collar and settle back in the auld-school leather seat. The whole place is fashioned similar to where Da took my wee brathair, Leith, and me back when we grew up in the Scottish Highlands. Linoleum floors, chrome, and leather chairs, a sign that looks like half of a wee candy cane. But I’m not chasing nostalgia, and I sure as feck didna come in for a social session. Anytime I schedule, though, the lad clears the place out. This is about me.
Me and me beard.
One could say I love my beard about as much as I love my Mam, my six brathairs, my Da, my clan! My fingers curl around the chrome finish of the armrest, and I’m telling myself to enjoy the self-care time. I work hard, toss my weight around, threaten, murder, I’ve earned this wee slice of heaven. Dinna think of her. Dinna think . . .
I lose focus. From the corner of my eye, there’s a slight tremor in the Barber’s hand while he slathers the shaving cream. I live for the earthy scent of this stuff: coriander, eucalyptus, peppermint. At first inhale, I’ll have relaxed.
Not today.
The Barber admits, “Yer a bit testy—more than usual.”
I pin him with the look. Blether over. As the cool cream lines the perimeter of my beard, I close my eyes and contemplate the Barber’s statement. Aye, I’m nae sunshine and daisies. But Justice did this to me. God made women from the rib of man, not the other way around. Her unwillingness to abide by the rules has made me a cold-blooded crabbit!
I force myself to focus on the straight razor traveling along the edge of my jaw, lining up my beard. It took ages for me to trust the Barber while my eyes are closed.
In my line of work, one must never let down his guard. Sightless, I’m vigilant. Though, from appearances my bulky muscles have relaxed. I focus on the procession. Best to think of that then Justice anyway. The sharp shearer lowers onto my skin, drags over my vein, travels around, and then lifts again. Lower, travel, lift.
At the break in the procession, I peel my eyes just so and gauge the Barber’s location. He’s at my right. Someone else’s here.
That lad’s behind me. Well, now, that makes the guy a dead motherfecker. In a mighty jerk, my head slams backward.
He gasps in surprise.
A garrote, meant for my fecking throat, misses its mark. The sharp wire bites through my white shirt, slicing along my chest. Not the effect the arsehole was aiming for. I lift my arms, grip the man’s scrawny neck, and wrench him from over the left side of my shoulder. He’s nae wee lad, but I’m a big motherfecker.
A bad motherfecker.
A mad motherfecker.
My so-called assailant tumbles to the ground. I anchor a hand at the counter and the other on the armrest. The shite-part of my boot clobbers down. I stomp the man’s spine, his neck, give him a swift kick up the arse. Reaching down, I grip his collar, and glare at the bloody pulp. “Who the feck do ye work for?”
Red-stained teeth grit out, “Ki-kiss my . . .”
My knuckles slaughter his mouth. The sharp jolts of pain are a subtle reminder that I was pissed moments ago and the focus of my wrath was Justice Flowers.
My gaze sweeps toward a soft trembling movement to the left. The Barber I’ve trusted for five years still has the straight razor in his hand. The light from above reflects across the dangerous blade.
I open my palm. “May I?”
He gestures to the razor.
“Aye.”
When he hands it over, I pay tribute to Justice by saying a quick, gritted “thank you.”
She’d be proud.
Fisting the handle, I reach down and point the blade at the lad. “They call me the surgeon because I’m really good at what I do. The Glasgow smile’s my specialty.” My hard eyes glower into him. “Yer deid. But I’ll give ye two choices. Death with that arse ugly mug. Or we give ye a brilliant face, aye?”
Fear glints in his eyes.
I press the knife-edge to his jaw, leaving a clean, taunting gash. “Ya see, I’ve this way with me hands. Cutting lads comes deid natural to me. Wit’s in gonna be? Who are ye?”
The dimensions of his pupils are enormous. On top of being an eejit, the Ned’s a druggy. Aye, that’s why he’d target me, nae strategy.