The Art of Getting Stared At (35 page)

But this is beyond private, this is intimate. The cramped bathroom, the frilly bathrobe on the back of the door, what we're about to do.

And Isaac. The heat from his body, the scent of his skin, his very essence; it fills this tiny space. Head down, I fiddle with the stuff on the counter: scissors, razor, cream. But really, I am peering out from under the brim of my fedora, studying us in the mirror.

We are side by side, inches away, close. My stomach goes into free fall. And we're going to get closer.
It's impossible to shave your own head,
Isaac told me on the way over.
We need to do each other.

I look up and stare him straight in the eye. “Are you sure?”

He nods.

If he raised his arm, I would tuck in under his shoulder like a puzzle piece. I would fit. My mouth is suddenly, inexplicably, dry. “This isn't something you can take back. You've got your DJ gigs to think about, those commercials you do. People will talk.”

“So what? We'll tell them we did it for Cops for Cancer. And anyway, I don't care what people say.”

He doesn't. That is one of Isaac's charms. One of his strengths. A strength he can teach me.

“They're going to say it's a pity move on your part.”

He winks. “I feel a lot of things for you, sunshine, but pity isn't one of them.”

There's something about his lopsided grin that reaches into my chest and squeezes tight. “I'm not your sunshine.” But inside I am melting.

He holds out his hand. “Shut up and hand me the scissors.”

“Are you
positive
?” I need to give him one last out.

“Positive.”

The sound of snipping fills the bathroom as he hacks at his dreads. He is losing his hair for me. I watch them fall into the sink.
For me.
When the sink begins to fill, I grab the garbage can and toss them away. They are springy beneath my fingers.

“How long have you had them?”

He cuts at a chunk above his ear. “Since my granny died.”

“Oh, Isaac.” My voice catches. A lump of emotion threatens to swallow me whole.

“She's gone.” His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “But you're right here.” And my heart turns over.

With his dreads cut away, Isaac's face and the shape of his head become more pronounced. He has gorgeous ears, I realize. Flat pinkish brown shells against creamy brown skin.

“I can't reach the back,” he says after a minute. “I need your help.”

He sits on the edge of the tub. Pretending I do this all the time, I pick up the scissors and slowly cut away the last few dreads. I love the feel of his hair under my fingers, but I'm also trying to postpone the inevitable. I don't want it to be my turn. “Done.” I drop the last dread into the trash.

“Now get the razor.”

“Can't you do that yourself?”

“Like I said, it would be easier if you did it.”

Hand shaking, I plug in the razor and start at the back, shaving away strips of stubble and bits of dreads. He has a great-looking head, I realize, as his scalp goes from bristly to smooth under my fingers. Perfectly proportioned.

When it's time to do the front, he spins around and
opens his legs. I step between them. Our gazes lock; a shiver races down my spine. My breasts are almost in his face. Skin tingling, I step back. “I need room to see.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Sure you do.”

I work quickly now, hot and bothered and crazy dizzy from the chemistry between us. “Done.” Resisting the urge to brush him off, I hand him a towel. “Take a look.”

He stands and turns to the mirror, angling his head from one side to the other. “Cool.” A slow smile spreads across his face. “Very, very cool.” He looks at me. “Now you.”

My pulse jumps. “You probably won't need the scissors.” I can't meet his gaze. “I don't have a lot of hair left. The razor's probably good enough.” My voice is molasses thick; I can hardly breathe.

I don't want to take my hat off in front of him. I really, really don't. I'd rather take off my clothes.

My face flames. Okay, maybe not. But still. I don't want him to see. Not again. Not up close. My heart thunders in my rib cage. It's so loud I'm sure he can hear it. I stare at his T-shirt.

“Sloane?”

“Yeah?” A small clump of hair clings to his shoulder; I brush it away.

“Are you sure about this because it's not something you can take back and people will talk and they'll probably say it's a pity move on your part, you know, because of me and stuff.”

A tiny giggle bubbles out of me. Ella will freak. Kim will probably disapprove. Dad won't say much. Mom will say it's just hair. In the end, though, it's up to me to figure out how to deal with this stupid disease. Or not deal with it. Some
people will support whatever decisions I make and other people won't. “Shut up, Voice Man. We'll tell them we did it for Cops for Cancer, remember?”

“Right.” He touches the curve of my cheek with his thumb. “Cops for Cancer.” His hand drops to my waist; he inches me close. My breath stutters at the feel of his body against mine.

And then he kisses me.

His mouth is warm and searching, tender but surprisingly firm, a contradiction just like Isaac himself. I kiss him back, drowning in the scent of his soap and cologne, the faint taste of mint in his mouth. When he reaches up to touch my head, I stiffen and pull away. “No.”

