In The Cut (6 page)

“Is any story with you ever short?”

He raised his wine glass to his lips. Olivia stopped him, and took it from him. “Don’t want you waking up in the morning holding your head.”

“So, tell me. How does a beautiful woman like you become a barber?”

“It’s a long story.”

“That’s my line.”

“I didn’t know you owned exclusive rights to it.”

“So, how did this career come to be?”

“Well, as Grace told you at the fashion show, I have four brothers. Three older than me, one three years younger than me. Jon-Jon, my younger brother received a pair of clippers as a present for his thirteenth birthday. The next morning, he had me in the bathroom trying to cut his hair. We were in there for hours. I would be doing good, and then, I would slip or blink and—”

“You’d zeek him.”

“Basically. A couple months later, I was lacing him up so good that my other brothers let me do their heads. Then Jon-Jon, being the visionary that he is, started bringing his friends over to get their heads done. Pretty soon, our basement became the unofficial neighborhood barbershop.”

“So, you were getting paid.”

“Yeah, right. Jon-Jon was charging those dudes fifteen dollars a piece. I was lucky if he gave me five dollars out of the fifteen.”

“That sucks.”

“That’s why I told him to go f—himself and I went to Ol’ man Brady who owned the official neighborhood barbershop. He’d already heard of my skills so he immediately put me to work, and sent me to barber school to make me legit. I was nineteen at the time.”

“That was nice of him.”

“In his eyes, I was the daughter he never had. Five years later, he died. That’s when I knew how deep his love was for me. He left me everything.”

“Serious?”

“The barbershop and the apartments above the barbershop that I didn’t even know he owned.”

“So, you owned a barbershop and apartments at the age of twenty-five?”

“Yep. So, you can imagine the drama. Local businessmen trying to buy me out, the wannabee thugs trying to use my establishment to do their dirt, getting proposed to at least once a week. Luckily, my brothers had my back. The Hood respected them and my competition feared them. Back then, Butta Cutz was just a fantasy I had. It took me six years to save up the money, but I did it. I gave Brady’s barbershop a facelift and made it more than just a barbershop. And here I am three years later, the proud owner of Butta Cutz.” Olivia walked to one of the cushioned chairs, sat down, and took off one of her shoes. “I hate highheels.”

Saint pulled a chair in front of her and patted his lap. “C’mon put it up here.”

Olivia looked around and then put her foot on his lap. Saint’s fingers immediately went to work, dissolving the soreness in the arch of her foot. Olivia melted back into the chair and a sigh escaped her lips. Saint then used both his thumbs to massage the pressure points in the pad of her foot.

“Oh God! That feels so good.”

Saint looked down at her other foot and smiled when he saw how quickly she came out of her other shoe. He worked his thumbs in between her toes, causing Olivia to close her eyes. She put her other foot on his lap.

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” he asked, as he began massaging her other foot.

“No, I’m just enjoying the moment. How much do you charge? I’m about to give you a job.” They both laughed. “So, Clayton, being that I told you my whole life story, what about you?”

“Well—”

“Let me guess, it’s a long story?”

“Actually, it’s not.”

“Whoa, you
are
full of surprises.”

“Let’s see. Both my parents died when I was two. I was adopted by a friend of the family. Every summer, I would be shipped away to a different country, which is how I learned how to speak so many different languages.”

“Schooling?”

“Private tutor.”

“Any kids?”

“No.”

“Significant other?”

“Never.”

“Someone you used to like?”

Saint’s mind flashed to
HER
. “I wouldn’t say liked. I would say I was pussy whipped.”

Olivia’s eyes popped open.

“I call it like it is.”

“Okay… I just wasn’t prepared. Most men don’t admit to being… whipped.”

“I said pussy whipped.”

“I know what you said.”

“So, you’ve ever been… whipped?”

“Honestly?”

“Please.”

“No, but I was infatuated with this guy, once.”

“What happened?”

“We had an argument one night. Things got hairy. He hit me, told me I was his bitch, and I better stay in my place. He even dared me to tell my brothers.”

“And you told them.”

“Heck no. I fucked him to sleep. Then I bashed his head in with a cast-iron frying pan.”

“You cursed.”

“You’re a bad influence on me.”

“So, you bashed him in the head with a frying pan.”

Olivia started laughing. “Oh God, it was so funny. I hit him and he sat straight up, scared the crap out of me. The second hit put him out, and put a knot on his head the size of a bowling ball.” They both started laughing.

“There you are!” Glenn said, as he walked out onto the balcony with Grace right behind him. “We were looking all over for you.”

“Y’all weren’t doing anything freaky, right?” Grace asked.

Olivia jerked her feet off of Saint’s lap and slipped them into her shoes. “I got two words for you, Grace,” Olivia said, holding up two fingers, “Tae Bo.”

“I got the Chauffeur bringing the Maybach around so we can go for a ride and celebrate,” Glenn said.

Saint folded his hands together. “Celebrate what?”

“Six thousand dollars… in cash. You are the man.”

“That was smooth, Clayton,” Grace said. “Shoot, for six thousand cash, I would’ve given him the dress and a little freak peek, you know what I mean?”

“Grace!!” Olivia said, getting out of the chair.

“Shoot, for six thousand cash,
I
would’ve given him a freak peek, too,” Glenn said, giving Grace a high five.

“You two are sick,” Olivia said.

“Mr. Andrews?” A waiter walked out onto the balcony with a cell phone on a platter. “You have a call, sir.”

