Lust, Loathing and a Little Lip Gloss Read online

  As we entered, Jason’s eyes flitted from the art deco painting on the wall to the chic reception desk while I tried to read his face for some hint of what was going on. If Jason didn’t want to get his hair cut in an expensive salon, why were we here? And why today?

  The woman at the front desk had hair the color of an autumn leaf with copper highlights expertly woven into her locks. She smiled politely at both of us, but before she could open her mouth Marcus appeared behind her. His perfect mocha skin seemed to project a natural glow, although my money was on bare Minerals powder foundation.

  “The name of the Starbucks?” he asked while carefully rolling up the sleeves of his cotton shirt, which was just sheer enough to draw your attention to the well-cared-for torso it covered.

  “After you cut his hair,” I said coolly.

  Marcus rolled his eyes. “God, I’m such a whore. How many mimosas do we need?”

  I held up two fingers and Marcus imitated the gesture for the benefit and instruction of the receptionist before leading us forward.

  We entered the main room, which was much more expansive than the greeting area. Men and women, all managing to be hip without following any particular trend, snipped away with their scissors as their clients’ tresses floated to the bamboo floor beneath their feet. Marcus gestured to his station and Jason awkwardly climbed into his chair just as the receptionist appeared to serve us our drinks. By the time she was in retreat, Marcus was already playing with Jason’s hair and studying his face in the mirror.

  “You do have fabulous bone structure,” he said to Jason. “If we go short we can do a bit of a George Clooney thing.”

  “Not short,” Jason said quickly. “Do you remember how my hair looked last time you saw me?”

  “Vaguely,” Marcus said with an expression that said no.

  “I want it to look exactly like that. And I want to get rid of the gray.”

  “Gray?” Marcus repeated. He began to pick through Jason’s hair with the meticulous and somewhat appalled manner parents employ while checking their child’s head for lice. “Honey, you’ve got maybe five or six white strands. That doesn’t exactly make you Anderson Cooper.”

  “Then just dye the five or six strands,” Jason said desperately.

  He fumbled in the pockets of his leather jacket until he found his wallet and pulled out a picture. Marcus and I both leaned over to better examine it. It had been taken in front of Fog City Diner and Jason had his arm wrapped around Dena’s waist as she toyed with his hair. “I want that haircut again,” Jason said firmly. “I know the picture doesn’t really show the cut well but I was hoping it would jog your memory.”

  “It’s rare that someone comes in saying they actually want hair that is so three years ago,” Marcus said, leaning in a bit closer. “What else do you want back from that year? The fashion, the music, the girlfriend perhaps?”

  Jason flushed.

  “Oh my God,” I exclaimed. “Is that what this is about?

  You’re trying to look the way you did back when Dena had a thing for you? You’re planning on making a move on her again?”

  “I don’t make moves,” Jason corrected. “I connect with people and Dena and I were connected.”

  “Yes,” Marcus agreed, “but then she hung up. Poof!” He made a grand gesture with his hands. “Connection gone.”

  “But not forever. I don’t think it has to be gone forever.”

  Across the room a woman broke into peals of laughter, her voice carrying over the sounds of Death Cab for Cutie. I looked down at Jason and found myself oddly touched by the wistful ness of his expression, but the sad truth was that Dena rarely ate her own leftovers.

  “Nothing’s impossible,” I said carefully. “She could decide to give it another go. But you could also move on to someone else. Someone who doesn’t think monogamy is a social anxiety disorder.”

  “Dena doesn’t believe in commitments,” Jason acknowledged, “but there are some forces that are stronger than our most dearly held convictions. I think the connection that Dena and I share could be that kind of force.”

  Marcus chuckled and shook his head, causing all his short, neatly groomed locks to wag from side to side. “Okay, Obi-Wan, I’ll recreate the old look for you and I’ll make you fabulous.” He wrapped a towel around Jason’s neck and then a dark apron. “But don’t expect it to help you on this quest of yours. I’m an artist, not a magician.”

  He turned to me. “I’m going to take him over to shampoo and condition. Find yourself a stool and we’ll be back in a snap.”

