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always have it, right?”
    My hand drags through the wiry hairs that cover my face.
    And the scar.
    “It’s new,” I say.
    Up ahead, the two of them come to a hard stop outside a door with my name on it. Blake raps three times before shoving it open.
    “Oh, good, you guys are here,” he says before turning to me. “All right. Hair and makeup, and then I’ll be back shortly to go over programming.”
    “Where’s Topaz?” Michelle asks, leaning in the doorway. I’ve yet to step inside.
    “Long story,” a woman’s voice says. “I’m filling in.”
    “You have a name?” Michelle squints. I don’t think she’s trying to be rude, she’s just one of those people who won’t have time for pleasantries when she’s about to put on a live show in the next half hour.
    “Aidy,” she says. “Aidy Kincaid.”
    Fuck. Me.
    Michelle exhales, lips flat. “Okay, Aidy, are you familiar with hot lights and studio makeup?”
    “Yes, ma’am. Well versed,” she says, her voice laced in humble confidence.
    Michelle gives her a thumbs up before hooking Blake’s arm and dragging him down the hall.
    Pulling my shoulders tight, I take a deep breath and step in. There are two women on the far side of the small room, one wielding a boar bristle brush and a can of hair spray and the other, who is evidently the very same mystery woman whose kid handed me her business card just last night, hunched over a makeup case with her back to me.
    “We’re doing hair first,” the first woman says. “Shouldn’t take long. Makeup’s the part that takes forever. These damn hot lights.”
    I stand, eyes moving toward Aidy’s backside. She’s wearing white jean shorts that barely cover her ass, and they’re frayed at the bottom. Her legs are long and tan, muscled yet lean, like a runner’s. The off-shoulder blouse she’s wearing shows off her smooth back and her blonde hair is loose and wavy, dusting the tops of her shoulders when she moves.
    “Have a seat, Mr. Amato,” the hair stylist says, draping a black smock around my shoulders and tying it behind my neck. “Make yourself comfortable. You need any water or anything?”
    “I’m good.” My gaze is fixed on Aidy still, watching as her shirt rides up and gives a peek of her bare flesh, which is tan and contrasts against her distractingly short shorts.
    “Love your hair. I’m Stacia by the way,” she says, dragging her fingers through my mane. “This cut looks fantastic on you. Wasn’t expecting you to come in with a full beard though. Most of my guys are clean-shaven. I can shave you if you’d–”
    “No.”
    “Okay, no biggie,” Stacia says, crouching to a duffel back on the floor. “You know; I think I actually have some beard balm in here, believe it or not. We really want it to look soft and conditioned, but we don’t want it too shiny under the lights, you know?”
    She’s talking to herself at this point, at least as far as I’m concerned, and my attention is still pointed at Aidy as she rifles through her makeup case.
    “Found it,” Stacia declares a moment later. She returns to my side, a brush tucked under one arm and a concentrating expression on her face. Her hair is dyed platinum blonde, and she wears skintight leggings with some space-themed print on them. Stacia reminds me of a Swedish pop star with a Brooklyn accent. “Here we go.”
    She runs her brush through my hair, shaping it in the direction she wants it to go, and then whips out a can of aerosol hairspray.
    “Close your eyes,” she says.
    Psssst.
    Pssssssst.
    Psst.
    Psssssssssssssst.
    My nostrils tickle and I cough up half a lung, waving the cloud of chemicals out of my airspace.
    “Smells like a beauty salon,” I say.
    “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Stacia paws her hand at me and turns to pack up her stuff. When she passes by, she rests her hand on my shoulder, her gaze fixed on my hair. “All right. Looking good. One down. One to go.”
    She shuts the door behind her