Hello, Gorgeous!. MaryJanice Davidson

      “Tell him tough noogies. I’ve got an emergency.”

      “You have to cut hair,” Sara sniffed.

      “Yeah, well, one woman’s emergency is another woman’s something-or-other.”

      “I don’t think you’re hearing me. The Boss wants to see you now.”

      “And I don’t think you’re hearing me, Sara, if that is your real name, which I totally doubt: if you don’t get your spying ass out of my face, I’m going to rip your arms off.”

      Sara backed up. “I don’t think—”

      “Good-bye.”

      “—but—”

      Caitlyn turned her back on the smaller woman. The Boss wanted to see her now? Tough luck. She had work to do. She had hair, not to mention that most precious of commodities, a woman’s self-esteem, to save.

      Chapter 12

      “I sent for you thirty-eight hours ago,” the Boss said. Frothed, actually. He’d been drinking a latte, and foam was sticking to his upper lip. It made him look rabid, which was not an entirely unrealistic image. “What the hell took you so long?”

      “I had a hair emergency, then I had to finish my shift, then I had a party.”

      “You had a what?”

      “Which word,” Caitlyn asked slowly and carefully, “do you need me to define?”

      “Party?”

      “Why am I not surprised it’s that word. Okay. A party, noun, is a gathering of friends…um. Friend. Okay, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. A friend is a—”

      “You went to a party? The hair thing I almost get—you’re a small-business owner, you have to please your customers—but a party?”

      “It was an important party,” she said defensively. “Stacy got her real estate license.” Ah, and the beer had flowed, as they said in Dumb and Dumber, like wine.

      She herself found that she could no longer get drunk—the nanobytes in her system neutralized alcohol like it would any foreign body. Stupid nanobytes! But it had been fun to watch everyone else get silly. One thing about being a cybernetic organism: she was always the designated driver.

      She had a sudden vision of herself at age ninety, working her walker and jingling her keys enticingly. “I couldn’t not go. Besides, you’re not supposed to send for me. We’re done, remember?”

      “Should have gotten it in writing,” the Boss said rudely. “I need you to take care of something for me.”

      “If it’s your nail beds, them I’m your girl. Otherwise, tough shit.”

      “Never mind my nail beds,” he snapped, peeking at his fingers.