Page 1 of King's Barber
1
Luke “Barber” Booth
I never hidthe fact that I was a King. There was a certain loyalty and pride that came with being one of the brothers, which was why I’d named my shop A Barber for Kings. But honoring the club colors came with the trouble, too. Some guys thought they could shit stir when they came in for a shave or a haircut, as though me having a straight razor in my hand wasn’t dangerous.
The idiot sitting in my chair now was another one of those losers who liked taunting death. He grinned at me through the mirror, his chipped incisor mocking me. He looked like one of those boys pledging a fraternity who thought pissing off a biker would be a good way to prove to his brothers he had balls. As far as I was concerned, it didn’t show anything except he lacked brains.
“Say that again,” I said, low with warning. I gripped the razor tighter and pressed the blade against his neck with just enough pressure to make blood well.
His eyes widened and the smile disappeared, leaving behind a terrified expression. Blood dripped down the dip of his neck onto the collar of his white polo shirt. Probably Ralph Lauren or some shit like that—brand name. This guy seemed like the type to wear something expensive. I bet my ass his parents lived on Vert Island.
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing just above my blade. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….” His voice wobbled and he made a face, lips pulled tightly into his mouth.
Some smart-mouthed bastards pissed themselves at this point. I hoped this one didn’t because I’d just cleaned the brown leather seat.
“You didn’t what? Repeat what you said. Do it.” I dug the blade in deeper, and he gasped, leaning back as far as he could in the chair.
The only other person in the shop was my underling, as I liked calling him, and Oliver was used to this type of thing. He was only seventeen, a wannabe high-school dropout like I’d been, who wanted to pursue being a tattoo artist. His mother wouldn’t let him leave school, though, and I didn’t blame her. Unfortunately for Oli, he had to settle for being my assistant around school hours until he could convince PD, our club artist, to take him on as an apprentice. PD thought he was too young.
“I’m sorry.” There were tears there now, trailing down the idiot’s cheeks as his bottom lip trembled, and he glanced at Oli as though asking for help. Oli leaned back in his chair behind the register and stared at his blunt nails, looking decidedly bored.
“He’s not going to help you,” I whispered close to the guy’s ear, excitement making my skin tingle. I fucking loved this part, when I got them so scared they were about to beg for their mama. “The next time you think about coming into my shop, leave your attitude outside, or I won’t be the only King that’ll fuck you up. Got it?”
The idiot nodded, bottom lip shaking harder.
I smirked and removed my razor, and he stumbled out of the chair, yanking off the cape attached around the bottom of his neck and throwing it to the floor. He didn’t make it to the door before Oli stepped in front of him, clearing his throat.
“Youdidget a haircut.” He crossed his arms, dark eyebrows raised.
The other guy stuttered, reaching inside his pocket to tug out his wallet, which he fumbled with. He dragged out a fifty and threw it at Oli before stumbling his way out to the sidewalk.
I rolled my eyes and huffed out a laugh. “Another one bites the dust.”
Oli pursed his lips at me and bent to scoop up the cash, waving it in my direction. “What a nice tip he left you. Are you going to share it?”
I pointed at him. “Don’t push your luck, kid. Come clean my razor.”
He snorted and stalked his way back around the register, jerking the drawer open to throw the bill in before he stormed toward me. His cheeks flamed red and he snatched the razor from me with a glare, making his tight brown curls bounce against his forehead.
“I’m not your slave,” he grumbled, the freckles on his cheeks disappearing under a rosy flush. He was an adorable kid, and at one point I’d been tempted to set him up with my cousin Sophie, at least until I saw him checking out Hound when he’d come in for a good shave. Sometimes it felt like the Kings attracted men who preferred their own gender, which I usually didn’t complain about. Oli, though, was underage and not my type. I preferred slim hairstylists who drove me crazy.
The thought of Quain made my mouth twist in disdain. The prissy hairstylist had been a thorn in my side since the moment he set up shop next door, and while I wanted nothing more than to slit his throat, I also wanted to fuck his pretty mouth, which made everything a lot more frustrating. I’d learned that when I thought about the devil, though, he appeared, and today was no different.
The door to my shop flung open, the bell tinkling as Quain stepped over the threshold and glanced around the room.
I sighed, leaning against the chair I’d had the idiot in, and smiled too politely at him. “Quain, what a pleasure as always. How can I help you on this warm, sunny day?”
Oli glanced from me to Quain and made his retreat to the back, past a red curtain to the little area I called the staff room. It had a sink where he could clean the razor before putting it in the autoclave to be sterilized without Quain seeing it.
“One of your clients ran out of here bleeding from the neck. I was going to offer him a free cut for your obvious lack of skills, but I couldn’t catch him.” He crossed his arms, lips pursed as he stared around the shop with distaste. I still had the same metal music on that he hated, but much to my annoyance, I’d had to lower the volume so as not toannoy Quain’s clients. It didn’t matter to our landlord that I’d been here first and paid on time, every time. What this prissy bitch wanted, he went after until he got, or at least that’s what I’d found with him. He knew how to pull strings and that irritated me beyond words.
King wouldn’t even let me kill him.
“How thoughtful of you, but I can take care of my own customers.” I stepped forward. Usually people retreated if I gave them the very look I was giving Quain now, but he didn’t move, merely raised himself to his full height and pulled back his shoulders as though he was facing off with me. That was the other thing I hated—he wasn’t scared.
“Clearly you can’t, if they leave here bleeding, Mr. Booth.”
“It’s Barber.”
