Chapter 1-2
452 Words
The day ended with Trudy doing five roller sets and five haircuts, mostly walk-ins, none by appointment. People needing haircuts, passing through tourist towns, weren’t big tippers, and certainly didn’t tip well enough to keep the doors open.
At five o’clock, after locking the front door as she turned to leave the store, she was nearly knocked over by a wall of man muscle.
The man, well over six feet tall, blocked her way. He smelled of motor oil, and she stared at a wide chest covered by a black tee shirt and a leather vest. Lifting her gaze, she looked up into oil-black eyes and a toothpaste smile framed by a short, scraggly beard. A thick mustache covered his upper lip and his long black hair, draped over his massive shoulders, gleamed in the fading daylight.
The evening breeze must have sprung up because Trudy shivered as the cool air washed over her.
“Uh, sorry,” said Trudy.
“Are you Trudy Wilson?” asked the man mountain. His deep, resonant voice vibrated off the walls of the covered walkway.
His voice matched his size.
“Yeah.” She nodded, certain she looked like a deer in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
“I’m Bruce. Bruce Carstairs.”
Trudy’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Carstairs. You know, Sharon?”
“Yeah, she’s my sister. I’m lookin’ for her.”
Trudy took a step back so she could see his dark eyes better. The easy smile and his thick thumbs hanging off the pockets of his faded blue jeans made him appear relaxed.
“She left early. Sick,” said Trudy.
“Do you know where she lives?”
Trudy had to think about that one. Was this guy really her brother? And if he was, why didn’t he know where she lived?
“Uh…”
He interrupted her before she could reply. “I know what you must be thinkin’, who is this guy really?” Unhooking his right thumb off his front jeans pocket, he reached into his back pocket. A wallet with a stainless steel chain attached appeared in his hand. Flipping it open, he pulled out a Washington State driver’s license, which he handed to her.
Studying it, she saw sure enough the license photo was his picture and the name was the one he’d given her. Handing the license back to him, she watched as he expertly slipped it inside the billfold, then stuffed the wallet back in the rear pocket of his jeans. Crossing his arms, he gave her an earnest expression.
“I can take you there if you like,” she offered. At first she wondered if she should, but he seemed nice and he seemed okay.
“Okay.” He nodded, his face splitting into a warm smile.
If this was what bikers were really like, then all those lurid stories on the TV were dead wrong. Swallowing, she realized her mouth was dry. Dead wrong?
- Writer
