Page 1 of Pretend for Me

one

piper

You’re So Long and Thick

“You’re wearing two different kinds of sneakers.”

“Hmm?” I ask Nisha as I pluck a peppermint candy from the bowl at our cashier stand and pop it into my mouth. I quickly spit it out into my hand, giving the offensive thing a disdainful and betrayed look because I’d forgotten to take off the plastic.

My best friend gives me an unimpressed once-over.

After fifteen years, however, her once-overs no longer faze me like they did in high school.

I follow Nisha’s gaze to my feet, noting that, indeed, I’m wearing my black Chucks on one foot and my white Dr. Scholl’s slip-ons on the other.

“Huh,” I state, blinking at a sloth’s pace. My eyelids feel like they’re weighted down with anchors. “Well, would you look at that! At least one foot got it right.”

I’m talking about the foot concealed under my Dr. Scholl’s shoe, of course, because as every salon stylist worth their weight in salt will tell you, blisters are like vaginas—they can’t handle a little friction without making a mess. And standing some days for close to twelve hours meant I had little time for friction and messes in my footsies. My nether regions,however? I’ve always been more than amenable to friction and messes there.

My eyes climb back up to my upturned palm with the plastic-wrapped peppermint I’d spit out, as if seeing it for the first time. I unwrap it properly before popping it back into my mouth, hoping it’ll wake me up. At the very least, it should stop my yawning epidemic. I heard somewhere peppermint is supposed to help wake you up.

“Or is it lines of coke?” Hmm. My brows furrow in contemplation. Perhaps it was the lines of coke I’d heard about. Not that I’m going to conduct a scientific experiment to compare or anything. At this point, I’m hoping the peppermint comes through for me.

“Lines of coke? What?” Nisha’s stare stays on me, the little crease in between her shapely dark brows the only indication she’s wondering if I’ve completely lost my marbles. “Are you feeling okay? You’re acting weirder than usual.”

I grin at her, seeing her through the slits my eyes are now peeking out of. “How do you always find new ways to flatter me, bestie?”

Shaking her head, her silky black hair swaying like she’s starring in her own shampoo commercial, she taps the screen of her iPad with her stylus. “Anyway, we’ve got a packed day ahead. The Hammond party is coming in later this afternoon for Mark’s pre-wedding treatments. Both Sarina and I have them covered.”

“As if that’s a hardship,” I quip. “If Mark’s best men look anything like Mark, I’d be happy to cover them for you.”

Nisha continues, undeterred by my innuendo, “Mr. Rothschild should be in any minute, and since he refuses to work with any other stylist, I can get his regular service done in about forty-five minutes.”

My two best friends, Nisha and her sister Sarina, work as full-time stylists at my San Jose-based luxury men’s salon,Haircuts and Heartthrobs. While the lease is under my name—courtesy of my famous hockey star brother, Rowan Parker—Nisha and Sarina are both partners in the business.

She scans her bright screen, brows lifting. “Oh, and aside from several of your regulars, you also have that new client.” She eyes me warily, as if examining a suspiciously ripe avocado. “Dev Menon is coming in this morning at eight-thirty.”

“Yup, yup.” I nod, holding the back of my hand to my mouth, suppressing another yawn. Clearly, I should have gone with the cocaine instead. Kidding!

Nisha leans in, surveying me again. “Piper, are you on drugs?”

I snort at her unintended pun. “Nah, that stuff I said about the lines of coke was in reference to this peppermint.”

My best friend pinches the bridge of her nose in annoyance, a sure sign I’m skating on thin ice. “Do you need to go home? Remember who Dev Menon is? A man richer than God Himself. In fact, I’m pretty sure the Big Guy asked him for a loan.”

“Of course, I know who Dev Menon is.” Kind of. I’ve seen him on the cover of business magazines and on a few sidelines of some gossip rags. In each one, he looked like a character from a classic film noir—-tall, dark, and intriguing—with a gaze that could both charm and intimidate. “And I promise, no drugs in this system besides my regular baby blockers and multivitamins.” I pause, remembering one more. “Oh, and migraine meds. I took some right as I felt one coming on this morning, but I’m A-OK now.” I wave a thumb in front of her face with conviction.

She swats my hand. “Did you chase them down with tequila? I swear, you’re acting like a malfunctioning robot.”

“You and your compliments.” I poke my best friend in the arm, making her frown deepen, before I bend to pet Vajayjay. She’s decided to bid me a good morning, coiling around myChuck Taylor-adorned ankle. I direct an equally warm greeting back at her, wiggling the tips of my fingers under her jaw just the way she likes. “Who’s the most beautiful pussy in the land?”

Vajayjay responds with a royal meow to her awarded title before letting me pick her up. She’s one of our trio of resident hairless cats at the salon, and the one who’s taken the most liking to me. The other two—Beaver and Snatch—have found their own favorite human in my best friends.

“Yes, you are,” I coo, scratching her behind her ear before following Nisha down the corridor with my cat in tow. When my best friend turns to look at me over her shoulder with that same concerned look, I wave at her with another yawn. “I’m just a little sleepy, that’s all.”

“Sleepy?” Sarina pokes her head out of her room, her ringlets a stark contrast to that of her twin sister’s sleek mane, despite their shared tan complexion. “You sleep at ten and wake up at seven. I’m pretty sure bears hibernate in shorter intervals.” She scrolls her eyes down my torso, taking in my rainbow-colored cropped top and low-hanging ripped jeans, before landing at my feet. “And what’s with the Coachella cosplay? Did you lose a bet with a hippie or something?”

My other best friend, Sarina Arora, ladies and gentlemen. A fierce single mom, and the reigning champion of brutal honesty, if Sarina has ever minced her words, it was only to season them with sarcasm and sass. She’s also the only twenty-nine-year-old I know who prefers spicy mustard in an unhealthy sort of way. That, and the show,Unsolved Mysteries.

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