  I nodded and went off to search for a stool while Marcus and Jason moved toward the sinks in the opposite direction. By the time we were all back at Marcus’s station I was comfortably seated and Jason had a towel wrapped around his head and looked a bit like an Arab sheikh…wearing an apron.

  “Just so you know,” Jason said as Marcus removed the towel and began to snip, “you didn’t have to do this.”

  Marcus stopped cutting and made eye contact with him through the mirror. “From what I understand we absolutely did have to do this. That’s why I came in early despite the Bravo Project Runway marathon.”

  “It does mean a lot to me,” Jason said quickly. “I needed this for confidence, you know, it’s like Sampson and Delilah—I need hair that will give me strength.”

  “If Dena is Delilah, you’ve got trouble,” Marcus muttered, but resumed cutting.

  “What I’m saying is that if you absolutely weren’t able to fit me in today then I still would have told Sophie about Venus.” He turned his focus back on me. “You need to know about her.”

  “What exactly do I need to know?”

  “She practices voodoo.”

  Marcus stopped cutting again. “Are you saying that somewhere out there there’s a little Sophie doll getting acupuncture?”

  “I don’t know…. Sophie, have you had any odd pains lately? They would be sharp and sudden.”

  “Wait, you don’t actually believe in this?” I asked.

  “Look, when I met Scott and Venus last year things were tense. Scott was screwing some mortgage broker…well, that was my take on it. According to Scott—”

  “According to Scott they were just affectionate friends. Very affectionate.” I finished for him. “I’ve heard that one before. So why didn’t Venus leave Scott?”

  “Venus doesn’t always have an easy time of it when it comes to finding and keeping men,” Jason said. “Maybe she’s desperate. Or maybe she just seriously digs on Scott. That guy doesn’t just kiss her ass, he uses tongue.”

  “Oh, okay, that was not a visual that I needed to have,” Marcus groaned.

  “So Venus didn’t leave him,” I said, getting us back on track. “What did she do?”

  “She went to a fucking voodoo priestess. It was some seriously sketchy shit.”

  I shook my head. “If by sketchy you mean patently ridiculous then, yeah, sketchy.”

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss it,” Jason warned. “If I were you I’d be getting myself a gris-gris about now.”

  “A gris-gris?” Marcus asked. “That sounds rather wicked, do tell more.”

  “It’s kind of like a protective amulet,” Jason explained. “It’s a small cloth bag you wear around your neck containing stuff like herbs, oils and pieces of cloth soaked with perspiration. It really works.” He paused before adding, “It doesn’t always smell so good though.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” I said, finishing off the last of my mimosa. “Besides, I don’t think Venus is commissioning any dolls in my likeness right now. Her strategy seems to be to convince me that my house is haunted so I’ll get the hell out of Dodge.”

  Jason looked at me blankly for a moment and then broke into a full, rich laugh, loud enough to make the clients in the nearby station briefly look our way before their respective hairdressers yanked their heads back in place. “She’s telling you your house is haunted?” Jason said when he was finally able to speak again. �
�What kind of moron would believe anything that far-fetched?”

  I stared at him for half a beat. “Gee, I don’t know, Jason. Maybe the kind of moron who believes in vampires and the power of the gris-gris.”

  “That’s different,” he said, still chuckling. “Vampires and voodoo makes sense. Haunted houses don’t.”

  “Wow, I am getting such an education,” Marcus said. “Can we talk about unicorns next? There’s something about the symbolism of a big stallion with a long, hard horn on its head that appeals to me.”

  “I’m serious,” Jason said. “See, voodoo is a West African religion brought over by the slaves. It began with the Yoruba people. They were more in touch with spirituality and the force of nature than any of us puritanical white-breads will ever be. Stories of vampires can also be traced to Africa and countries all over the globe.”

  “And you’re going to tell me that stories of ghosts don’t have long-standing international appeal?” I asked. “Because if so I suggest you start watching the late-night programming on the History Channel.”

