Page 28 of Sanctuary (Deviant Hearts #0.5)

"Nice saturation, Wendy," my mentor, Renita, says. "Just don’t rush it." She’s hovering like a cat, but it’s a good kind of hovering. Her feedback has really helped me improve my technique a lot.

All around us, the salon buzzes like a high-voltage power line. Clippers drone, scissors whisper, customers buried in magazines peek out like deer from a thicket. Blonde today, pink tomorrow—hair's no less indecisive than hearts.

Outside, busy Melrose traffic blurs past the windows. It’s a nice place. Way better than the one I worked at earlier this year. But they weren’t willing to let me work on hair, even though I’d taken enough classes and had plenty of practice not to fuck up a simple cut.

Renita didn’t seem to mind that I had very little experience. She took a chance and here we are. I’m finally doing what I’ve always wanted.

I'm wrist-deep in peroxide, mid-transformation of a redhead into a blonde. I don’t mind my mentor floating by with an appraising nod or clipped praise, part approval and part instruction.

It's how I like it, busy and a little dangerous. Better than wondering which part of Sunset Boulevard Jett Vice is self-destructing on.

Renita’s eyes dart from me to the client’s head to the clock. Everything is timing here.

With confident hands, I work the bleach into long, wet strands, focus on the quality, focus on the immediate task.

My mentor waves a hand in front of my face, bringing me back. "Did you hear me? Don’t forget to set a timer."

"Sorry," I say. "My head’s not here. I’m trying to make sure this is perfect. And yes, of course."

"Oh, honey," the client croons. "You’re doing a great job. You have a very light hand."

"Thank you."

I finish up the bleaching process and tap the digital clock on my station to set an alarm for thirty minutes from now. "Sit tight," I tell the client and offer her a magazine before I begin resetting my station to prep for the color.

"How’s the new place?" one of the other girls working at the salon whom I made friends with asks as Renita and I move to the cabinet with pigments.

"Cheap enough that I can pay the rent if I keep doing ten-hour days."

"That's why you’re pulling double shifts?" Renita says, a little surprised. "Thought you and that drummer had a cushy setup. Weren’t you dating someone in Sonic Trash?"

It’s a small world, this scene. Apparently, Renita works with a lot of musicians, and she heard about me and Jett from one of the clients.

I smile at the curiosity that’s half hidden in her questions. "I’m paying my own way. We’re not together anymore."

"How come?"

"He’s an asshole," I reply. I don't need to keep Jett's shitty character a secret. I don't owe him anything. Besides, the world already knows he's crap. Sonic Trash was kicked off the rest of the tour with The Deviant.

"Aren’t they all?" another girl cutting her client’s hair says sarcastically.

"True, true," a third one chimes in.

"Well, not all," I counter. Cruz Velez immediately comes to mind. Yes, that Cruz. The one who called me like he promised a week after our weekend in Germany and then again two months later. He sounded tired both times we spoke, but the fact that he actually did what he promised he’d do still makes him a better man than Jett shitty Vice. Even if this goes nowhere.

"There are some good ones out there," Renita supplies as she fumbles with tubes of color, looking for the right shade. "You just gotta grab them while they’re available."

"I suppose so," I agree quietly.

Then the women in the salon, both the employees and the clients, are suddenly chattering agitatedly about the evil men crawling through this city. Everyone has a story to share about a douchebag ex.

I listen while preparing the rest of the tools.

"Hey, Wendy," the receptionist calls, approaching me. "Someone’s here to see you."

I glance at the front of the salon that’s lit up by the afternoon sun streaming through the large windows. A male figure stands there, a dark silhouette against the brightness of California August.

My pulse stutters, then speeds up.

I rest the tools in my hands on the tray and look at my client reading a fashion magazine, then at Renita.

"I’m going to step away for a second," I inform them both, pulling off the latex gloves and discarding them in the nearest trashcan.

I grab the digital clock and shove it into the pocket of my apron.

"Be back when it’s time to apply color."

Then I walk to the front of the salon. Every step feels substantial, like I’m waking in the direction of my goal.

The reception area is a blur of cheetah print and expensive handbags. Women gathered around the register are swapping gossip, the ritual exchange of desperate housewives with too much money and too much free time. And behind it all, by the door, he stands.

He’s taller than I remember, bigger in my mind than in the room.

But maybe that’s because my imagination has always magnified him in my thoughts. He’s holding a drink carrier with two cups of iced coffee.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" I ask as I draw near.

