to have a broken nail fixed—Caitlyn didn’t know if she’d cracked it herself or if it had been an accident…probably the former—a haircut, highlights, a deep conditioning treatment, and another haircut. Then another manicure and pedicure. It was springtime now, and Caitlyn couldn’t help wondering how the powers that be decided Sara would pretend to be a customer that week. Acne attack? More broken nails? Foot fungus? Bikini wax? It would have been funny if it weren’t so damn annoying.
She hadn’t heard from O.S.F. or the Boss since she’d un-virgined (de-virgined?) Terry, a blessing for which she gave thanks daily. She supposed she should be waiting for the other shoe to drop, but she was too busy pretending everything was back to normal. It was much easier to pull that off when she didn’t have to deal with, speak to, or look at the Boss.
Sara the spy was chatting with Dara—Sara and Dara…how too fucking cute—about a new look. Since she’d had four new looks in as many weeks, Dara had told Caitlyn in privacy that she assumed her new client was either a) incredibly lonely, or b) incredibly insecure.
“She’s new in town,” Dara had said, “so I’m betting it’s the first one.”
“I’m betting it’s neither,” Caitlyn had replied, but refused to be drawn into a pleasurable gossip on the subject.
She certainly didn’t look like a spy, Caitlyn thought, grabbing the mail from Jenny and walking over to her station. Sara was teeny and cute, especially now that Mag’s professionals had had their way with her. She was still a brunette, but now her hair was streaked with gold. Her lashes were professionally curled, and her eyes, deep and dark, looked out at the world from beneath professionally plucked brows.
Her pulse and blood pressure no longer skyrocketed whenever Caitlyn walked into the room. She was obviously getting used to these weekly “go-sees,” in model parlance.
What a job, Caitlyn thought, not without a twinge of envy. Go to a salon once a week and keep an eye on the local freak. While you’re at it, get your roots done. To think, her tax money paid this woman!
The money. The money…Caitlyn tried not to think about the money, but it was difficult. About six days after she’d returned from “neutralizing” Terry, a government check for $16,326.91 had shown up. They had, of course, taken out state and federal taxes, FICA, and something called a CIAA, but there was still plenty left over.
And that was half of her check. The Boss had docked her.
She had banked the check—hell, she’d earned it, hadn’t she?—and tried very hard to forget that if she just did four or five favors a year for the Boss, she could live very comfortably. It was stupid, because money had never been important to her. Heck, she’d given almost all of hers away, hadn’t she? Her dad had held the money over her head so many times, she lost count, and couldn’t get rid of it fast enough after the funerals. So she needn’t—
Jenny hurried over with a pink message slip, breaking Caitlyn’s train of thought. Thank goodness! Worrying about a spy spying on her she completely did not need, as the tiny wrinkles around her eyes would no doubt attest.
“Barb called, says it’s an emergency. Home perm,” Jenny added in a near whisper. “She’s in bad shape. Can you squeeze her in?”
Caitlyn nearly gasped. The horror, the horror! “Sure I can. Poor thing. Tell her to come right over. And what was she thinking?”
“She let her niece do it for practice,” Jenny said over her shoulder. “I guess she didn’t think it’d go so bad. Teach her to be nice.”
“Boy, no kidding. Agh!” She looked up from brushing off her chair to see Sara standing in front of her. “What do you want?”
“The Boss wants to see you,” Sara said pleasantly. She smoothed the navy blue smock—every other salon in town did black smocks, so eighties—which came down to her knees. “Right away.”
“Tell him tough noogies. I’ve got an emergency.”
“You have to cut hair,” Sara sniffed.
“Yeah, well, one woman’s emergency is another woman’s something-or-other.”
“I don’t think you’re hearing me. The Boss wants to see you now.”
“And I don’t think you’re hearing me, Sara, if that is your real name, which I totally doubt: if you don’t get your spying ass out of my face, I’m going to rip your arms off.”
Sara backed up. “I don’t think—”
“Good-bye.”
“—but—”
Caitlyn turned her back on the smaller woman. The Boss wanted to see her now? Tough luck. She had work to do. She had hair, not to mention that most precious of commodities, a woman’s self-esteem, to save.
Chapter 12
“I sent for you thirty-eight hours ago,” the Boss said. Frothed, actually. He’d been drinking a latte, and foam was sticking to his upper lip. It made him look rabid, which was not an entirely unrealistic image. “What the hell took you so long?”
“I had a hair emergency, then I had to finish my shift, then I had a party.”
“You had a what?”
“Which word,” Caitlyn asked slowly and carefully, “do you need me to define?”
“Party?”
“Why am I not surprised it’s that word. Okay. A party, noun, is a gathering of friends…um. Friend. Okay, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. A friend is a—”
“You went to a party? The hair thing I almost get—you’re a small-business owner, you have to please your customers—but a party?”
“It was an important party,” she said defensively. “Stacy got her real estate license.” Ah, and the beer had flowed, as they said in Dumb and Dumber, like wine.
She herself found that she could no longer get drunk—the nanobytes in her system neutralized alcohol like it would any foreign body. Stupid nanobytes! But it had been fun to watch everyone else get silly. One thing about being a cybernetic organism: she was always the designated driver.
She had a sudden vision of herself at age ninety, working her walker and jingling her keys enticingly. “I couldn’t not go. Besides, you’re not supposed to send for me. We’re done, remember?”
“Should have gotten it in writing,” the Boss said rudely. “I need you to take care of something for me.”
“If it’s your nail beds, them I’m your girl. Otherwise, tough shit.”
“Never mind my nail beds,” he snapped, peeking at his fingers.
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