One Night Only: Erotic Encounters by Blue Violet

Author:Blue, Violet [Blue, Violet]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781573447751
Publisher: Cleis Press Start
Published: 2012-01-17T05:00:00+00:00

April Harriman, MD Neurosurgery

566 Park Avenue, Suite 105

New York, NY

JUST A LITTLE TRIM

Kristina Wright

You have a new client, girl,” Gil whispered in my ear. “And this boy is smokin’ hot.”

I dropped my bag at my station and glanced at my pink appointment sheet. “Harold Gruber? Not a hot name.”

Gil looked at himself in my mirror and preened, running a comb through his jet-black pompadour. On anyone else, it would have looked dumb. On Gil, it was snazzy. I saw that he’d added a streak of white blond on one side, giving him a kind of’80s rockabilly look. I nodded in approval.

“Trust me, Lulu. Mr. Gruber is going to rock your little socks,” he said, gesturing at my white anklets inside four-inch black stilettos. “And if he leaned my way, I’d be stealing him out from under you.”

“Hmm.” I glanced at the clock. “Well, I’m ten minutes late and Mr. Gruber is going to walk out the door if I don’t get him in my chair.”

I did my own once-over in the mirror. It’s a hazard of being in the beauty business that I get carried away trying to look the part. I was wearing my kinky schoolgirl outfit today—sheer white blouse with a red lace bra underneath, short black skirt, fishnets, white ankle socks and black pumps. My hair—a custom mixed shade of red with a ribbon of dark purple—hung in two long braids, framing my breasts. Okay, so may be I looked more like a call girl fulfilling a businessman’s afternoon fantasy instead of the top stylist at Shockwave Salon, but believe me when I say I blended in.

I walked out to the reception area, the sound of my heels clicking across the tile floor barely audible over the hum of hair dryers, and struck a pose. “Mr. Gruber?”

Whatever I had expected—and I will admit I expected a sweater vest, corduroy trousers and orthopedic shoes—Harold Gruber was decidedly not it. This six-foot-something, dark-haired, masculine beauty rose from a chair and walked toward me. The three remaining clients—two women and one college-aged skater boy, stared.

“I’m Hank,” said the object of all my future wet dreams.

I licked my bottom lip, coated in a thick, glossy layer of Fuck Me Red, and smiled. “Well, Hank, I’m Lulu, your stylist today.”

As he followed me to my station, I heard him mutter, “You can be my stylist any day of the week.”

That gave me back my confidence and I threw a little extra sway in my sashay.

The theme of the Shockwave Salon is retro punk, with lots of black and pink and silver. The chairs are black leather and each station is a three-sided mirrored stall. Clients don’t like to be stared at when they’re sitting in a stylist’s chair, so the reception area is separated from the salon by a wall of beveled glass. It’s kind of a neat setup, really. There’s an intimacy to being a stylist—it’s like being a masseuse or therapist—and Norma, the owner of Shockwave, was smart to play on that.

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