  “No, sightings of ghosts have been reported all over the world. But stories of buildings that are haunted are a Western phenomenon. It all comes back to our inflated sense of materialism. We actually believe that those who travel to the next world can’t shed their attachment to a man-made commodity. It’s stupid.”

  “Totally silly,” Marcus agreed, shooting me an oh-my-God-can-you-believe-this-guy look.

  “The only bond that cannot be broken by death is love and loathing,” he explained. “Love for your soul mate, a child, a sibling, even a best friend. That kind of bond can extend into the next world. A spirit might choose to hang out on earth for something like that, but a piece of architecture designed by some sellout hack?” He shook his head emphatically. “Not likely.”

  I was more than a little peeved by the implication that my house was designed by a hack, but considering where the criticism was coming from it seemed wise not to take it too seriously. “What about the hate part?” I asked. “You said that spirits might hang out for that, too.”

  “Nah, I said they might stay because they loathe someone. For a spirit to actually resist the draw of the next world it has to have a connection to someone on earth that is a lot stronger than the hate you might feel for some politico who wants to raise your taxes. A spirit has to be so repulsed by you, so offended by your very existence that it can’t rest until it completely destroys you.”

  “Wow. That’s comforting.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. From what I understand, the only people who truly loathe you are still alive.”

  Marcus bit back a laugh.

  “Okay, okay,” I said irritably. “Truth is, I’m not at all convinced that Venus believes in haunted houses, either. But she definitely wants me to believe in them. That’s the issue here and I think she might have actually broken into my house and staged a haunting in order to turn me into a believer.”

  “I can’t believe she broke into your house,” Marcus said. “That’s so 2005.”

  “I know, how messed up is that?” I asked as the music switched from Death Cab to Flobots. “So you tell me, Jason, is this woman dangerous?”

  Jason didn’t say anything. His eyes were wide and he was staring at an image in the mirror. Both Marcus and I followed his gaze. A few steps out of the reception area on the salon floor was Dena with Marcus’s 1:00 p.m.—Kim, the tall Eurasian busser from MarketBar Café. This time he was wearing a denim jacket and his hair was slicked back in a way that could have looked greasy, but on him was oddly dashing.

  “Wow,” I murmured. “That is so not Kendra.”

  11

  They say you have to be cruel to be kind. I’m going to be so kind to my ex he won’t know what hit him.

  —The Lighter Side of Death

  ALTHOUGH I COULD TELL THAT DENA WAS LOOKING AT US, I COULDN’T actually see her eyes very well from her position across the room. But I could feel them. I could feel the questions they posed and the uncertainty…particularly the uncertainty. That was an emotion Dena rarely indulged in. She stood still by Kim’s side as he blithely took in his surroundings. She said something to him and then, while he stayed where he was, she marched toward us. Up until that point, the cheerful chitchat of the other clients around us, the occasional ringing of cell phones, the sound of the hair dryers and water running from the sinks, had all blended together into a pleasant humming background noise in which no individual sound was clearly discernable from the other. But now the resonance of Dena’s stiletto heels moving toward me was as clear and distinguishable as the scream of a smoke alarm. In seconds she was standing by my stool.

  Marcus, the only one of us who didn’t seem the least perturbed, offered Dena a bemused smile. “Hi, honey, how—”

  “Explain,” she said. Not a complete sentence, but clear enough in its meaning, particularly since she wasn’t looking at Marcus or Jason, just me.

  “Jason is in the Specter Society, so we kinda reconnected,” I said meekly. “He asked if I could get him in for a haircut.”

  “Style,” Marcus corrected. “He came in for a little of my style.”

  “Marcus mentioned that a friend of yours would be coming in after us,” I continued, “but I didn’t think you would be coming, too, and I didn’t think your friend would be…well, I just didn’t think period, did I?”

  “No, you sure as hell didn’t,” Dena snapped.

