Page 48 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

I pass a hot dog vendor and my stomach growls, reminding me I skipped breakfast again. Food can wait. I've got somethingimportant to do. Something I'm actively dreading: getting a haircut.

Apparently, I'm five and scissors are scary.

There's a reason for this madness, though.

Londyn.

I think of her pleased look when she thought I'd broken her date's finger. Most clients want their security to be invisible and handle threats without making a scene. Not Londyn. She wants fingers broken. Scenes made. Explicit damage done to anyone who crosses her boundaries.

She has a little dark side, and I'm digging it.

Still, the fear in her eyes that night keeps replaying in my head. She looked at me like I was the scumbag, and even though she explained her reaction, I don't like how that memory makes me feel. It's like I'm carrying around a boulder that shifts position every time I breathe.

I need to relieve the pressure, and it all starts with a haircut.

A businessman barrels into my shoulder without even glancing back. I let it go, even though the combat-trained part of me reviews exactly how to put him on the ground in three moves. New York has its own rules of engagement, and apparently, 'excuse me' isn't in the playbook.

The interruption doesn't distract me long; my thoughts shift back toher. She's fucking courageous, and it has nothing to do with physical confrontation and everything to do with facing your own mind when it's turned against you. I've seen hardened Marines break under the strain of their traumas. Whatever happened to her, Londyn's still standing, still functioning, still trying to live her life.

She's strong.

I've always had a thing for strong women.

Plus, she has excellent taste in books. That won me over from the start. The quantum consciousness book she picked is dense as hell, but fascinating. It's exactly the kind of mind-bending shit I gravitate toward when my own thoughts get too loud.

"She's a client,"Mike's voice echoes in my head for the hundredth time.

"I know," I mutter to myself, earning a side-eye from a woman walking her dog.

I fuckingknow.

But I'm a person just like any other, and I have feelings and attractions that are beyond my control. All I can do is controlhowI react, what actions I take, even though I can't deny that this job is becoming more than just work. It's more than a favor or a twisted form of atonement. I'm starting to care, and not just about keeping her safe, but about how she sees me.

I care abouther.

Up ahead, the salon finally comes into view. I slow my pace. I've never actually set foot in a proper hair salon. It was either military regulation cuts or DIY with whatever scissors I could find in my kitchen.

This might be the most intimidating thing I've ever done. And I once had to walk through a minefield at night, hoping I didn't accidentally trigger an explosion that would rip off my limbs.

After entering and getting smacked in the face by the smell of bleach and hairspray, I check in with a woman at the front desk. The waiting area smells like chemical fruit or whatever that artificial scent is they put in hair products to make them seem 'tropical.'

"Sean?"

I glance up to see a guy with leopard-print hair—actually leopard-print, yellow with black spots—smiling at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen all day. He can't be older than twenty-three, with arms covered in colorful tattoos and more piercings than I can count without staring.

"That's me," I say, standing.

He waves. "I'm Rich. Come on back."

I follow him past a row of styling stations to a chair at the very end, which I appreciate. At least my inevitable awkwardness won't be on display for everyone who walks in.

"First time here?" Rich asks as I lower myself into the chair.

"First time anywhere," I admit. "I usually just handle it myself."

Rich's eyes widen in the mirror. "You cut this yourself? Not bad, actually." The slight tilt of his head says he's going over ways he could improve it while also being impressed I didn't butcher myself.

He runs his fingers through my hair, fluffing it out. It's grown long since the last time I cut it, the bangs now past my chin. I've been slicking it back everyday, which probably makes the resemblance to Alan—whoever the fuck he is—even stronger.

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