She opened her eyes to find herself staring straight into Ariel’s armpit. Hmm. One of the things she needed when detecting was to see a person’s face, to gauge their first reaction. She certainly wasn’t going to get it from an armpit. Nothing else to do, but get on with it and listen for the silences. She closed her eyes again.
“I’m curious. You don’t look like a Sanchez. Is that a married name?” Blunt, artless, but Ariel stiffened, her fingers ceasing their rhythmic rubdown. Ah, so there were advantages to not seeing, to feeling a person’s reaction instead. “You’re not offended, are you?” she added, to placate, to get Ariel talking. Most people would answer if they didn’t think you were either trying to cut them down or patronize them. “Just tell me to bug off if I get too personal.”
Ariel’s fingers began moving again, vigorously. “No. Of course not. Sanchez is my married name. I’m divorced.” Short, clipped sentences. Sadness? No, more like anger. “Time to rinse.” She turned the water on. Too hot. Max squeaked. “Oh, sorry, sorry.” The apology was genuine. But Max knew she’d hit a nerve. She just wasn’t sure which one or what it meant.
A shampoo, a haircut, and four hours of grueling receptionist work later, the edge had worn off the dream.
No, not a dream. A vision. And she still didn’t like Cameron’s idea of trying to control it.
Nor did she like the idea of her so-called date tonight with Witt. He’d dropped his little bombshell about Snake the Wino, then called her from his truck to tell her he’d pick her up at work. As if he didn’t trust her not to cut out on him like she had last night.
Not that she hadn’t intended to do just that. Witt was beginning to know her too damn well. He was starting to anticipate her moves. Almost as though he was psychic.
Or a manipulating ghost was feeding him lines.
She looked at herself in the mirror behind the cash register, pulled on an out-of-place lock of hair. “You know, I can’t really see the difference.” It was the same cut she’d had six months ago, minus the few choppings she’d administered to keep it out of her eyes and off her ears.
Ariel laughed lightly, looking up from her study of the appointment book. “Don’t tell Miles that.” Miles, who had disappeared into Pippa’s office when she’d arrived. “You’re today’s masterpiece.”
There was a clatter, a crash, and a scream.
Max turned to find Jules almost in tears, and Moe practically apoplectic. The dye she’d been carrying in a small plastic bowl splattered her tiger cover-up, her white hose and shoes, and seeped across the floor in a three-foot-wide puddle.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Jules wrung his hands.
“You moron,” Moe shrieked, snapping like an alligator at his heels. “You stupid, ugly ...”
Max didn’t waste any time rounding the edge of the counter. “Hey, it was an accident. Leave him alone.”
Moe turned on her. “What do you know about it? He’s always clumsy, knocking this over, breaking that, and ruining stuff.” She spread her arms. “Just look what he did to my clothes. Oh and Jesus, this shit is burning me.” She shot Jules another glare. “Pippa’s little pet,” she snarled, but the fear of chemical burns on her legs was greater than her need to get back at Jules. She turned on her heel and left the room.
Jules slid a sorrowful gaze to Max. Her heart lurched at the tears swimming in his eyes. She patted his big shoulder. “It’s okay. Just get a bucket and some hot soapy water.” She looked at him and smiled. “At least it was blonde color.”
“Poor Jules,” Max muttered a few minutes later, watching as he cleaned up the mess.
“Jules works very hard,” Ariel said softly. “I feel sorry about the way he gets treated around here.” Standing behind the counter with Max, she gave the big guy a misty-eyed look as he pushed the mop through the gooey puddle of dye.
Earlier today, he’d entered all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, his big feet bouncing in his barge-size boots.
Four hours and a little accident later found him beaten down to a marshmallow. His shoulders, stooped after a morning full of the Three Stooges, drooped three inches closer to the floor.
“Tiffany was the nicest to him,” Ariel whispered.
Max’s antenna popped up. This was the first whiff of Tiffany she’d gotten today.
“Her goal each day was making sure none of them”—Ariel jerked a derisive thumb at the Three Stooges—“made him cry.”
Max’s heart rate ratcheted up. Jules leaned down to squeeze the mop out. Big hands. With calluses that were rough against the soft skin of her thighs. An eager learner.
Max shook her head to clear the vision.
“Tiffany sounds like a paragon.” But Max didn’t buy it. Tiffany’s needs bordered on maniacal—or was that psychopathic? If she’d treated Jules kindly, she had a reason. Perhaps to conquer the sweet-hearted half-wit.
Could Jules be the eyeball in the crack of the door to whom Tiffany had given an X-rated performance?
The eye belonged to a man, and pickings were slim around the salon. Jules or Miles.