I was in a shit mood after a shit night’s sleep.
Both of which I blamed on Naomi “Flowers in her Fucking Hair”
Witt. After spending half the night tossing and turning, I’d woken up for Waylon’s first a.m. bathroom break with a raging hard-on thanks to a dream featuring my new next-door neighbor’s smart mouth sliding down my cock.
The kind of noises that men fantasize about coming out of her throat.
It was the second night of sleep she’d ruined for me, and if I didn’t get my head out of my ass, it wouldn’t be the last.
Beside me in the passenger seat, Waylon expressed his own exhaustion with a loud yawn.
“You and me both, bud,” I said, pulling into a parking space and staring at the storefront.
The color scheme—navy with maroon trim—shouldn’t have worked. It had sounded stupid when Jeremiah suggested it. But somehow it classed up the brick and made Whiskey Clipper stand out on the block.
It was wedged between a tattoo parlor that changed hands more often than poker chips and the neon orange awning of Dino’s Pizza and Subs. They didn’t open until eleven, but I could already smell the garlic and pizza sauce.
Until a few years ago, the barbershop had been a crumbling institution in Knockemout. With a little vision from my partner, Jeremiah, and a lot of capital—from me—we’d managed to drag Whiskey Clipper into the twenty-first century and turn it into a small-town goldmine. Now a trendy salon, the shop didn’t just serve old men born and raised here. It attracted a clientele that was willing to brave the NOVA traffic from as far away as downtown D.C. for the service and the vibe.
On a yawn of my own, I helped my dog out of the truck, and we headed for the front door.
The inside was as eye-catching as the outside. The bones of the space were exposed brick, tin ceiling, and stained concrete. We’d added leather and wood and denim. Next to the industrial-looking reception desk was a bar with glass shelves housing nearly a dozen whiskey bottles. We also served coffee and wine. The walls were decorated with framed black-and-white prints, most highlighting Knockemout’s storied history.
Beyond the leather couches in the reception area, there were four hair stations with large round mirrors. Along the back wall were the restroom, the shampoo sinks, and the dryers.
“Mornin’, boss. You’re here early.” Stasia, short for Anastasia, had Browder Klein’s head in one of the sinks.
I grunted and went straight for the coffee pot next to the whiskey. Waylon climbed up on the couch next to a woman enjoying a coffee and Bailey’s.
Stasia’s teenage son, Ricky, swiveled back and forth rhythmically in the reception chair. Between booking appointments and cashing out clients, he played a stupid-looking game on his phone.
Jeremiah, my business partner and long-time friend, looked up from the temple fade he was doing on a client in a suit and $400 shoes.
“You look like shit,” he observed.
Jeremiah wore his thick, dark hair rebelliously long but kept his face clean-shaven. He had a sleeve tattoo and a Rolex. He got a manicure every two weeks and spent his days off tinkering with the dirt bikes he occasionally raced. He dated both men and women—a fact that his parents were fine with, but which his Lebanese grandmother still prayed over every Sunday at mass.
“Thanks, asshole. Nice to see you too.”
“Sit,” he said, pointing with the clippers at the empty station next to him.
“I don’t have time for your judgmental grooming.” I had shit to do.
Paperwork to be inconvenienced by. Women to not think about.
“And I don’t have time for you to bring down our vibe looking like you couldn’t even be bothered to run a comb and some balm through that beard.”
Defensively, I stroked a hand over my beard. “No one cares what I look like.”
“We care,” the woman with the Bailey’s and coffee called.
“Amen, Louise,” Stasia called back, shooting me one of her Mom Looks.
Browder got to his feet and clapped a hand on my back. “You look tired.
Got some bags under those eyes. Woman trouble?”
“Heard you went a few rounds with Not Tina,” Stasia said innocently as she ushered Browder to her chair. The one thing Stasia and Jeremiah loved more than good hair was good gossip.
Not Tina. Great.
“Name’s Naomi.”
“Oooooooh,” came the obnoxious chorus.
“I hate you guys.”
“No, you don’t,” Jeremiah assured me with a grin as he finished the fade.
“Fuck off.”
“Don’t forget, you’ve got a cut at two and a staff meeting at three,” Stasia called after me.
I swore under my breath and headed to my lair. I handled the business end, so my client roster was smaller than Jeremiah’s or Anastasia’s. I’d have thought that by now most of my clients would have been scared off by my excessive scowling and lack of small talk. But it turned out, some people liked having an asshole cut their hair.
“Going to my office,” I said and heard the thud of Waylon’s body hitting the floor and the tip-tap of his nails on the floor following me.
