Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 8
Roman
She was all I could think about last night.
Today, I can’t think. Can’t focus.
Yesterday, she was an inspiration.
A beautiful inspiration.
Today she’s a distraction.
A fucking distraction.
I need to see her again.
Plain and simple.
Why didn’t I take down her phone number? Or email? Stupid, stupid me.
What was her address? I can’t fucking remember.
She said she worked as a manicurist. There are a shitload of nail salons in this city. It could be any one.
Then, suddenly in the middle of my morning coffee, it hits me. I can contact her friend Harper. I have both her phone number and email address. Grabbing my phone, I text her.
Hi, Harper. I need a favor.I hit send and wait for a response with baited breath.
Nada. Fucking nada.
I stare at the screen. Thirty long minutes go by. My coffee is cold. And I’m so antsy I could jump out of my skin.
I need to dispel this frenetic energy. My frustration.
For the next hour, I work out in my home gym, located on the top floor of my dwelling. Running a seven-minute mile on the treadmill and pumping weights until every muscle in my body aches. But the muscle that aches the most is my heart. And that’s not all that aches. Still no response from Harper, I’m about to hop into my steam shower to relieve myself when my phone pings. A text. Stark naked, I grab my cell from the double sink counter. It’s Harper!
Hi! What’s up?
Before I can type a letter, she texts me again.
Sorry for the late response. I was in a staff meeting.
And then yet another text. This girl’s fingers move at the speed of lightning.
BTW, everyone loved your interview.
Great. Hey, can you tell me where your friend Sofi works?
Some nail place.
Jesus.
Do you know the name of it?
I think it’s called Pink Lady or something like that.
Progress.
Where’s it located?
No clue. She moves around a lot.
Shit.
Can you text me her phone number?
Have to do it later. It’s on speed dial. I’m late for a meeting. Bye!
The connection ends. I want to throw my phone at a wall, but I need it to find out where the hell Pink Lady is. I hit the Google icon and in the search bar type: Pink Lady nail salon Manhattan.
To my utter chagrin, a dozen entries pop up. There are Pink Ladies all over the city. It must be some kind of chain. Throwing on a robe, I begin to call each one, asking if I can book an appointment with Sofi Lockhart.
I get the same response. Again and again. “Sorry, we no have a Sofi.”
Frustration is crawling through me like an army of ants. I have one more salon to call. If she doesn’t work there, it’s back to square one.
The phone on the other end rings and rings. My muscles tense with each successive one. I’m about to give up when someone answers. The Asian-accented voice sounds like all the others.
“Hello. Pink Lady.”
“Can I book an appointment with Sofi this morning?”
The voice: “She very busy today.”
I punch the air with my fist. Yes! I’ve found her!
“You want mani-pedi?”
No, I want her. “Yeah,” I murmur.
“You come and we try to fit you in.”
The call ends.
I find the salon easily. Located on busy Amsterdam Avenue just north of 86th, the storefront is sandwiched between a greasy deli and a shoe repair place. Swinging the door open, I dash inside.
I take in my surroundings; the joint looks like it’s been painted with gallons of Pepto Bismol and Milk of Magnesia. Several women are lounging on hot-pink pleather chairs in the cramped reception area, working their cell phones or reading one of the many fashion magazines strewn on the cheap white Formica coffee table. I eye one of the headlines on the cover of a recent Vogue: Who is Roman Hurst? No one knows . . . and definitely not any of these women. While a few eye me, probably because I’m the only man among them, and it’s hard to ignore my imposing presence. I’m wearing my basic black uniform, but I’ve added dark Ray-Bans to avert attention to my eye patch. After all these years, I’m still self-conscious about it.
Ignoring my onlookers, I stomp up to the reception desk. The receptionist, a petite Asian woman with an onyx bob, is on the phone. I interrupt her.
“Excuse me . . . ”
She glances up at me. “I be right with you.”
Wanting to shake the phone out of her hand, I feel myself bristle. Patience is not one of my virtues. While she babbles on, in her annoying singsong voice, my good eye scours the small but bustling salon in search of Sofi. She’s nowhere to be found. Anxiety coils inside me. Maybe she’s on a coffee break? Or in the restroom? Or . . . Maybe she doesn’t work here. So fed up with calling salon after salon, I didn’t mention her last name. I only asked to book an appointment with Sofi. Any one of these manicurists could be a Sofi. Or Sophie. It’s a popular name. I should have spelled it out. Or mentioned her last name. It’s not too late.
The receptionist gets off the phone.
“I want to get my nails done with Sofi. S-O-F-I Lockhart.”
“She all booked up today.”
Bingo!She’s here!
“Unbook her!” I growl. “Now!”
The receptionist looks terrified. “But she with client!”
Not for long. In one of the mirrored walls, I spot her in a far corner. Her pink-streaked hair tied up in a messy bun, she’s wearing a long black apron, like the other manicurists, over butterfly-patterned leggings. Her back to me, I get a glimpse of her tight little ass peeking out from the apron before she takes a seat next to her client, who’s soaking her feet in a basin and talking on her phone so loudly I can hear her from where I’m standing. Wasting no time, I lope over to her, taking giant steps. The tiny receptionist trails behind me, pleading for me to stop. Screw her.
“Get up!” I fling the words at her client like poisonous darts.
Sitting in an elevated massage chair, the buxom middle-aged woman pauses from her phone conversation and shoots me a scathing look.
“Excuse me?”
Sofi swivels around. Her eyes and mouth wide open. “Oh my God! What are you doing here?”
“I want a mani-pedi.” My good eye bores into her client, who seems determined not to budge. “Get the fuck out of my chair.” If she doesn’t, I’m going to physically throw the bitch out the door on her ass.
“I so sorry,” squeaks the frazzled receptionist, catching up to me. She tries to assuage the now fuming woman.
“Tell her there was a screw-up. That I was booked with Sofi first.”
Paling, the flustered receptionist does as she’s told, and slowly, the dowdy woman makes her way out of the chair, shooting me the dirtiest of dirty looks. It bounces off me as if I’m wearing armor. With a smug smile, I watch her bend down to retrieve her shoes and handbag. When she stands up, I hand her a hundred-dollar bill.
“I’m sorry for any inconvenience I’ve caused you.” See, I’m not a total asshole. “Your mani-pedi’s on me. Leave a big tip.”
She snatches the bill without as much as a smile or thank-you. With a snarl on her lips, she follows the receptionist, who’s gathered her nail polish, to another station. See ya!
“Where were we?” I ask Sofi, who’s still reeling. She leaps to her feet and grimaces.
“Careful with your knee.”
Ignoring my comment, she splays her slender hands on her narrow hips. Her eyes shimmer with fury. “How the hell could you do that? She’s one of my best clients!”
I inwardly chuckle. She’s so cute when she’s mad.
“Well, now you’re going to get an even better one.” I hop into the massage chair, unpleasantly warm from its previous occupant. “I want the works.”