The next day Marnie avoided opening her eyes. She wiggled under the silk sheets and said a silent prayer. God, please let me sleep a little longer. Unfortunately, the mid‐afternoon sunlight streaming into her room didn't hear the request.
In a last ditch effort, she yanked the cover over her head. Sleep, as usual, had played hard to get. She'd spent the night pacing her new room and wondering just who Danny Roland was, and what kind of deviant plans he had in store for her. It wasn't until about three in the morning that her eyes had grown heavy and she was able to fall into a blissful dreamless sleep.
The telltale click of the doorknob filled her with horror. She groaned as she snuggled deeper under her covers.
“Good morning,” Danny said.
She peeled the cover back and glanced cautiously over at him. He sat on the corner of her bed in jeans and a polo shirt. His dark locks lay flat on his head, wet as if he'd just come from showering. She thought of the tousled hairstyle from yesterday morning and wished she could mess his hair up. Her stomach churned, wondering if he'd let her go back to sleep.
He handed her a bottle of water.
“Drink up. You don't want to get dehydrated.”
She gratefully chugged the water down.
“Get ready. I want to leave in fifteen,” he said.
She stifled a yawn. “Could I get another hour?” If she had a little time to get herself together, she'd be fine.
“Leaving in fifteen,” Danny said, averting his eyes as he left the room.
She got the hint. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. She had to get ready or risk being kicked out.
What an asshole. This is a power trip for him, that's why he's doing this.
Marnie put the clothes on from the day before. She didn't bother to comb her hair or check her face in the mirror. It didn't matter what she looked like. She felt awful and didn't care…Well, she didn't care about anything. The plan was to go do whatever Danny wanted and then get back to bed. Her body demanded rest.
He couldn't let her rest. For her sake and his, Danny needed to get her into a routine. Without one, he'd want to use, and he was in no mood to be tempted. He still marveled, days later, at the strength it took for him to withstand the temptation to toot coke with Nia. When he saw that gorgeous white powder on the couch, he had wanted to take his pinky and scoop the powder into his nostrils and lick the residue off his finger. It didn't matter if he'd been sober for a year. If it was in his presence, he would probably take it. If a talk show host tried to tempt him with some powder, he'd probably use right on national TV. But he hadn't, and he wasn't going to. But there was more than one way to tempt. Taking Marnie on as a sponsor was proving to be dangerous for him.
The feel of her lips still lingered from when she'd kissed him. Soft and supple, he'd felt like he was drowning and that was perfectly fine with him. Danny normally never turned down sex, but he wouldn't be able to help her if he was fucking her. This feeling between them was no good. Plus, being involved with another addict only made it easier to lose his sobriety. If he wanted to keep his head, he needed to set the boundaries today. He was going on tour soon and he needed to give her an overhaul. It would be invasive, borderline abusive, but he was going to have her head‐to‐toe ready for the tour.
Cleaning her up was an understatement. First, he removed the tattoo on her forearm that said Benny's Bitch in calligraphic green. Then a trio of treatments at an exclusive spa sanded her feet, plucked her eyebrows, and buffed her skin until the ochre tone gleamed. Marnie felt like she'd died and somehow wound up in heaven. In one week she went from looking like an old bag lady thirty years her senior, to showing off all twenty‐five years of her age. Her café-latte skin glowed from the seaweed wrap; her nails were painted a soft shimmering shade of pink.
Shopping for clothing was the best part. She had lived in New York City for one year, and had never been to Saks, but once in there, she saw why everyone loved it. Unlike her usual shopping trip, she didn't fret over prices or burst into tears because they didn't have her size. Although she tried to be conscious of how much was spent, Danny smacked her hand several times for looking at price tags. Finally, in an exasperated tone he said, “I don't want to be here all day. You've got twenty minutes; if you don't find anything, then you'll just have to go on tour naked.”
This prompted her to blindly pick whatever was in her size. She dove into the dressing room and tried on as many tops, jeans, and skirts as she could in the remaining time. A few of the tops she couldn't bear to part with and made Danny buy them, even though she hadn't tried them on.