I’d already owned Honky Tonk when this building went up for sale. I bought it out from under some shiny-loafered developer out of Baltimore who wanted to put in a chain sports bar and a fucking Pilates studio.
Now the building was home to my bar, the barbershop, and three killer apartments on the second floor. One of which was rented by my jackass brother.
I headed past the restroom and the tiny staff kitchen to the door marked Employees Only. Inside was a supply room lined with shelving units and all the shit required to run a successful salon. On the back wall was an unmarked door.
Waylon caught up to me as I fished out my keys. He was the only one allowed in my inner sanctum. I wasn’t one of those “my door is always open”
bosses. If I needed to meet with staff, I used my business manager’s office or the break room.
I headed into the narrow hallway that connected the salon to the bar and punched the code into the keypad on my office door.
Waylon bolted inside the second it opened.
The space was small and utilitarian, with brick walls and exposed ducting in the ceiling. There was a couch, a small fridge, and a desk that held a state-of-the-art computer with two monitors the size of scoreboards.
Over a dozen framed photos on the walls depicted a haphazard collage of my life. There was Waylon as a puppy, tripping over his long ears. Me and Nash. Shirtless, gap-toothed kids on mountain bikes in one. Men on the backs of motorcycles, adventure stretching out before us on the ribbon of open road, in another.
We two became three with the addition of Lucian Rollins. There, on the wall no one else saw, was a photographic time line of us growing up as brothers—bloody noses, long days in the creek, then graduating to cars and girls and football. Bonfires and Friday night football games. Graduations.
Vacations. Ribbon cuttings.
Jesus, we were getting old. Time marched on. And for the first time, I felt a niggle of guilt that Nash and I no longer had each other’s backs.
But it was just another example of how relationships didn’t last forever.
My gaze lingered on one of the smaller frames. The color was duller than the rest. My parents bundled up in a tent. Mom grinning at the camera, pregnant with one of us. Dad looking at her like he’d waited his whole life for her. Both excited for the adventure of a lifetime together.
It wasn’t there for nostalgia. It served as a reminder that no matter how good things were in the moment, they were bound to get worse until that once bright, shiny future was unrecognizable.
Waylon deflated on a sigh, pancaking onto his bed.
“You and me both,” I told him.
I dropped into the chair behind the desk and fired up my computer, ready to rule my empire.
Social media ad campaigns for Whiskey Clipper and Honky Tonk topped my list of things to do today. I’d been avoiding them long enough because they annoyed me. Growth disguised as change was, unfortunately, a necessary evil.
Perversely, I shuffled the ads to the bottom of my stack and tackled the schedule at Honky Tonk for the next two weeks. There was a hole. I rubbed the back of my neck and dialed Fi.
“What’s up, boss?” she asked. Someone grunted obscenely next to her.
“Where are you?”
“Family Jiu-Jitsu. I just threw Roger over my shoulder and he’s looking for his kidneys.”
Fi’s family was a shaken cocktail of weird. But they all seemed to like life better that way.
“My condolences to Roger’s kidneys. Why is there a hole in the server schedule?”
“Chrissie quit last week. Remember?”
I vaguely remembered a server with a face and hair scurrying out of my way every time I stepped out of my office.
“Why’d she quit?”
“You scared the shit out of her. Called her a tray-dropping gold digger and told her to give up on marrying rich because even rich guys want their beers cold.”
It rang a bell. Vaguely.
I grunted. “So who’s replacing her?”
“I already hired a new girl. She starts tonight.”
“Does she have experience or is this another Crystal?”
“Chrissie,” Fi corrected. “And unless you want to start doing your own hiring, I suggest you gracefully back down and tell me I’ve been doing a kick-ass job and you trust my instincts.”
I yanked the phone away from my ear when Fi let out an ear-splitting
“Hi-ya!”
“You’ve been doing a kick-ass job, and I trust your instincts,” I muttered.
“That’s a good boy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to put my son on his ass in front of his crush.”
“Try not to splatter too much blood. It’s a bitch to clean up.”
Waylon let out a snore from the floor. I penciled in “New Girl” on the empty shifts and jumped into some vendor payments and other bullshit paperwork.
Both Whiskey Clipper and Honky Tonk were showing consistent growth.
And two of the three apartments rented for additional income. I was pleased with the numbers. It meant that I’d managed to do the impossible and turn dumb luck into an actual solid future. Between the businesses and my investments, I’d taken a windfall and built upon it.
