Alex pushes to a sitting position and nuzzles my boobs. “That sounds like the best fucking idea in the universe.”

11

Tricky Trickster

for the Win

VIOLET

My post-sex hair is damp, and I’m tucked into Alex’s side.

He brushes the hair away from my forehead. “I’ll be a lot happier when I can give you more than one orgasm at a time.”

“There are a lot of women in the world who have to fake every single orgasm they have, so I don’t think you should feel too bad about doling them out one at a time for a few weeks.”

Alex makes a disgusted sound. “What does that even say about the guys those women are with?”

“You can’t really fault them when the women are pretending to get off.”

“I don’t know. You’d think it’d be obvious when a woman is faking it.”

“Not if she fakes it from the beginning,” I argue.

Alex shifts so he can look me in the eye. He’s particularly intense. “You’ve never faked it with me, have you?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“Yes.”

“No, Alex, at no point have I had to do Kegels to cover a lack of orgasm.”

“You’re sure?” His insecurity is endearing.

“You make me come every time. Super MC is my beaver’s soulmate.”

He laughs. “I love you, Violet Hall.” For some reason he sounds sad.

“I love you, too, Alex Waters.”

We lie there for a few minutes, and I start thinking about the conversation I had with Charlene today. I could tell Alex now that I want to set a wedding date. I probably should.

I lift my head. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is even. “Alex?”

I don’t get a response.

“Baby?”

Still nothing. He’s out cold. The man can fall asleep faster than Sleeping Beauty.

I blow out a breath, annoyed at myself that I’ve missed a perfectly good opportunity to make him happy. I press my lips to his temple and whisper, “I can’t wait to be Violet Waters.”

When it’s clear Alex is in serious nap mode and my mind is too busy spinning for me to join him, I get out of bed and put on clothes.

While Alex naps, and Daisy’s out adding to the bomb shelter’s worth of food in the pantry and cold cellar, I sneak into her bathroom, open the window, and empty her aerosol cans of hairspray. There are three on the counter. I leave a tiny bit in one and then hide the one can I have in the back of my closet.

I finish Mission: Dehelmetify Daisy’s Hair as the house alarm beeps, signaling she’s back. I don’t let the guilt eat at me too much, because I’m doing this for a woman whose hairdresser clearly doesn’t know what decade it is. Someone has to step in.

-&-

The next morning Daisy comes knocking on our bedroom door at an ungodly hour. I roll out of bed and grab my robe. I’m wearing shorts and a tank, but still. The tank is white, and Daisy’s already seen more than enough of me while she’s been here. She knocks, but often doesn’t wait until she gets the go-ahead to come in.

Shrugging on the robe, I tiptoe to the door before the knocking wakes Alex. He’s been having performance anxiety dreams, so his sleep has been broken, and so has mine. He’s also used to sleeping on his right side most of the time—so he can spoon me and nestle his dick in the cleft of my ass—and he can’t currently do this because of his shoulder. To compensate, he holds on to some part of me, whatever is closest—my arm, my hair, my boob. The latter is the most common.

I check to make sure I don’t have any dried drool on my cheek before I slip out into the hall, closing the door behind me. “Is everything okay, Daisy?”

“I’m so sorry I woke you, but it’s an emergency.” Her eyes are frantic. Her hair is flat and wet.

“What’s wrong?”

She touches her hair. “Well, I have to pick up Robbie from the airport at nine, and I don’t have any hairspray left.”

“Oh.” I have to suppress my smile of victory.

“I was wondering if you had a can? I could make do with the pump-spray bottles if that’s all you’ve got.”

“I can check for you.”

She releases a tense breath. “That’d be great.”

I steal back into the room. Glancing at the clock, I’m horrified to see it’s only six-fifteen in the morning. It must take a considerable amount of time and hairspray to coif her ’do into rock-hard helmet mode.

Padding to the bathroom, I give it a good minute or two of fake searching before I grab an alternate hair product. As I step out into the hall, I put on my sad face. “I’m so sorry, Daisy. I don’t have any hairspray, but I have gel.” I hold up the bottle. I know it’s not even remotely the same, but I’m pretending to be helpful.

“That really won’t work. Do you think you have any in the spare rooms?”

“We can check.” I know for a fact we don’t, because I’ve taken care of removing all traces of hairspray from the house. Phase one of my mission is complete; now we’re on to phase two: Fix the Helmet.

It might be a disgusting time to be awake on a Saturday morning, but I’ll bite the bullet and manage if it means I can finally hug Daisy without getting a mouthful of crunchy, over-sprayed hair.

I go through the motions while Daisy hovers behind me, growing more and more distressed. When I come back empty-handed, she starts to tear up.