  “Hi, Dena!” Jason swatted Marcus’s hands away and got to his feet. It’s amazing how quickly he could shift from vampire to puppy. “It’s been eons. I didn’t know you would be here!” He stopped short and then his smile widened even more. “We got those earrings on University Avenue! I was actually with you when you picked them out. Remember, we were going to see that indie band playing at Cal and—”

  “Jason,” she said, completely cutting him off, “you know I’m not fond of memory lane. I’m more of a Tomorrowland chick.”

  Marcus let out a low whistle and I winced on Jason’s behalf. I knew that if I were to confront her about her rudeness she would tell me that Jason was clearly not over her and that he was the kind of guy who could (and would) misinterpret even the smallest civility. Dena’s belief was that it was kinder to be brutal than misleading.

  “Dena,” Jason whispered, clearly unsettled, “you just used a Disneyland metaphor.”

  Marcus burst out laughing and Dena’s mouth dropped open slightly. Then she shook her head in utter frustration. “Shit, this is what happens when I’m totally unprepared for something.”

  Jason tried to smile, but it was shaky. He made a small gesture in Kim’s direction. “A friend?”

  Dena looked over her shoulder and sighed. “He’s my tomorrow,” she said in an apologetic voice. “Probably not my next week, but who can think that far ahead, right?”

  Amazingly, Jason seemed to see that as a sign of encouragement. He lifted his chin ever so slightly and sat back in his chair. “Introduce me,” he instructed.

  Dena did a quick double take. “You’re not going to try to challenge him to a cockfight or something, right?”

  “Dena,” Jason said solemnly, “my cock is for love, not war.”

  Dena chuckled despite herself, but still I doubt she would have introduced Kim if he hadn’t walked over on his own. He smiled and extended his hand to me. “Hey, how you doing…um…”

  “Sophie,” I reminded him. “And this is Marcus and Jason.”

  “I’m a friend of Dena’s,” Jason said. The fluorescent lights reflected off his upturned face.

  “Great!” Kim looked to Marcus. “Are we too early?”

  “I’ll be done in ten,” Marcus answered. “Fifteen tops. Why don’t you two lovelies get something to drink from the receptionist while you wait. I think she may have put together an hors d’oeuvre plate, as well.”

  “Dena, remember the time you used my bare stomach for a plate?” Jason interjected, while looking at Kim. “I still rememb
er how cold that ice cream felt. I don’t think I would have been able to deal if you hadn’t licked it off as quickly as you did.”

  I stared down into my empty champagne glass and tried to wish it full. But Kim seemed inexplicably cheery.

  “You, too?” he asked Jason eagerly. “She used sorbet with me, I really thought I was going to end up with frostbite! Hey, I want to let you know that I’m not weird about meeting Dena’s exes. Dena’s told me about how she likes to stay on good terms with the guys she’s gone out with, and I think that’s totally cool.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him as he planted a kiss on the top of her head. “You really are awesome, you know that?”

  Mimosas weren’t going to be enough. Clearly it was time for shots.

  “Good terms?” Jason said in a low growl. “I haven’t even gotten a phone call!”

  Kim dropped his arm. “Oh, hey…I didn’t mean…I just thought…well, you know how Dena always talks so casually about her sexual experiences…I thought maybe this was just friendly banter, but I didn’t mean to start anything or…”

  “Damn it, Dena,” Jason went on, completely ignoring Kim. “I knew you’d be screwing guys after me, but how could you cover another man’s stomach with ice cream? That was our thing!”

  “I switched it to sorbet!” Dena pointed out.

  “So you cut the fat!” Jason shot back. “That’s all I ever was to you, huh? The fat that you can casually discard! Remember, Dena, the fat may not be good for you, but it makes everything taste a lot better! There are a lot of women out there who would love to lick my fat!”

  Marcus’s comb barely made a noise as he dropped it to the floor, but his suppressed gag was clearly audible.

  “Okay, I’m done,” I said as I got to my feet. “Jason, thanks for all the info on the ghosts and voodoo stuff. I’ll pay the receptionist on the way out.”

  “Sophie,” Marcus said in a warning voice.

  “Laurel Village,” I said quickly. “That’s the Starbucks, right on the corner of California and Laurel.”