It was a good feeling even after a sleepless night. With nothing left to do, I reluctantly called up Facebook. Advertising was one kind of evil, but advertising that required you to have a social media presence that opened you up to millions of pain-in-the-ass strangers? That was straight-up bullshit.
I bet Naomi was on Facebook. She probably liked it too.
My fingers casually typed Naomi Witt into the search bar before the sane, rational part of me could hit the brakes.
“Huh.”
Waylon lifted his head quizzically.
“Just checking on our neighbor. Making sure she’s not into Amway sales or running a long con as a pretend twin,” I told him.
Satisfied that I would save him from whatever threats social media held, Waylon fell back to sleep with a rumbling snore.
The woman obviously had never heard of privacy settings. There was a lot of her to get to know on social media. Pictures from work, vacations, family holidays. All without Tina, I noted. She ran 5ks for good causes and raised funds for neighbor’s vet bills. And she lived in a nice-looking house at least twice the size of the cottage.
She went to high school and college reunions and looked damn good doing it.
Throwback pictures proved my theory that she’d been a cheerleader. And someone on the yearbook committee had been a fan since it seemed like her entire senior year had been dedicated to her. I blinked at the handful of pictures of Naomi and Tina. The twin thing was undeniable. So was the fact that, beneath the surface, they were very different women.
I was already invested. There was no pulling me out of the online stalking rabbit hole. Especially not when the only other things I had to do were boring.
So I dug further.
Tina Witt fell off the digital plane of existence after high school graduation. She didn’t smile in her cap and gown. Certainly not next to young, fresh Naomi with her honor cords.
She’d already had an arrest record by then. Yet there was Naomi, an arm around her sister’s waist beaming wide enough for the two of them. I was willing to bet money that she’d done what she could to be the good one. To be the low-maintenance kid. The one who didn’t cause their parents sleepless nights.
I wondered how much living she’d missed out on wasting all that time being good.
I followed the Tina line a little deeper, discovering a trail on Pennsylvania District Magistrate court cases and then again in New Jersey and Maryland.
DUIs, possession, skipping out on rent. She’d done time about twelve years ago. Not much, but enough to have made a point. Enough to have her becoming a mother less than a year later and steering clear of the cops.
I went back to Naomi’s Facebook and stopped on a family picture from her teenage years. Tina scowling, with her arms crossed next to her sister as their parents beamed behind them. I didn’t know what went on behind closed doors. But I did know that sometimes a bad seed was just a bad seed. No matter what field it was planted in, no matter how it was tended, some just came up rotten.
A glance at the clock reminded me I only had a little time before my two o’clock. Which meant I should get back to the ad campaigns.
But unlike Naomi, I didn’t like worrying about what I “should” do. I typed her name into a search engine and had immediate regrets.
Warner Dennison III and Naomi Witt announce their engagement.
This Dennison guy looked like the kind of asshole who hung out on golf courses and always had a story to top everyone else’s. Sure, he was Vice President of Whatever. But it was at a company with his last name on it. I doubted that he’d earned his fancy title. Judging from her face this morning, this Warner suit had never taken a piss in the great outdoors.
Naomi looked heart-stoppingly gorgeous, not to mention happy, in the formal photo. Which for some stupid reason annoyed me. What did I care if she was into men who ironed their pants? My next-door neighbor was no longer any of my damn business. I’d found her and Way a place to stay.
Anything that happened from here on out was her own problem.
I closed out of the window on my screen. Naomi Witt no longer existed to me. I felt good about that.
My phone buzzed on the desk, and Waylon’s head popped up.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“Vernon’s here. Want me to get him started?” Jeremiah offered.
“Get him a whiskey. I’m on my way out.”
“Will do.”
“There he is!” Vernon Quigg called when I returned to the shop. The retired Marine was six feet tall, seventy years old, and the proud owner of an impeccable walrus moustache.
I was the only person allowed near the ’stache with scissors. It was both an honor and an annoyance, seeing as how the man loved nothing more than fresh gossip.
“Afternoon, Vernon,” I said, clipping the cape around his neck.
“Heard about you and Not Tina throwin’ down in Café Rev yesterday,”
he said gleefully. “Sounds like those twins are carbon copies of each other.”
“I heard that she’s the complete opposite of her sister,” Stasia said, plopping down in the empty chair next to my station.
I reached for my comb and gritted my teeth.
“I heard there’s a warrant out for Tina and Not Tina helped her escape,”
said Doris Bacon, owner of Bacon Stables, a farm with a reputation for turning out champion horseflesh.
Fuck me.