“A call for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Saint picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“My beloved, Saint. Oh how I missed hearing your voice.”

Saint almost swallowed his tongue.

Chapter 4

“Are you okay?” Olivia asked Clayton.

Saint cleared his throat. “Yes. I really have to take this call. Why don’t y’all go ahead without me?”

“We’ll wait for you,” Grace said.

“No, really. Y’all should go.” Saint gave Glenn the look.

Glenn almost swallowed his tongue. “C’mon, y’all,” he said, grabbing Grace and Olivia by their hands. “He’s going to be awhile with that call.”

Olivia didn’t move.

“Please, Olivia,” Saint said. “It’s business. I got to go to the suite, boot up my laptop—

“Okay. I guess we’ll see you in the morning,” Olivia said, allowing Glenn to usher her off the balcony.

“Yes, tomorrow,” Saint said with a smile. When they were out of hearing distance, he took a deep breath and then spoke into the phone. “How did you know I was here?”

“My love, I know where you are, twenty-four hours of the day, seven days of the week. What I don’t know is why you are in Las Vegas.”

“Josephine, it’s a get-together for a bunch of clothing designers.”

“I know what it is. What are you doing there?”

“I’m having a few drinks with friends.”

“And you have no idea what’s happening at that get-together?”

“When I saw Petrescu, I knew it was serving a dual purpose. And I don’t want to know what the other purpose is.”

“I miss you, Saint,” Josephine purred in French. “Wish I could say the same.”

“Ouch, I forgot how wicked your tongue can be.”

“I really can’t talk, right now.”

“Don’t want to keep Miss Olivia Martin waiting?”

“Josephine—”

“Shh, my love. Just remember who you belong to. And remember our agreement.”

“My name is Clayton Andrews, I’m a math teacher, and that’s it.”

“And if I hear any different…”

“Good-bye, Josephine.”

“Good-bye, my beautiful Saint.”

Saint folded the phone up and threw it over the balcony.

Petrescu had to be held up by two blondes as they made their way to his suite.

“You had too much to drink, Laurent,” one of the women said.

“Nonsense,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “I always walk this way.” They all started laughing. “Would one of you lovely ladies be so kind as to reach into my pocket and retrieve the key to my suite?”

The blonde on his right dug into his pocket and pulled out the key. She swiped it through the slot.

“Let me warn you,” Petrescu said to the blondes as they stumbled through the door. “Coursing through these veins is pure Rumanian blood and pure Viagra.” Instead of chuckling at his wisecrack, the blondes stared at the sofa. Petrescu followed their gaze and sobered up quick.

“Saint, my friend. You come for the after party?”

“Ladies, this is a private party. So, if you don’t mind letting yourselves out.” Petrescu started to back out of the suite. “Don’t make me shoot you,” Saint said, tapping the object concealed under a newspaper resting on his lap.

“No, Saint. Of course not. I was just seeing the lovely ladies out. “Go!” He ushered them out and closed the door.

“Saint—”

Saint was on his feet and charging at Petrescu before he had a chance to shit himself. He grabbed him by the front of his Tux and slammed him against the wall.

“You take-it-in-the-ass, cum drinking, snitch, rat bastard.”

“How dare you call me a snitch, rat bastard.”

“Who else would tell Josephine that I was here?”

“Saint, please. You know as well as I do that if I didn’t tell her, and she found out by someone else, she would’ve hung me off the Eiffel Tower by my nut sac.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I just told her that you were here with Glenn and some friends having a good time.”

“What else?” Saint asked, pressing him harder against the wall.

“That is all, I swear.”

“How did she know Miss Martin’s name?”

“You know Josephine. She wanted to run a check on her to make sure she was squeaky clean. To make sure you weren’t… back in the business.”

“The business? Is that what you call what I used to do?”

Petrescu shrugged. “It was just business, right?”

Saint backed away from him. Petrescu looked down at the newspaper and realized that the object Saint was concealing was not a gun, but the suite’s telephone receiver.

“What’s the real deal with Marion Claude?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Saint rubbed his temples. “Is it safe for him to come to Miss Martin’s salon?”

“No one will dare make an attempt on his life in America.”

“And you’re sure about that?”

“I’ll bet my life on it.”

“Don’t give me any ideas.”

Three hours later, Glenn returned to the suite, Saint was stretched out on the couch with a wet cloth over his face.

He looked up when he heard the suite’s door open. He put the cloth back over his head when he saw Glenn.

“Please tell me that wasn’t who I think it was on the phone earlier,” Glenn said, plopping down on the couch next to Saint’s feet.

“My head is pounding, right now.”

“Petrescu snitched you out, didn’t he?”

“You know he did, thinking he would score some points with Josephine.”

“Did you convince her that you’re only here because of me?”

“That’s what I told her, but is she convinced? I don’t know.”

“Saint, I’m real sorry for putting you in this predicament.”

“It’s not your fault. You had no way of knowing that Petrescu was going to be here. This was supposed to be a get-together for fashion designers, not for Rumanian mob accountants masquerading as tailors.”

“What do you think Josephine’s going to do?”

“For now, nothing. She’s like a Venus fly trap. She won’t snap her lobes shut until she’s sure she’s got you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not doing anything wrong. So, I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing. If I change up, she’ll definitely think something’s up.”

The suite’s phone rang twice before Glenn answered it. “Hello. Yes, he’s right here.” He held the phone toward Saint. “It’s Olivia.”