He smiles. "Just passing through."

"Passing through?" I glance at the stretch of busy salon behind me and then back at Cruz. It’s a little loud here with all the blow dryers running and music crooning in the background.

"How did you even find me? Because, you know, this is a new one," I say, not covering my surprise.

"Guys don’t usually chase me down here."

He offers me the drinks. "I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got a vanilla latte and a mocha."

"Which one is for you?" I ask, eyeing the drinks. They both look great. And I sure could use some caffeine.

"Whichever one you won’t drink." He smirks. "Unless, of course, you want to try them both."

"That’s a lot of coffee," I supply, then motion at the door. "It’s a little noisy in here. You wanna go outside?"

"Sure."

We exit the salon and sit on the wooden bench by the entrance.

"I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?" Cruz asks, placing the coffees between us.

"No worries. I've got a few minutes to spare while my client’s bleach sets in." Then I return my attention to the drinks. "Okay, give me that latte."

He extracts it from the carrier and hands the cup over to me. "Here."

"Thanks." I take a sip and look at him. "So you never told me how you found me?"

Cruz laughs softly. "Ah. My buddy gets his hair done here," he explains. "Mentioned you."

"Me?"

"Well." Cruz clears his throat. "He said he saw 'that shorty with fun hair' last time he came in."

"Shorty with fun hair." I taste the words. "Your buddy sure has a cringe way to describe women."

"Nobody taught him, I suppose."

"And you just decided to show up and check it out for yourself?"

"I’ll be home for a while."

"Yeah. I saw your tour dates for the rest of the year. You don’t have anything until October."

"We’re starting to work on the new album. We’ll spend some time in the studio." He inspects me from head to toe, and his eyes linger on my new blue hair and then move to my right arm, where a freshly inked heart sits.

"New tattoo?" He points at the design.

"Part of the post-breakup package." I grin. "New hair color and freedom too. Just thought I’d treat myself a little."

"So you guys are over for real?" he asks carefully.

My mind stutters between then and now, the past and the present. He waits for me to breathe, no pressure. "Yes. Jett’s history," I finally say.

"Good."

"Are you happy because of my heartbreak?" I tease him.

"Let’s be honest, Wendy." He leans in closer like he’s about to whisper a secret to me. "Motherfucking Jett Vice was never the man for you. He didn’t deserve you."

Goosebumps riddle my arms. I know we agreed this would be a one-time thing back in Germany, but then we exchanged numbers and he called and now he brought coffee. It feels like the Universe it trying to tell me something. That maybe, just maybe, Cruz Velez is here to stay.

He draws back and rests against the bench, looking wistfully into the blue California sky as pedestrians move past us in both directions.

"I was thinking, you know," he continues talking with a reserved smile on his face. "I’m a man who’s willing to compromise. How about two?"

"Two what?" I’m totally clueless as to what he’s talking about right now. Sounds like some code I forgot.

"I said three and you said one when we were in Germany. So I say two is a good middle ground." He turns his head to me, and there’s a cocky smile there.

I shake my head once, prompting him to explain. "Two of what?"

"Kids."

I almost choke on my coffee. "Come again? Kids? Is that what you want from me?"

He nods innocently. "Yep. But not from you. With you ."

"I’m twenty-two."

"I know."

"That’s a little fast."

"I’m not saying right this moment. I was thinking we’ll start slow. How about I ask you on a date first?"

I promised myself I’d take time off from men and concentrate on my school and my career, but he’s just so damn hard to resist. "Okay," I say after a long moment of consideration.

His smile cracks open again. "Dinner and a movie?"

"Yeah. Dinner sounds good."

The timer in my pocket buzzes, and that’s my cue to stand up and go back in. I’m aware of my body and his, the proximity, what happens next. I pretend it’s harder than it is, but it’s not hard at all—to close the distance between us and to kiss him on the lips.

"I really gotta run. Or Renita will fire me," I mutter demurely as I pull back.

"Call you this evening?" he says.

"Yeah. I get off at eight."

"Sounds good."

"Bye." I dash for the door.

"Two!" he shouts after me.

And somehow, the thought of having children with him doesn’t scare me away.

It’s not right now, but it feels right anyway.

"Hey, Cruz," I call from the doorway as he gets up from the bench.

He looks at me.

"You were never a consolation prize," I say. "You were the prize."

He just smiles, and I realize that one-time with him isn't enough.

THE END… OR NOT QUITE

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