Chapter Two

Vivian, Juan Carlos, and I went our separate ways, each of us heading to the workshop or class we wanted to see. I made my way to my friend Lisa’s class, where she would be demonstrating a new deep-conditioning treatment from Spain that promised one formula to flatten hair with too much volume and another to volumize hair that was too flat.

A miracle if there ever was one.

As I sat and watched Lisa run a brush through her model’s hair, the special conditioning vapor billowing from it nearly obscuring her, I replayed Vivian’s story in my mind. It didn’t add up. True, she had an aunt Tita who lived in Wichita and had five kids including a set of twins, but as far as I knew, Vivian had never been to Kansas. Or if she had, she’d never mentioned it before today.

And why the secrecy surrounding Dhane’s real name? I mean, who cared? A lot of celebrities change their names to make them more exotic…or less exotic. It wasn’t like Juan Carlos and I worked for the IRS or something. We’re trustworthy. Well, I was, anyway.

What hurt the most was not what she’d told us, but what she hadn’t told us. The thought of Vivian holding back left me feeling a little lost. I went on a long, mental trip around Speculation Island, trying out one far-fetched theory after another. The stakes had to be pretty high for Vivian to have kept this from me for so long. We knew everything about each other right down to our bra sizes and tampon preferences. So what was the deal?

I was so absorbed in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the person sitting down next to me until he tapped me on the shoulder.

“Excuse me.”

I turned to see a guy of indeterminate age and nationality staring at me with exaggerated anime cartoon eyes. He wore large, dark, round contacts that obscured a good portion of the whites of his eyes, giving them a Kewpie doll-like look. He’d used white eyeliner on the inside of his lower lids and mascara to spike his lashes, which intermingled with the spikes of black hair hanging in his eyes.

At least I thought he was a guy. His facial features could have gone either way, but what threw him over to the masculine side, besides the lack of feminine curves, was his outfit. He wore a long, nearly to his knees, black vest riddled with zippered pockets and topped with a mandarin collar. Slim black pants and boots completed the look. He wore no shirt and his arms were thin yet toned, like that of a young man.

“Yes?” I answered after a too-long stunned silence.

He smiled and handed me an envelope. “I was told to give you this.”

I eyed it as if it were a subpoena. “What is it?”

“An invitation.” He nudged it in my direction. “Take it.”

The plain white envelope seemed innocent enough, so I accepted it. “Who’s it from?”

“You’ll see.”

He turned to leave, but I stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you…now.”

“What’s your name?”

“I call myself Jun.” He said this with expectation, as if I should’ve been impressed. “It means obedient.”

There was something about this boy I kind of liked. Maybe it was his full-out commitment to Japanese animation and the adolescent confidence it took to parade around in public dressed like a comic-book-convention reject. Or it could have been the optimism and anticipation that radiated from his young face. I’d lost the shiny expectation that the world would be kind to me, that life was simple and fair. I missed it. Whatever drew me to him, I had the feeling Jun and I were destined to be friends.

“And are you?” I asked, a bit tongue in cheek.

He grinned with teeth so white I had to resist the urge to cover my eyes.

“Sometimes.” He tapped the envelope in my hand. “Come,” he cajoled.

“Maybe,” I hedged, knowing I wouldn’t be able to resist. My curiosity was already shoving aside any other plans I might have had.

My answer seemed to satisfy him, and his face settled into a comfortable just-us-buds smile. “Until then.”

Twisting in my chair, I watched Jun leave until the heavy conference room door closed behind him with a quiet click.

I turned back around and stared at the envelope he’d given me. It suddenly hit me how freaky it was that Jun had found me in a convention full of thousands, and goose bumps scattered over me. I tightened every muscle in my body, suppressing the urge to shudder.

I mentally debated whether or not I should read it. Turning the envelope in my hand, I felt a bit like Pandora about to open a box and unleash who knew what. Once done, knowing what it contained could not be undone. I might be better off if I dropped it in the nearest trash can and forgot about it.

Oh, who was I kidding? There was a reason I’d become a hairstylist—and it wasn’t for the long hours standing on my feet. The cutting cape was like Wonder Woman’s lasso. Once on, clients would spill their deepest darkest secrets, like coins from a winning slot machine. My rampant curiosity fed on a consistent diet of hush-hush info and hidden agendas. There was no way I could stop myself from peeking inside.

I opened the envelope and unfolded the plain white paper, smoothing out the creases on my jeans. Taking a breath for courage, I read the three simple lines:

Dhane? Of all the people I’d expected the note to be from, Dhane would have been at the bottom of the list, along with the president of the United States and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. What did Dhane want with me?