“You should get at least one evening dress,” Danny said as they walked down the street passing the shops. Kevon followed behind, weighed down with four bulging shopping bags.
They walked into Mark Ling, and Danny pulled two dresses off the rack, one black, and one silver shift. He held each dress one at a time over her frame.
She felt the heat of his eyes sizing her up, taking in the swell of her breast and hips.
“You like?” Danny asked.
The dresses were gorgeous. She had never seen anything like them. For such a causal shop, she was surprised Ling did high end.
She nodded in awe.
“Okay, let's get them.”
“I should at least try them on first,” she said.
“You don't need to, they'll fit. Trust me.”
It's his money. She smiled and didn't say a thing.
The last stop on her makeover transformation was the hair salon. She expected this to be the cherry on the top of the makeover. Her body looked great, but she needed to revive her hair in order to really let the new clothes shine. They went into the reception area and waited for her name to be called.
“Listen.” She turned in her seat when Danny tapped her on the arm. “This hair stylist is top notch, but he's very particular about who he takes on as a client. Most people have to make a three week appointment for Bobby. He's a haircut specialist, who traveled the world cutting hair before he settled down in Christie Heights. He's been featured on morning talk shows, in high fashion magazines, and at one point, he did runway hair for Mark Ling.”
Danny shifted his eyes and scratched the back of his head. “I had to call in a favor to get this appointment, so just be open to whatever hairstyle he wants to give you.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits and a hand reached to curl around a frizzy lock. “No one messes with my hair.”
His eyes flicked over her. “That's obvious, but you can't walk around looking like this.”
Did being his assistant mean he owned her body? Oh hell no. She was fully prepared to quit if that was the case.
She leaned forward and said in a loud whisper, “Why do you care so much about how I look anyway?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You're an extension of me now, and you can't represent me looking like this.”
“I just want him to wash and flat iron it,” she said, fixing him with a hard stare.
“Marnie, I'm warning you, be on your best behavior,” Danny said, returning his own dark look.
When the receptionist entered to escort her to the stylist, she stopped the stare down and smiled at her. From the corner of her eye, Danny flashed one of his own dazzling smiles. To her surprise and annoyance, Danny followed her to Bobby's station.
After the men shook hands, they both turned to look at her.
“Cut it all off and give her a pixie cut,” Danny said to Bobby.
“Perhaps a Twiggy‐inspired hairstyle, to bring out her violet eyes,” Bobby said conferring with Danny.
The hairstylist ran his hand through Marnie's auburn curls. The wild hair stopped an inch over her shoulder blades.
“No,” she frowned at the men in the mirror.
She pricked her ears as a cacophony of tumbling could be heard behind her. She turned in her seat to find curling irons and rattail combs had fallen to the floor. The steady stream of chatter between stylists and clients had also grown silent. Instead of talking, women were craning their necks, all eyes trained on her and Bobby.
“My dear,” Bobby yanked her face back in front of a wall-length mirror propped atop his booth. She detected a faint annoyance in his tone. “Once I'm done, you'll thank me,” said Bobby in a Parisian accent. It was probably fake.
She didn't care who he was. This was her hair and she didn't let just anybody touch her long tresses. She doubted this man knew anything about African American hair. “Just trim it,” Marnie said flatly. She frowned again at both men in the mirror facing her.
“Marnie,” Danny growled. “Remember our deal.”
“Okay, okay. If she wants to keep it long, we can accommodate her. Such beautiful hair. I can see why she wouldn't want to part with it.” Bobby gave her his most charming smile. “You're a lot like most of my over‐eighty customers—stubborn and afraid of change. But, my dear, even if we keep it long, I'll have to take at least two inches off. You have dead ends on the bottom.”
“Okay,” Marnie relaxed her shoulders, relieved to know she wasn't going to have to kill anybody.
