Page 6 of Wild Infatuation (Rebel Rockstars #3)

Chapter Six

Terrance

OUR EYES LOCK FROM far closer this time. Shawn freezes and blinks before recovering and taking a halting step.

I swallow, composing myself. I’m here for a job. I can’t afford to be starstruck. Even if I had no idea who Baptism Emperor was, this gig would be a huge opportunity. If I screw it up because I’m distracted, I’ll never forgive myself … even if my heart is pounding its way out of my chest.

“Hi,” I say. “I guess you’re next.”

I wave at my chair, doing my best to seem like a professional here for a job.

He’s just another client I need to prepare.

At least, that’s what I tell myself, but as he draws near and gingerly sits before the bureau in a swiveling chair, I’m hit with a scent like spicy deodorant and aftershave, and it nearly takes me off my feet.

Professional. You’re a professional, I chant.

I turn him toward the mirror, as I would with any other client.

Our eyes meet in the glass, his so dark I can’t read anything in them.

His mouth is a tight line studded by the piercings on each side.

He left his hair down, and it mostly flops over one side.

A bit of stubble shades his cheeks, highlighting the firmness of his jaw.

I don’t care what the brief says, I’m definitely leaving that stubble.

It would be a crime against humanity to remove it.

I turn to my tools, and the familiar implements help a bit in steadying my pulse.

I’ll start with the makeup. They want him “broody,” they said, but I’m going to keep it light.

Shawn always looks best when he’s at his most natural.

Besides, he has so many piercings and tattoos that he already looks “broody.” I still prefer the days when he performed in nothing but the clothes from his closet and the eyeliner he applied himself.

I start with some color corrector. Turning Shawn toward me and away from the mirror, I dab a bit on, concealing the dark circles under his eyes.

The past year must have been hard on him and the rest of the band.

I can’t fathom what it would be like to get so famous so quickly.

Sure, it comes with a lot of perks, but it’s got to be one hell of a roller coaster as well.

I want to reach out and help him, but I’m here to do his makeup, and if I open my big mouth and start talking like some obsessive fan, I’ll probably get kicked out.

I’ve switched from color corrector to a liquid concealer when Shawn says, “I know you.”

I freeze, liquid concealer on my fingertips.

“You were at the meet and greet,” Shawn says, “weren’t you?”

A flush rushes up my neck. I barely keep it from flooding through my face. “Oh, yeah, I was. I, um, I’m a fan. But I’m surprised you remember me out of everyone who stood around in that huge line. It went halfway around the block.”

I mean it as a joke, but Shawn doesn’t laugh. He looks up at me, as deadly serious as ever, and says, “Yes, I do. You came to all our shows.”

I lose the battle against the heat clawing its way toward my face. I busy myself dabbing concealer onto his nose and forehead and working it around, but I doubt it hides the blush searing my cheeks.

“I … like your music,” I say.

Shawn can’t talk while I’m working on the concealer, so he doesn’t speak again until I go back to my makeup kit on the bureau.

“What’s your name?” he says.

“Oh.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that all this time, I’ve known his name, but he hasn’t known mine.

I’ve been a shadow loitering at the back of dive bars.

I never would have expected him to remember someone like that.

It’s not like I’m anyone important. A cosmetologist isn’t exactly on the same level as a rockstar.

“I’m Terrance,” I say.

“I guess you already know my name,” Shawn mumbles.

I chuckle as I fill a brush with the very palest lip gloss I have. It’ll barely do more than make Shawn’s mouth look a bit smoother from a distance, but I can’t help but give him the full treatment while I’ve got him in my chair.

I take his chin without thinking, an automatic action I’ve performed so many times that it doesn’t hit me until the heat of his skin washes through my fingers. I tilt his head up, relying on instinct and repetition as my brain boils into incoherence.

“I need you to … to part your lips for a second,” I say.

I know I’m speaking too quietly, but it’s all I can do to stay on task.

Shawn looks up at me, dark eyes framed with lush black lashes, and opens his mouth slightly.

I dab the gloss on. It’s almost more of a chapstick, but the understated look works really well on him.

Unfortunately, my professional appraisal of the makeup doesn’t dull the fact that I’m holding his chin in my fingers and dragging a brush gently across his lips.

I can feel his mouth through the brush, and it sends all sort of images rushing through my brain.

My mind fills in the blanks with warmth and softness, with a tongue darting past those open lips, with the sort of heat that slithers down your throat and fills your belly.

It’s both a relief and a horrible letdown to finish the gloss.

I drag myself away and set aside the brush, allowing myself one steadying inhale as I try to figure out what should happen next.

I should know this, it should be second nature, but instinct is abandoning me as I stand here tasked with touching the man of my dreams.

