Idol (VIP 1)

The limo turns up Fifth Avenue, and a shaft of sunlight slides through the windows. Brenna’s red-gold hair gleams brightly. “Only my stylist knows, hon. But I do have some ideas for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m going to enjoy this,” she says with satisfaction.

Five minutes later, the limo pulls up in front of a salon. We’re whisked into a lounge area that is cordoned off from the main salon. There, a ridiculously gorgeous woman with brilliant pink hair, wearing what has to be the perfect little black dress, offers us a beverage.

I look around with wide eyes as I sip my chai-matcha tea—honestly, they must have a barista on staff. The space is all white, so pristine it seems to glow.

Lady Pink returns within a minute. “If you ladies will follow me.”

“They’re ready for me?” I slant Brenna a look. “Did you have an appointment already set up?”

Brenna matches my stride. “Of course I did. I’m a planner.”

“And I am apparently predictable.”

“Hardly.” Brenna’s sleek ponytail sways with a shake of her head. “Besides, if I needed to reschedule, they’d work around me. Even you have to realize the power Killian’s name wields.”

“At a salon?”

Brenna smirks. “Do you know how important that man’s damn hair is? That close crop you did on him nearly broke the internet.”

I can only gape.

“I know,” she says, amused. “Young girls were crying over the loss of his beloved flowing locks, as if it signified the coming of the apocalypse.”

“I was under the impression his hair was overgrown.”

That snags her attention. “It was. But he usually wears it chin-length. You really didn’t know who he was when you met?”

I resist the urge to squirm under her stare. She might not look very much like Killian, but clearly their interrogation skills were inherited from the same ancestors. “He was the last person I expected to find on my lawn. I guess my brain never connected any dots.”

My sneakers slap against the concrete stairs as the salon hostess guides us up to the next level. She looks down her nose at my Chucks but apparently knows better than to risk more than that. I shake my head and pull my attention back to Brenna.

“But honestly, the only place I might have seen Killian is on an album, and he isn’t on a single Kill John cover. None of them are. Why is that?”

“In the beginning, it was a statement. No pretense, just music. Now it’s tradition.” She waggles her perfect brows. “Of course it also helps add to their mystique and unattainability. But that was my doing.”

I’d guess Killian doesn’t care about that one whit, but she appears so proud that I nod.

My stylist is Lia, who immediately begins running her fingers through my hair while peering at me in the mirror. Until now, haircuts for me have been taking the scissors to my split ends. Who knew someone massaging my scalp and simply playing with my hair would be so relaxing. But my lack of styling clearly shows, because Lia and Brenna start discussing their plan of attack.

“We’ll shape around your face and give your hair some movement,” Lia explains.

“She’s got great summer highlights,” Brenna adds. “But maybe add a bit of richness to her base color?”

One hour later, my hair is wrapped in tin, and I’m stuck under a heater while two women do my nails. Brenna has been dancing around me, almost giddy.

“Next we’re getting your brows tinted a shade darker and shaped. And then we’ll go shopping for clothes. No, lunch first. Then clothes.”

“Don’t leave out my carrot,” I remind her.

“Oh, the massages we save for last. We don’t want to ruin our chill.” She gives a happy sigh. “I might even throw in a facial. Yeah. That sounds heavenly.”

It’s hard to resist her enthusiasm. In lots of ways, she’s a female version of Killian with her easy charm and bull-in-a-china-shop method of taking over. In some ways, that helps. It isn’t in my nature to make easy friends or do small talk. With Brenna, I simply sit back and let her roll.

“Oh,” she exclaims, “I forgot about the shoes! And—you think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

Caught giving her a bemused smile, I can only shrug. “I kind of envy the way you enjoy your excitement. I’m more contained, and sometimes I’d rather not be.”

The manicurists leave, setting my hands under mini dryers. My nails are now a dusky, pale blue. After my hair is done, Brenna and I will get pedis to match. I’ve never had one, and suddenly I find that sad. Living under a rock was a waste of life.

Brenna toys with a hair clip. “I’m not always like this.” She leans in, her eyes wide behind her retro glasses. “Most people think I’m a bitch.”

“I get that from people too.” Mainly because I have no idea how to talk to others without wanting to swallow my tongue.