I looked around the room, expecting someone to jump out and tell me this was all a joke. Lisa was inviting the audience to come up and feel her model’s before-and-after hair. The crowd moved toward the stage, but I stayed where I was, alternating baffled glances at Dhane’s invitation and the door Jun had disappeared through. I debated going after him, but that shiver I’d suppressed earlier shook me and I had a feeling Jun had vanished as abruptly as he’d appeared.

I refolded the paper and stuffed it into my oversize hobo bag, the one with so many pockets Vivian called it my Mary Poppins purse. Then I texted Juan Carlos: What are you doing? I was testing the waters, unsure if I should mention Dhane’s note or not. For all I knew, I was overreacting and Dhane had invited all three of us to his suite…late at night…clandestinely.

“Hey, Azalea.” I glanced up to see Lisa standing over me. We were the only ones left in the room.

I popped up and gave her a hug. She’d put on a few pounds since the last time I’d seen her. But then who was I to judge, what with glass houses being vulnerable to stones and all. I’d packed on a few post-breakup pounds myself. And Lisa looked good. The extra weight softened the sharp angles of her face, giving her a kind, almost benevolent look. She’d clipped her hair short and it shot out from her head in a profusion of tightly coiled black curls.

“How did you like my presentation?” she asked.

I shuffled my feet, not wanting to confess that I’d missed a good portion of it. “You did great.” That wasn’t a lie. I’d noticed the audience had been very involved in what she had to say.

“You didn’t feel the before and after.”

“I was waiting for the crowd to die down.”

“Sheila!” she exclaimed. “Sheila, come over here and let my friend Azalea feel your hair.”

A young blonde with a milquetoast face plodded over to us and offered me two hunks of hair to touch, with all the lackluster enthusiasm of a diner waitress reciting the daily special.

I obediently ran my hands through Sheila’s hair. “Wow.” I turned my attention to the “after” side. “There really is a difference.”

“Do you think you’d be interested in adding this treatment to your salon service menu?” Lisa asked.

“Possibly. But I’d need to run it by Vivian first.”

“Of course.” Lisa turned to her model. “Thank you, Sheila. Come back in an hour for the next presentation.”

“Okay.” Sheila started to turn, then bent down and picked something up. “Is this yours?” She held out a plastic hotel key card.

I felt my face go hot and quickly tucked the card into my front pocket. “Yes, thank you.”

We watched Sheila traipse away, and then Lisa turned to me. “What are you doing later?”

“There are a couple of classes I want to see. Why?”

“I’m one of the judges for the student competition. I have to watch them prep their doll heads this afternoon to make sure no one cheats. Want to hang out and observe with me?”

As a salon owner, I knew this was a great opportunity. We were always on the lookout for new talent. “Sure.”

She gave me the particulars and we parted ways. I wandered out onto the main exhibition floor, not really paying attention to the booths I passed, my thoughts swirling around Dhane’s invitation. A part of me couldn’t help but feel flattered. Dhane was seriously hot. Of course my ego liked the idea that he might be interested in me. And it wasn’t as though I currently had a love life. Well, I guess I sort of did, if you counted made-for-TV-boyfriends and pints of Ben & Jerry’s a love life.

Even so, I refused to entertain the notion that I was so very desperate as to risk my relationship with Viv for whatever Dhane might have in mind.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Juan Carlos had texted: Watching Dick Stain make an ass of himself. Wanna watch with me?

Richard Stain had been an employee at our salon until a few months back. To say he and Juan Carlos hadn’t gotten along would be like saying Democrats and Republicans had a few minor disagreements on occasion. Those two fought worse than two stags in season. And the trick of it was that no one could figure out why.

I stopped near a booth with racks and racks of colorful, clip-in hair wefts and made a mental note to pick up a few pink ones for my niece, even though I knew it would irritate every single woman’s liberation cell in my mother’s body. Mom’s idea of childhood dress-up had included a briefcase and a judge’s gavel. She’d hate me giving her granddaughter something so frivolous. Must compete with men, even at playtime!

I returned Juan Carlos’s text: Stop calling him that! Where are you?

He responded: The Torrid Toolz booth.

I pulled out my convention map, found it, and made my way over.

Torrid Toolz had a booth large enough for a small platform stage to be wedged into it. I found Juan Carlos watching Richard smooth out his model’s hair with TT’s new ceramic flatiron.

Juan Carlos immediately began scrutinizing Richard’s performance as if he were an American Idol judge. “Dick should have taken larger sections of hair. I could make those micro mini sections smooth with just the heat from my bare hands and a dab of relaxing liquid. For cripes sake, his model looks like she’s part Asian. Why would an Asian person need her hair straightened when she already has the straightest hair on the planet? It’s a fix, I tell you. The Dickster couldn’t style his way out of an underwater beauty pageant.”