My brain restarts like a rattling old car engine. Eyeliner. Next would be eyeliner.

I grab my pen and turn back to him, free hand instinctively settling under his chin again. As I tilt his head up, I say, purely by rote, “Look up at me.”

He does, and the eyeliner pen nearly drops from my limp fingers. I’m so close to those deep, dark eyes of his that I can count the lashes. Our breaths mingle between us. His skin is warm against my fingers, fingers that have completely forgotten how to apply makeup to another human being.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“No, no, just…” I snap myself back to my senses. “Stay right like that.”

My attempt to apply eyeliner results in a mess.

I cover it by smearing the eyeliner around a bit, giving Shawn a more grungy and haphazard look.

It works for both him and the brief, to my immense relief.

Perfectly applied eyeliner would seem strange on him, now that I consider it.

At least, that’s what I repeat in my head as I pry myself away and turn his chair around.

It’s a relief to swivel the chair so he faces the mirror instead of me. His reflection is slightly less harrowing to look at than his actual face an inch away from mine.

I steady myself by fluffing my hands through his hair, playing around with it to get a sense for the cut and shape.

“This isn’t dyed?” I ask idly.

“Not recently.”

“Wow, I know a few people who’d kill for hair that’s naturally this black.”

I comb my hands through it, nails grazing his scalp under the thick, dark strands … and Shawn shivers. He doesn’t acknowledge it, his face rigidly controlled in the mirror, but I feel it beneath my fingers and it sends me into a brand new spiral of mingled panic and excitement.

I clip the hair to one side, getting it out of my way so I can check out the shaved part underneath. It’s a convenient excuse to try to shake off what I just felt, but as I rub a finger along the shave extending from his forehead to behind his ear, that slight tremble echoes again.

“You, um, you do this yourself, right?” I say because I need to say something, anything , that might make this moment bearable.

“Yeah. It’s probably shit though.”

I don’t know if I’m imagining his voice dropping a little lower than usual, but either way it isn’t doing anything helpful for the knots in my stomach.

“Well, uh, it’s pretty good, actually,” I say. “I’m just going to clean it up a little, and then you should be good to go.”

I busy myself finding my clippers and plugging them in.

I grab a few more alligator clips as well, pinning Shawn’s hair over to one side to get it out of my way.

Unfortunately, I then have to brace against him.

There’s no other way I can do such a delicate shave.

I lean in close as I start up the clippers, trying to think of nothing but the tiny bits of hair I remove as I work.

Just a job, just another job, I repeat.

The mantra hasn’t worked so far, and it certainly doesn’t start working now. A brief, accidental glance down shows me Shawn gripping his pants.

I instantly realize my mistake and jerk away.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry.”

I dive for a big brush and start sweeping hair off him. It’s going to itch like hell and ruin his clothes, and all because I was so preoccupied that I didn’t think to put a damn cape on him. I haven’t made a mistake like this since my first day out of beauty school.

“It’s alright,” he says, but I keep on frantically cleaning off the hairs.

In my haste, I sweep at his arms with my bare hands, even brush off his shirt that way — before jerking back in horror.

“Sorry,” I stammer. “Sorry, I just…”

I give up and go for the cape, but mostly because I need to turn around to control the flush rising into my face. Pawing at him is about the only thing I could have done to make this situation worse. The shoot only lasts two days, but I might not come back tomorrow at this rate.

I get the cape on him and finish shaving both sides of his head without further disaster, though I can admit I’ve done better clips in the past. A few hairs elude me, but when I fix up the rest of his hair, slicking it back so it falls down the center of his neck and leaves the sides exposed, it looks passable enough. I hope.

I sweep the cape off, fully prepared to crawl into a corner and die from embarrassment. Shawn stands, a thing I know mostly by sound, since I dare not look at him after the disaster I’ve unleashed.

“Terrance,” he says.

The sound of my name in his mouth overrides my shame. I turn, clutching the cape to my chest like a security blanket. I expect anger or at least annoyance, but Shawn is smiling. Well, smiling for him. The expression pulls gently at one side of his lips, but my heart soars all the same.

“Thanks,” he says. “Looks good.”

My chest might explode. I blink and swallow, falling back to basic functions as I struggle to summon the minimally polite and correct response.

“Y-you’re welcome,” I manage.

I expect him to go then, but he pauses, and for half a second I think he might be about to say something. His lips part, but he closes them just as quickly and shakes his head at himself. With a curt wave, he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

I let out a shaky breath in the silence of the makeshift hair and makeup trailer. I’m still clinging to the cape, willing my heart to calm, breathing in the lingering scent of him, as the next band member comes in.