Bobby's assistant came over with a smock for her, but Bobby intercepted it before it reached her shoulders. He hissed for the assistant to get back. The poor, black‐uniform‐wearing bean pole of a girl pushed the glasses back onto the bridge of her nose and mumbled, “I thought it was time to wash her hair.”
Bobby smirked. “You think your hands are touching this?” He ran a hand through her hair making the strands float. “No my dear, today, Bobby will do something he never does.”
Apparently washing hair was something he never did. He barked at his assistant for the shampoo bottle, only to be told it was right in front of his face. When he turned on the sprayer, it jerked in his hands, laying down a torrent of water on Marnie's face and the front of her shirt.
Bobby washed, trimmed, and pressed her auburn hair. When he was finished, Danny and the stylist clapped each other on the back and exchanged a high five.
Marnie, on the other hand, wasn't pleased. She looked like a completely different person. The haircut was long and uniform, but lifeless—no body, no sheen. It made her look woefully young. Noticing the look of dismay on her face, Danny hurriedly paid Bobby and ushered her out of the salon. She laughed at Bobby's pleas for her to come back again, to play with her gorgeous locks. His scissors were never going near her hair again. She didn't care what Danny had to say about it, her hair wasn't negotiable.
When she stepped outside, Kevon's eyes rounded. “Damn.” He glanced at Danny and the two men fist bumped.
With her new clothes and hairdo, the spitfire auburn‐haired bag lady had turned into a model. The sundress she wore cinched in her waist and flared out, but the skirt was short enough to show off her ochre legs. The sleek hair brought out her violet eyes and button nose. The palest shade of red lipstick made her supple lips look ravishing. Her attitude, however, was another matter altogether.
In the car, she burst into tears, but Danny let her cry, staying silent as he drove. He pulled up to a valet, and handed the attendant his car key. Danny marched her into the restaurant, while she tried her best to rein in her emotions.
As they waited for a table, a fresh wave of tears attacked her. She hated her hair. Perhaps it would have been better to let them chop it all off. According to her, anything would have been better than the hairstyle she was forced to wear. Danny ignored her and dragged her to their table.
Still sniffling, Marnie sat down at the table the waiter indicated. She picked up a menu, but couldn't read past the gloss of brimming tears.
Danny ordered two clam chowder bowls and two cups of hot tea. The waiter stood there waiting for her to surrender the menu. Danny's hand gently covered hers. Marnie looked up from the menu, startled out of lamenting over her hair, and handed it to the expectant waiter, who stood over her.
“Clean your face.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed her a small handkerchief. She wiped her face and blew her nose.
“It's all right,” Danny said smiling. “I'm surprised you didn't break down sooner.”
“This,” she said, pulling at the ends of her hair, “is not me.” She moaned stuffily.
“Of course not,” Danny said quietly. “You're a junkie. Your goal is not to be you. It's to become someone better, someone whose idea of a good time is not speed balling or doing lines.”
He studied her face, pondering what to say next.
“The old you is dead,” Danny explained. “You're being reborn, creating a new life, a new persona. It's safe to say you don't know who you are. You've got to find her.”
“How?”
“You'll figure it out in time,” Danny said. “You just need to stay sober long enough to meet her.”
The waiter brought the clam chowder bowls to their table.
“I don't like this,” she said with a frown.
“Have you ever had clam chowder?”
“No,” she replied hesitantly.
“The new you loves chowder. Try it,” he gestured with his right hand. “Quit playing with it and eat it.”
It was going to take some time for her to take orders blindly from Danny, but if she was going to start, she realized now was the time.
“I love clam chowder,” she said to the steaming bowl of soup in front of her.
She took her spoon and scooped a healthy portion past her lips, but immediately opened her mouth and dumped it back into the bowl. “That's hot.” She reached for her tea, but it was hot as well, and she spit the hot water back into the cup.
“Not everything new will be something you'll like, but it will be something you'll need,” Danny said.
“You could have at least told me it was hot,” she whined. A pained look crossed her face. Her tongue was badly scorched.
“Do I have to tell you everything?” Danny's eyes twinkled in amusement.