“Yes.” Before I can move, he kisses me again and this kiss is so consuming my knees buckle and I can't think of anything but him. At some point, somehow, my hat comes off. It doesn't matter; I don't care.

When Isaac finally lifts his head, we're both breathing hard and my stomach is knotted with nerves and desire.

“After that, there's only one thing left to do,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

Yes. No.
“I don't sleep with guys after the first shave.” I'm almost out of breath.

He laughs and drops his arm. The spell is broken.

Come back,
I want to say, feeling almost bereft.
Don't look at my head, just come back and let me kiss you again. Let me forget what you're about to do.

“In that case.” He picks up the razor and lifts a brow. Who knew bald guys were so damned hot? “Will it be toilet or tub?”

Squaring my shoulders, I sit on the edge of the bath and
lower my head. I feel both brave and foolish. This is right. This is good. But what if I have an ugly head? What if I look worse than I do now?

Isaac fiddles with the razor. He has the most competent hands of any guy I've seen. Long, tapered fingers; neat, square nails; a sprinkling of black hair on the backs of his knuckles. My heart skips a beat. The hands of a lover.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

He turns on the razor; a soft hum fills the room. The buzz of cold metal hits my scalp. I jump. “You okay?”

“I'm fine,” I lie.

My hair starts to fall. I don't notice at first. I'm too focused on the foreign feel of hard steel against cold skin, the rush of wind hitting bare scalp. But after a minute, I realize what I'm seeing and as the dark strands fall to the floor, my tears start. I make no move to brush them away; I let them drop: tiny, salty circles plopping onto the fabric of my jeans, bearing witness to my final sacrifice.

After a while, my hair stops falling but Isaac keeps going, skimming my scalp with the razor, following its path with his fingers, gentle and steady and sure. And then he puts the razor down, picks up the cream, and begins to rub it into my head.

My nerve endings come alive. I take a breath and shut my eyes. It's the most intimate feeling: smooth, warm fingers covered in cool cream gliding over hot skin. Naked skin. Goosebumps pepper my arms as he takes the straight edge to my scalp. It is exquisite torture. It reminds me of our kiss. Of how we were together. How we might be next time. And then he stops.

“You might want to rub some of that off.” He hands me a towel.

“Thanks.” I dab my head, drop the towel into the tub. He is waiting for me to get up and look in the mirror but I am scared. I feel so exposed.

He pulls me to my feet. My throat threatens to close. I squeeze my hands together, nails pressing into skin, and I stare at the floor. What if this was a mistake? What if Isaac has second thoughts when he sees me without hair?

He lifts my chin so I'm forced to look right at him. “You're beautiful,” he says. The heat in his eyes scorches me. “You really are.”

I manage a wobbly smile. “You are such a flirt, Voice Man.”

He turns me to the mirror. “Look,” he says. “It's true.” He stands behind me, cradling me with his arms, resting his chin on top of my head. I stare at our image in the mirror. There is no separation; we are one. One body, one smooth, sleek, bald head. Shades of pink and cream and gold and brown. But one.

Overcome with emotion, but not wanting to cry, I shut my eyes. When I open them Isaac is still there, still holding me, still gazing at me with unflappable confidence. And with fire.

He is the sexiest guy I have ever seen. With hair or without. And he likes me. It's still hard to believe. “Thank you.” The words are so hollow, but they're all I have. And anyway, no words could ever convey how much this means to me. “Really.”

He trails a kiss along my scalp to my ear. I start to tremble.
“About that sleeping together on the first shave thing,” he whispers. “Just how set are you on that?”

It is a good thing he is holding me, otherwise I would be a puddle on the floor. “Set.”

He groans softly. “I was afraid of that.”

I turn and face him. “But hair grows fast.” Gently I run two fingers over his clean, sleek scalp. His Adam's apple bobs; I feel a tiny thrill at my power. “I'm pretty sure we'll need to shave again soon.”

He smiles slowly, lazily. The gold flecks in his eyes flash. “Maybe next time we can do it in the shower.”

“Don't get ahead of yourself, Voice Man.”

He laughs.

And right now, with so many unknowns ahead of me, that crazy laugh, and the hope it gives me, is the only thing that matters.

Acknowledgements

Books are generally written in solitude but I'm lucky to have a great deal of support in the wings. Deepest thanks to Fay Melling, Carmen Rogers and Jessa McGregor for sharing their stories and answering so many questions. A big shout out to EC Sheedy, Bonnie Edwards, Vanessa Grant, Gail Whitiker, Alice Valdal and Rachel Goldsworthy for brainstorming help when I was sure I'd dropped the ball. Thanks to Barry, Zachary and Tlell for the love, the laughter, and the clearheaded feedback; I couldn't do this without you guys in my corner. Finally, thanks to my editor, Lynne Missen. Working with you is a privilege and every book you touch is better for it.

RAZORBILL

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First published 2014

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