I put my hand on his arm to stop the tirade before Richard’s mike picked it up and broadcasted it to the crowd. “Jealous?”

He gave me a look that was the ocular equivalent of the middle finger.

I turned my attention back to Richard winding up his spiel onstage. He was good—convincing yet trustworthy. A respectable combination in a sales person.

“He’s done. Let’s get out of here.”

Juan Carlos made to leave, but I grabbed his sleeve and jumped with my hand in the air. “Richard!”

“Shut up! What are you doing?”

Waving higher, I moved forward with Juan Carlos twisting to free himself from my grip. “Richard!”

He saw me and beamed with recognition. Then his dark eyes moved past me to Juan Carlos and his smile slid into a slit-eyed scowl. At the edge of the stage, Richard helped me up and gave me a big hug. He was a bear of a man. Built out of blocks, he was all squared-off angles and thick slabs of beef. He reminded me of a Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robot. Hugging him was like embracing a Buick.

“I’m so glad to see you, Azalea.” The mutual love/hate society was now in session.

“I didn’t know you’d be here. How have you been?”

Juan Carlos joined us onstage, a stone statue of obstinacy.

“Good. Good. I just started working for Torrid Toolz a few months ago, and they asked me to be one of their demonstrators for the show.”

“You look great. Doesn’t he look great, Juan Carlos?” Maybe it wasn’t well done of me to provoke him, but it sure was fun.

“Like a Mack truck,” Juan Carlos deadpanned.

“Love the new look, Juan Carlos,” Richard returned. “But isn’t it a little early for Halloween?” He tapped his chin. “Let me guess, Ward Cleaver?”

Juan Carlos came back with, “Aren’t you a little west of the Jersey Shore? Snooki and The Situation must be missing you big time.”

Richard took a step forward, nearly knocking me off the stage. “Your grandpa called from 1963. He wants his wardrobe back.”

“Easy, Roid Rage wouldn’t want you to get angry and turn all green or anything.”

Richard really got in Juan Carlos’s face then. “Are you insinuating that I take drugs?”

“Either that or your mama did.”

Uh-oh. The two things I knew about Richard were that you don’t mess with his styling tools and you do not insult his mother.

Richard grabbed the front of Juan Carlos’s shirt and lifted him off his feet. “Take that back.” He shook Juan Carlos, making his hands and feet jerk like a marionette. “No one disses my ma and walks away whole.”

“Guys. Guys. Come on. Everyone’s staring. Someone’s going to call security and then you’ll get hauled off to jail,” I pleaded.

“First he apologizes.”

I smacked Juan Carlos’s arm. “Say you’re sorry.”

Juan Carlos turned to me. “But I’m not—”

“Oh, yes you are. Do it now, or you’re fired.” There was no heat in this statement—I was totally bluffing.

Juan Carlos threw me another dirty look, then mumbled his apology.

Richard planted Juan Carlos back on his feet but didn’t release him. “No, say it to my ma.” Richard punched in a number, then handed Juan Carlos his cell phone.

“Is this jock itch for real?” Juan Carlos asked me, earning him another hard jerk that dislodged a hunk of his perfectly coiffed hair.

“Just do it!” I ordered, ready to get off the stage and disappear back into the crowd.

“Hello, Ma? Yeah, yeah, I know. I will later. Listen, this guy Juan Carlos said some disparaging things about you and he wants to apologize.” Richard handed the phone to Juan Carlos. “Make it sincere.”

Juan Carlos took the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Stain. Yes, that’s me.” Juan Carlos’s eyes bugged out of his head and he turned crimson. “Uh-huh.”

“Tell her you’re sorry,” Richard prompted with another jolt.

“I’m, uh, real sorry for what I said about you, Mrs. Stain. Uh-huh. Okay. Thank you.” Juan Carlos handed the phone back to Richard.

“Ma? What?” Richard released Juan Carlos and turned away, sputtering Greek with a lot of short, choppy hand gestures.

Juan Carlos smoothed the front of his shirt. “Can we go now?” Giving him a sideways glance, I caught Juan Carlos watching Richard with a look on his face that I’d never seen before. And then it hit me. Juan Carlos liked Richard.

Whoa.

Suddenly the months and months of squabbling, nitpicking, and hostility in the salon made perfect sense. I couldn’t wait to tell Vivian. This was the tastiest bit of gossip to come my way since I’d found out how the lady who owned the card shop next to our salon paid her rent. My hand twitched toward my cell phone.

