Page 63 of Gator

“See?” he said softly. “Told you it’d be fun.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, squeezing his hand. “It was.”

But as we turned back toward the truck, my eyes drifted once more over the parking lot, cataloging faces, lights, and every shadow that moved wrong. The night had been good—hell, almost perfect—but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out there waiting.

And if it was, it wasn’t getting anywhere near him.

Chapter nineteen

Julius

I loved Saturdays at the salon. It was always our busiest day, and the energy was off the charts. Migs had his playlist going, people were chatting, and the scent of fresh coffee, coconut curl cream, and hairspray filled the air. Tori was mid-foil on a balayage, and she was doing it all on her own, even if I was keeping an eye on her. I was so proud of how confident she was becoming. Harper was checking out one client, and Devon was shampooing her next cut. Everything was just as it should be, even with Axel sitting out front in the parking lot keeping an eye on the place.

We could all hear Migs telling his client about a date that had ended in a mid-dinner emergency. Because Migs never did anything quietly. Apparently, the guy had to go feed his cat, and his client was fighting hard to hold back a laugh.

“If a man abandons you for a cat named Sir Pouncelot,” I called across the salon, “that’s divine intervention.”

“Like you wouldn’t drop everything for Trixie,” he called back to me, and then, quieter or at least quieter for him, said, “I thought it was sweet.”

I grinned at them in the mirror and turned my attention back to my client, a sweet, nervous college kid named Dani who had finally worked up the courage to cut her hair to her jawline. “You ready to see it?” I asked, one hand on the chair, the other holding a hand mirror.

She bit her lip. “What if I hate it?”

“It’s just hair, sugar,” I reminded her softly. “It’ll grow back. But you won’t hate it.”

She nodded. “Okay, I trust you. Let’s take a look.” I turned the chair and lifted the mirror so she could see the back, and her eyes went wide and shiny. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh! I—okay, I love it. I love it.”

“Of course you do,” I said, leaning down to wipe a tiny stray hair from her cheek. “Because you look edgy and fabulous.”

“Devon,” I called over, “would you grab a few styling samples so she can keep it this perfect at home? Get her the little tub of curl balm and that travel-size texture spray—no crunchy nonsense.”

The bell over the front door jingled, and two women chatting about a fundraiser bake sale came in. I glanced past them out of the front glass at a black SUV across the parking lot. It was clean but unremarkable, the kind you forget the second you look away. Which was the point. It did make me feel better, though, knowing Axel was there.

I finished dusting Dani off and unclipped her cape. “Devon will take you up front and get you squared away, and if anyone says you don’t look like a bad girl in a music video, send them to me and I’ll fight them in the street.”

She giggled and hugged me. “Thank you.”

“Always.”

She headed up, and I set about clearing my station—comb into Barbicide, shears into their little leather sheath, towel into the hamper.

The salon phone at the front desk rang, loud and insistent. Devon answered it with his professional voice on. “Shag Shack, this is Devon, how can I— oh, um— one moment, please.” He covered the receiver. “Jules? They’re asking for you.”

I glanced at the clock. My next cut wasn’t due for eight minutes. Hopefully, it was a client and not a stupid telemarketer trying to sell me something. I slid behind the desk, bumping hips with Devon on the way and taking the phone.

“Shag Shack, this is Julius,” I sang, already smiling.

“Don’t talk, just listen.”

The voice on the other end was flat. Carefully shaved of any human emotion.

I leaned my hip against the desk. “I’m sorry?” I said. “Who is this?”

The man ignored my questions and continued on. “You’re not going to laugh, you’re not going to get cute, and you’re not going to look around. You’re going to keep your face exactly the way it is.”

My smile died a little, and the back of my neck prickled. I stared at the little bouquet of pens in the cup by the register and willed everything in me not to glance at the mirrors.

“Someone in the salon is watching you,” he went on in that same blank, patient tone. “He’ll know if you tip off your friend.”