braids with beads on Pinterest, and I promise I can work fast?—”

“I bet you can, but I like my hair exactly like this. Just straightened, it’s kind of my signature thing.” She smiles at me, and I accept her protest, but I don’t like it.

“Straight is so boring, though.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, which inevitably pushes my body away from hers.

“Trust me, my hair is the only part of my body that’s straight.”

Don’t ask me how, but that cheesy line was so fucking sexy, especially when she follows it up by uncrossing my arms for me and wrapping them around her own neck, which pulls our faces only inches from each other.

I can smell, almost taste, the minty freshness of her breath, and it takes me right back to our shower from this morning.

Goddamnit, if I’m not just a fool for physical touch.

Her chin lifts slightly and mine dips so that we’re breathing the same air, both with shallow breaths. I barely register the sharp inhale before she sits up a little straighter and her lips brush mine.

When my lips mold with hers, I realize that silencing her was pointless. Anything we could’ve needed to talk about is being worked out in this kiss. It’s not rushed; it’s not a kiss full of eager lust. It’s an explorative kiss that has me buzzing.

Our kiss is saying, I want to keep kissing you, for a while.

My hands find the sculpted lines of her jaw before I startle myself with realization, jumping back and removing herself from my position that was nearly in her lap.

“No way. No ma’am, no ham. You are not ruining my work.”

She begins laughing, lips blushed, even though I hadn’t made it to applying any product there, and I realize it’s because she’s stolen mine from my own lips.

“Dammit, now I have to touch this up.” I sigh, frustrated, yet still my heart feels full of whatever the hell is building between us.

I can hear the sounds of the crowd only a couple hundred feet away, and for some reason, my own nerves are heightened. It’s kind of shitty of me that I’ve never been to one of Neon Cherry’s shows until now.

Colby is the last to sit his grumpy ass in my chair tonight, and that probably explains my nerves more than the crowd outside.

There’s something slightly unsettling about giving a man your heart, more so than letting him make you come.

Just because he has talented fingers doesn’t mean he can be gentle with my actual feelings.

When he sits down, he doesn’t say a word at first. He just watches me move around him, taking him in and deciding what he needs before he faces the fans.

No doubt a comb and the same pomade that I sculpted Jax’s hair with, a little concealer for the dark circles under his eyes, clear mascara to lift his lashes if he’d like, but definitely wax to smooth his thick-ass fucking eyebrows.

“Let’s start with your hair.” I comb through it once, making sure there aren’t any tangles in the short dark brown tufts.

Colby closes his eyes while I scoop a small dollop of the pomade, warming it between my hands before running my hands through his hair back and forth a few times to distribute the product evenly.

I’m fairly sure he just groaned, but I can't stop to ask because the product will set in too quickly, so I keep moving, grabbing small sections and giving them tiny twists, working to give him the perfect messy punk look that I can. I feel like a male bird the way I’m dancing around him, racing the clock before his hair dries too much, checking each section just in case one side doesn't look quite “alternative” enough.

“Ten minutes!” one of the stage managers calls out to us, and my heart starts racing. In my rush to grab new products, I drop the pomade and the goopy substance spills onto the floor right in my walkway.

“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, grabbing a makeup remover wipe and trying to scoop up as much of it as I can so I don’t end up slipping in it.

Colby stands and moves his chair away from my vanity mirror. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll stand.”

“Uh, okay.” I turn around and grab the brow wax and a spoolie, as well as the concealer pot in his shade, a clean flat brush, and a fluffy blending brush, my fingers splayed open wide to hold everything so I don’t have to turn around for anything else.

As it turns out, I’m straining on my tiptoes to work on this big idiot’s eyebrows.

I don’t know why he felt the need to stand instead of just moving my chair to the left or to the damn right.

I let out an exasperated breath from fighting for my life and relax my calves to dip my spoolie back into the wax for a second. When I look back up at Colby, he has an eyebrow quirked at me.

“You good?” he asks coolly.

“Yep, you’re just a damn giraffe and my calves are not made for extensive tiptoeing.”

He laughs at me, and I roll my eyes. I did kind of miss it, though, the sound of him laughing.

“Why didn’t you say so, brat?” Colby squats and grips me behind my thighs, wrapping my legs around his wide hips and taking the few steps to the empty vanity next to mine, planting me on top of it. He doesn't leave space between my thighs when he speaks.

“Is that better?” Colby’s voice comes out low, and paired with the position we’re in, could anyone blame a girl for the flame it ignites within me? It’s so fucking wrong that remembering he’s my stepbrother only makes it feel better.

“Mmm, yeah. Definitely.” And it is better. It’s better because I feel close to him. It feels like he wants me in his space. Oh, and I can reach his face without losing blood flow to my hand.

“Just blemish stuff now, and then we’re done,” I whisper, our faces close.

“Mmhm.” He closes his eyes again, letting me resume my work, but he doesn’t leave the space that keeps my legs spread wide, and his hands slowly work their way up my thighs toward my hips again, the same way they did at the diner.

With an ache growing between my legs, I rush to apply a thin layer of concealer under his eyes, keeping it light so as to prevent creasing with the delicate skin.

My movements are quick but still sure while I gently pat the liquid on, then switch brushes to blend and seamlessly fan out the edges into his skin.

I hold his jaw in my hands, turning his head from side to side, looking for any glaring blemishes or ingrown hairs when I spot the scar above his eyebrow.

It’s barely there, but I remember the day it happened as if it was yesterday.