Ian felt like he was about to burst. Like a goddamn pinata, only instead of candy and confetti, the whole place would be covered with his insides. The reason for his barely survivable urge to hit something was simple. Saturday. Which means his mother's salon was packed with single moms, gossiping office ladies, and aging cougars on the prowl. He felt like a piece of meat thrown to the wolves, the sickly sweet smell of floral perfumes and acetone burning his nostrils.

Fuck everything. I need a damn smoke.

Jumping up from his chair, Ian stormed out of the salon, pushing the door open so hard that the jingle bells clattered loudly. The afternoon sun hit his face as he leaned against the brick wall behind the building,掏出 a crumpled pack of cigarettes. His mother hated him smoking back here, but he didn't give a shit right now. It was either the nicotine or a broken storefront. The choice seemed obvious.

He lit up, the first drag burning his throat in the most satisfying way. I could leave, he thought wildly. Just walk away, never look back. Find Miguel, get back in the game... But even as the idea formed, he knew he couldn't do it. Couldn't do that to his mom, not after everything she'd done for him. I'm stuck in this pink hell. Fucking pathetic.

The cigarette burned down to the filter. He flicked it away, grinding it out with the heel of his scuffed sneaker. No escaping it. Time to get back in there, put on a fucking smile for the ladies. He pushed off the wall with a resigned sigh.

"There you are!" Letty chirped as he slunk back inside. She wrinkled her nose dramatically. "Ugh, you stink like an ashtray. The fuck, Ian?"

"Fuck off," he muttered, shouldering past her. She just laughed, used to his Saturday mood.

He barely had time to slip on his white coat before a hand clamped onto his forearm. He looked up into the heavily made-up face of a 40-something bleach blonde, her red lips curved into a predatory smile.

"Well, hello there, handsome," she purred, her gaze raking over him like he was on display. "I'm Candace. I'll be your two o'clock."

Her fingers dug into his bicep as she leaned in close, her cloying perfume making his eyes water. "I've been a very bad girl," she stage-whispered. "I hope you won't be too rough with me."

Ian suppressed a shudder of revulsion, painfully aware of her wedding ring digging into his arm. Don't snap, don't snap, she's a client, he chanted internally. He forced his lips into some semblance of a smile, gently but firmly detaching her grip.

After what felt like an eternity, Candace finally left. Ian slumped in his chair, rubbing his temples. Christ, what a day.

Just as he was considering sneaking out for another smoke, the bell above the door chimed. Ian looked up, ready to paste on another fake smile - and froze.

Oh shit. It's her.

He breathed her name, straightening up so fast he nearly knocked over the bottle of acetone. "I mean, uh, hey. What are you doing here?"

Stupid question, he berated himself. It's her usual appointment time. God, could I be more of an idiot? And stop tying your tongue in a pretzel, asshole!

He quickly grabbed the fancy hand lotion he'd purchased specifically for her - too expensive for this place, but nobody needed to know about that.

"I mean, have a seat! Choose a color and shape, mm? And tell me how your week has been."