“I don’t give a fuck what your clients do,” Tripp says, cutting him off. “Get out.”
I heave a sigh, leaning against my jewelry display case with my arms crossed over my chest as I watch ink and machines get tossed into an empty file box. None of it is neatly or carefully placed, and I’m almost certain that Tripp is actively trying tobreak the guy’s stuff as he drops it inside; and I don’t really feel all that bad about it.
“He’s so worried about you looking athim, you should fuck his dad instead,” Tripp teases, heading back toward his station for a pack of cigarettes as the two of us are left alone. “Look, I get that you don’t like to cause problems, but it’s okay to break a bigot’s nose every once in a while.”
“I think you’ve probably got that part covered for me,” I laugh.
“Someonehas to,” he grumbles, arching a brow in my direction.
I wave him off as he steps outside for a cigarette. It’s his third smoke break of the day, and judging by how long he’s out there, I’m willing to bet that it isn’t just one cigarette that he goes through.
When he steps back into the building, I lean against the back of my rolling chair, crossing my arms over my chest with an arch in my brow.
“You know you’d save somewhere around four grand a year if you quit, right?” I taunt.
“I’m gonna start having an extra one every time you or my brother make a comment about it,” he counters. With a precise aim, he shoots the emptied pack into a garbage can as if he’s throwing a basketball into a hoop. “Jules cleaning you up tonight?”
“Yeah,” I nod, “I’ll walk over with Koda.”
“Cat’s gonna kick the shit out of him.”
“Exposure therapy,” I say with a shrug.
I don’t mind the walk from my house to Tripp’s. It’s longer than I would usually be willing to walk most places, but on days that I can’t make it to the gym – or on days I’ve been slacking on going – it helps me get my steps in, and the exercise is great for Koda.
It’s breezy and clear out tonight, so he spends much of our walk chasing a handful of butterflies, at least two of which, I’m pretty certain he eats mid-flight.
Tripp and Julia live on a street of identical-looking townhouses. This isn’t an area where I’d expect to see anyone under forty, or who didn’t hold crafting circles of some kind on the weekends. It kind of reminds me of one of those retirement communities.
Despite all of the sameness of the neighborhood, Koda whines and jumps up and down as we near the walkway to the house. As I knock on the door and Jules opens it, though, he cowers behind me with a yelp as Drumstick hisses at him, pulling his back up into a sharp arch.
All one hundred and fifteen pounds of my dog are terrified of an eight-pound chicken breast.
“My poor baby,” Julia coos at him as she rubs his ears. “Come with me, let’s get you a treat.”
Koda’s ears perk up at that, and he quickly trots behind her into the kitchen, because the only word that he’s managed to pick up on so far is the word ‘treat.’ Telling him to sit may as well be telling him to solve a quadratic equation.
A chair is set up near the center of the living room, just off of the coffee table. The table itself is lined with clippers, shears, capes, and other tools that I can’t recognize. My regular barber never had them.
After a quick hello and short conversation, I grab a beer and settle into the chair, and Jules gets to work wetting my hair with a fine mist so she can give it a trim. It doesn’t take any more than fifteen minutes for her to get me cleaned up and start drying my hair, pulling her fingers through it to give it some shape.
“Okay, you’re finally handsome again,” she teases, dusting off the back of my neck with a soft brush. “Make room for my boy.”
Combing my fingers through my hair, and earning a smack to the back of my head in the process, I stand and make my way to the couch. Tripp takes the chair at the center of the room, and Jules throws the cape around his chest.
With the same bottle that she used for me, she mists his hair until it’s wet, using a small comb to brush back his typically-shaggy hair.
“You should wear it like that, slicked back,” I tell him, using my chin to gesture toward him. “It looks nice.”
“I look like a mobster,” he argues.
I reach toward the table to get a peanut butter cup from their treat dish and toss it into my mouth.
“You don’t lookthatmuch like your dad.”
“I saidmobster,” he says, holding back a laugh.
“I think it makes you look very handsome,” Julia tells him with a soft smile. “With your natural color, you’d be like a young James Dean.”