“What did Mrs. Stain say to you?” I asked Juan Carlos.

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” I implored. “I have to say good-bye to Richard.” But Juan Carlos was already off the stage and heading toward the exit. I debated going after him for a moment and then decided against it. I knew Juan Carlos well enough to realize that I’d get nothing out of him while he was in the mood he was in. So I let him walk away. Whatever Mrs. Stain had said, it rattled him to the point of panic. If I had a hope of finding out what had happened, it would be from Richard.

On the other side of the stage, Richard was packing up his equipment, tossing things into his bag as fast as he could get ahold of them. He was in such a rush, he didn’t notice me until I walked up and tapped him on the shoulder.

He yelped and spun around, clutching his heart. “Oh, Azalea, you scared half a year off my life.” He searched the faces around me. Seeming calmed by what—or I should say whom—he didn’t find, Richard relaxed into his usual mellow self. “Did you like my presentation?”

“Very much.” I paused, thinking how best to go about getting the information I was after. “Sorry for the things Juan Carlos said. He gets a little carried away sometimes. I hope you and your mom weren’t too offended.”

“No. No. It’s fine.” His words were meant to be nonchalant, but he sounded more panicked than indifferent. He loaded the last of his items into his bag and turned toward me.

Rocking back on my heels, I gave him my best you-can-confide-in-me smile. “Juan Carlos seemed kind of, um, upset when he spoke to your mom. I wonder what that was all about.”

“Sometimes my mom says things she shouldn’t.” He hitched his messenger bag higher on his shoulder.

“Is there something going on between you and Juan Carlos?”

“No.” He huffed out a frustrated breath. “There could’ve been… There almost was, but he’s just so damn stubborn, I…” He shook his head. “Never mind. It was good seeing you, Azalea.” He gave me a quick hug. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. Give me a call when you get back home and we’ll do lunch or something.” He sketched a wave and then he, too, disappeared into the throng.

The convention floor pulsed to the beat of a nearby speaker, snippets of conversations drifted around me, and every now and then someone jostled me with a muttered apology. I stood there a moment in that vastness of humanity, feeling rather abandoned. I hated being alone in a crowd.

It felt a lot like that time when I was six and kinda, sorta wandered off from my mom at the mall to check out all the lighty, blinky toys at another store and got lost. By the time I was finally discovered, I was hysterical, and my mother had threatened to sue the owner of the mall and every single employee in it. I hated the mall and crowds after that. Thank goodness for online shopping. And therapy.

So far this trip hadn’t been the life-cleansing, forget-my-troubles-and-all-the-lousy-men-I’ve-dated weekend getaway that I’d expected it would be.

Contemplating what to do with myself, I shoved my hands in my pockets and froze. I cast a look around, then scampered to an out-of-the-way corner. Pulling the hotel key card from my pocket, I felt nervous to the point of nausea. The card Lisa’s model had picked up off the floor and given me wasn’t mine—Dhane had included the key to his hotel room with his invitation. Examining the Raine Hotel logo, a feeling of foreboding swept over me, creeping up my spine and settling into a headache at my forehead.

Whatever Dhane’s motives were for inviting me to his suite, they weren’t good. Certainly they wouldn’t be good for my relationship with Vivian.

I considered dropping the key and invitation in the nearest trash can. A part of me resented Dhane for putting me in this position. Was I supposed to be flattered? Hi, I’m a long-lost boyfriend of your best friend. Wanna come to my hotel suite late at night under the cover of secrecy? Wanna jeopardize your friendship for a clandestine meeting with a hot, rich, famous hairstylist? Who does that to a person?

And yet the other part of me had to know. Why me? What did he want? Another thought struck—what if the note and key hadn’t been meant for me? It wasn’t addressed to anyone. What if it had been meant for Vivian? People got us mixed up all the time.

I flipped the key card over, hoping to find a clue to this mystery. The words “Please come” were written in thick black ink, reminding me of Jun’s persuading.

Jun.

Jun had seemed pretty confident that I was the intended recipient. And how smart of Dhane to send him. Sweet, innocuous Jun. Who could resist? Maybe that was the point. Sending Jun was like sending a singing telegram. Dhane must have counted on Jun’s charms to strike up enough curiosity in me to ensure my attendance. I didn’t appreciate the manipulation. And yet, it had worked. Knowing I shouldn’t, I wanted to go. I told myself it was because he was interested in me as Vivian’s friend, not in me romantically.

Maybe this was an invitation to a party and Vivian and Juan Carlos had also been invited. That scenario made more sense than any of the other crazy ones I’d come up with. A party. That was it.

Making my decision, I tucked the key into the front pocket of my jeans and lost myself in the crowd.