“You need to focus on your life.”
“My life is not the one in danger.”
“We don’t even know if mine is either.”
“Kleo.” Dean’s strained voice breaks through to the part of me that is afraid. When I look up at him, my stomach twists. He turns me to face him then lifts both of my hands in his own and presses a kiss to each knuckle. “If you don’t want security here, fine. But please let Judson stay. All the help we can get—please, Kleo. If anything happens to you—”
“Fine.” I say, turning back to my brother. “But Dean and I are sharing a room and a bed.” I glance between him and my dad. “This is our home, but you’re welcome to stay in the spare room.”
Judson nods. “I’ll go get my things.”
33
Kleo
Guiding my campers over to the bleachers, I take a seat on the bottom rung while they spread out above me. "How about we try to get to know each other a little better?"
"Why?" One girl, Colleen, asks with attitude.
"Why not?" I keep a smile on my face, not wanting any of them to see the nerves beneath the surface. Ever since this morning’s rendezvous with my brother, father, and the sheriff, I’ve been on edge. Terrified that someone is going to come after me again and hating that the sense of safety I’d reached with Dean was just ripped out from under me.
"Because you don't give a shit about us," she mutters, crossing both arms. "You're paid to babysit us the last summer before we graduate. We should be at home, not here in the middle of nowhere."
"Okay, then what would you be doing if you were home?"
Colleen doesn't answer, but another girl, Jazzy, raises her hand. Dark curly hair pulled back in a tight pony tail, she's pretty and the most respectful of the group, a kind girl with soft green eyes and dark skin. "I'd probably be babysitting my sister."
"How old is she?"
"Four. Both my parents run their own business, so I usually watch her while they work."
"Nice. How about you?" I ask Teagan.
"Making money."
The group laughs, and I smile. "Making money doing what?"
"I don't know. Something." Freckles dot her nose, and her hair—the same red color as my mother’s—is braided into two tight braids she's got slung over each shoulder.
"I'd be cutting hair at my mom's house," Rebecca, a brunette who's been the most shy says softly, barely loud enough for me to hear.
"Oh yeah? You like to cut hair?"
She nods. "My mom—she has a salon, but she's been sick lately, so I started taking her clients for her. They don't seem to mind."
An idea sparks, and I straighten. "Would you cut my hair?"
Her eyes widen almost comically, and she stares at me. "Huh?"
"I could use something different. How about we take the afternoon off and just do fun stuff. You can chop off my hair, and I'll show you guys how talented I am with eyeliner."
“You’re going to let me cut your hair?” She looks completely taken aback, and honestly, as I glance around, the rest of them do too. Good. Sometimes to get to the root of someone, you have to lower their walls. Since I don’t have months to dedicate, I’m going for a shock and awe factor.
Besides, I really could use a change. Something I can control.
“Come on, let’s go.” I get up and hear the rustling of them behind me as they climb down and onto the ground. I walk over to the main cabin and turn around. “Hang out here. I’ll be right back.” I step inside and am damn grateful no one is inside.
Moving down the hall to my room, I retrieve my makeup bag, a bright red, hard-shelled case that I honestly rarely open. After my attack, I didn’t care much for trying to make myself look better.
As I mentioned, there was a long time where I wondered if it was my fault. I overanalyzed every single interaction I ever had with my attacker. Wondering if I’d behaved differently, dressed differently, things would have been different. Of course, logically I know that’s the mentality of a victim.
Having a psychology degree doesn’t make someone immune to suffering the after-effects of violence. Taking a deep breath, I step back out into the sun, grateful to see the girls looking the most excited they have since arriving yesterday morning.
“I can’t believe you’re going to let her cut your hair,” Nicole adds.
“Why not? It’s just hair, right?”
“What if she majorly screws up?” Mia asks.
“Then we’ll have a good laugh and move on.” I head back toward their cabin, the girls following behind me. “Either way, it’ll be an experience to write home about.”
We crowd into the cabin, and I take a seat on the floor, right in the center. Opening my case, I withdraw the silver hair scissors I bought last year when I thought I’d keep up with my bangs. I did—once. Have to say, pretty damn glad they’re getting some use finally. I look up at Rebecca, holding the scissors up. “Let’s do this.”
She hesitates a moment before taking them. “How short do you want it?”
“What’s the shortest you think I can go while not looking horrible?”
She smiles, a crack in the armor. “I think you could shave it all off and not look horrible.”
I throw my head back and laugh as the girls around me smile. “Let’s not shave it all off. How about here?” I hold my hand up to halfway up my neck, a few inches below my jaw.
Rebecca nods. “I think that will look great.”
“Then let’s do it.”
“One sec.” She steps over to her bunk and pulls a duffel out from beneath the bottom bunk. Digging around inside the black canvas for a moment, she pulls out a set of combs and walks over to me, kneeling at my back. “Okay, ready.”
“Awesome. Make me beautiful,” I say, and the other girls take seats on the floor in front of me.
I haven’t had my hair cut in years. A trim here and there—sure, as well as the aforementioned bang incident. But as far as actual length? I don’t think it’s been cut short since I was a kid refusing to brush my hair. My mom had chopped it off to just below my shoulders then, and I swore never to do it again.
So when Rebecca runs her comb through my hair and I hear that first snip of the scissors, I can’t help but feel a bit terrified. But, it’s just hair. If it looks horrible, it’ll just grow back. It won’t be permanent, but the confidence I’m hoping to instill in these girls—the memories—they’ll last lifetimes.
And the giggles, the conversation erupting around me, it’s enough to pull me out of my own head.
Dean
My inbox empty, I shut my laptop and stare at the open door of my office. Anger, guilt, fear—the emotions are fucking overwhelming, and I want nothing more than to find out what asshole is screwing with Kleo now so I can track them down and kick their ass.
She looked so terrified when Al showed her the mirror. A broken piece of glass that I thought was nothing but a harmless piece of waste. I still don’t understand how something so simple, so small, could strike such deep-rooted fear, but it did. As I looked at Kleo, hoping to offer her some kind of reassurance, I realized I was terrified too.