Page 46 of Even in the Dark

“So?” I lean forward, holding my hand out for the scissors.

He’s still deliberating.

“This isn’t some big life or death decision,” I push. “Go get a chair and I’ll fix this hair carnage.”

He studies me for another stretched out minute. Pokes at his lip ring. Then turns and brushes past me into his bedroom to grab the desk chair, tracking tufts of wispy blond locks across the carpet.

He comes back and sets it down on the tiles, then stands there, eyeing me again. This guy is so suspicious of everything.

“Sit.” I push down on his shoulder. A jolt of heat rushes to my cheeks at the feel of his bare skin beneath my palm.

He sits.

I run my fingers through his hair a few times, trying to figure out how I’m going to approach this, now that I’ve committed—no clue where to even begin. It’s soft… silky. And suddenly the act feels intimate somehow. I quickly lift my hands, but he’s already leaning away from me.

“Can you just cut it?” he bites through gritted teeth.

“Relax,” I huff. “I’m assessing.”

“Fucking cut it or don’t.”

“Take a breath… My God.”

He pushes up from his seat. “Forget it. I’ll—”

“Wait!” I hold my arms up, palms out. “Sorry… I’ll start cutting. No more assessing.”

He hesitates, frozen mid-crouch, halfway to standing. I ease him gently back onto the seat with just the tips of my fingers this time. I don’t linger. But he still flinches away from my touch.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what? Touching you?”

“Yeah.”

Does he think I’m coming on to him or something? It was three fingers on his shoulder. For maybe two seconds.

“Just—can you make it fast?”

“You’re awful demanding for someone who’s asking for a free haircut.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Kidding.” I roll my eyes. “Geez. I’ll be fast.”

True to my word, I’m done in about ten minutes. And not to brag, but it turns out I’m a natural. Of course, Dylan’s got the kind of thick, wavy hair that’s pretty forgiving. Not the wayhewas cutting it, obviously—but the job I’ve done, natural and less chunky, it looks really good. The back almost brushes his shoulders, still the same surfer vibes, only more like prep-school surfer than grunge-surfer. At least he’ll fit in better at school. Sort of. He’s still the kind of beautiful that’ll make him stand out wherever he goes.

“Wait…” Something suddenly occurs to me. “You’re not going to get in trouble, are you? With Volt?”

Dylan looks confused. “Huh?”

“You didn’t sign a contract or something saying you’re not allowed to cut your hair?”

“Not sure.” He shrugs. “What the hell are they gonna do about it? Can’t make it grow back any faster now.”

I guess if he doesn’t even know how much he got paid to do that whole campaign, I shouldn’t be surprised he’s so un-bothered by the possibility of breaching his contract. Besides, I guess chopping off his hair can’t be any worse for his modeling career than the hundred-and-one ways he seems to find to mar his body.

“Anyway, it looks good,” I say, stepping back and admiring my handiwork. Really, though, I’m hoping it will prompt him to thank me, or at least admit he likes it. Say something nice to me for once. But he just glances up briefly at the mirror, gives his head a couple of shakes, brushing off the stray bits of hair, and stands. No reaction whatsoever. He could hate it, for all I know. I don’t think he even cares.

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