His best guess was that Newt, a product of the Great Depression, had locked in the first paying customer to come along.
Troy had fond memories of fishing in the Everglades with Uncle Newt, but they had eaten everything they caught, and that meant everything. He’d almost gagged on the grilled salamander and he’d wondered if Newt ate the leftover bait when Troy went home to his parents….
His cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts, and Troy flipped it open. “Hey, Jerry.”
His attorney said, “Hey, yourself.”
“Any luck finding a clause to break the lease?”
“I hate to disappoint you, but old Newt made sure the damn things were watertight. He didn’t want anyone sliming out of their rent money.”
Troy cursed.
“But if you can catch them on some violation, then you’re good to proceed with eviction.”
“What kind of violation?”
“Well, salons are notoriously regulated, and there are all kinds of little rules they might not be in compliance with. And remember, they have to have permits from the city for every single thing, from electrical outlets to drainage to cleanliness. See if you can get them on something. Maybe they snuck in an extra footbath somewhere, or a manicure table. Maybe they’re not disinfecting the sink to standards. Or the pH in their shampoo ain’t right. Hell, I don’t know. You’ll have to get in there and see.”
“How am I supposed to recognize what’s code and what’s not? Can you fax me the regulations for Miami?”
“Fax them? The regs will be the size of the phone book. You asked me to keep your bill down.”
Yes, Troy had. Jerry wasn’t cheap. “Well, yeah, but I’m flying blind here! Can you overnight me a copy?”
“I’ll get an intern on it. You’ll have ’em by tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s the new house?”
“Peachy,” Troy growled. Real estate had gone sky high in South Florida, and Coral Gables was a primo location, so his three-bedroom shack was a great investment in spite of its appalling interior. Troy actually looked forward to the do-it-yourself challenge—it would distract him for the next year or so while he accustomed himself to not being part of a football organization. Until he got his sporting goods store going, he had way too much time on his hands.
Troy was also going to have to accustom himself to being on a budget. As a former strong safety for the Jacksonville Jaguars, he wasn’t used to that. But the stock market had been performing poorly, he had his nieces and nephew to think about and he’d lost his coaching job in Gainesville after the team went on a losing streak. Just business, nothing personal.
In a heartbeat he’d gone from being a big cheese in Jacksonville to a…cheese doodle. He was unaccustomed to being a nobody and, frankly, it abraded his ego. Hell, nobody in South Florida even recognized him, much less asked for an autograph.
But beyond that, Troy wanted to control his own financial future: he was sick of being jerked around like a puppet by various football organizations, just as he was sick of women who used him for his connection to them. It was time to change all of that.
He considered hiring Jerry’s intern to snoop around After Hours, but decided to suck it up and do it himself. He’d park in the back, and hopefully the curvy redhead wouldn’t recognize him in daylight. All she’d really seen was a head in a car.
He ended the call with Jerry, cutting off his banter about the Miami Heat and the unbearable mosquitoes this time of year. At a cool three hundred an hour, Jerry loved to have long conversations with his clients and then bill them for the pleasure. Once, Troy would have played along, but not now. Jerry could discuss free throws and insect larvae at somebody else’s expense.
Troy glared again at After Hours and the hundreds of foo-foo bottles and jars in the window. Snooty, tooty-fruity place.
He pictured canoes, camping equipment, mountain bikes in that window. Hiking boots and parkas, wet suits and surfboards. Rugged, outdoorsy stuff.
He pictured a gathering place for sports-minded, manly men. Hell, maybe he’d install a wide-screen TV and some seating and serve beer himself! If the Pretty Palace could, then he sure as hell could. The vision grew in his head until he saw himself presiding over a retail version of Cheers. He’d have company all day and everyone would know his name…he’d be, if not a big cheese, a medium one.
Troy gave a mighty yawn and thanked the Guy Upstairs that he didn’t have to play Peeping Tom again tonight. Being sleep deprived made him cranky.
But no matter what it took, he’d get this silly salon and spa off his property. He just had to get inside the damn place and figure out how.
2
“PEG,” THE RECEPTIONIST reasoned at After Hours Salon and Spa, “how are you going to meet Mr. Right when you won’t go out?”
Peggy Underwood, the spa’s manager and massage therapist, rolled her eyes. “I’m going to buy him from a pet store, already housebroken.” She no longer believed in Mr. Right. She was pretty sure that he’d been dreamed up by Disney, like Donald and Goofy and Mickey.
“Peggy! You’re so cynical.”
“Yeah. And I refuse to apologize for it. I told you about the weirdo staring at us from the parking lot last night.”
Shirlie looked uncomfortable. “He was probably harmless, but I’m glad you got rid of him.”
Peg twisted off the cap of a body mist and sprayed some into the air. She sniffed. “Nice. Breezy. Gardenias.” She squirted some under each arm of her white lab coat, recapped the bottle and stuck it onto one of the spa’s shelves.
Shirlie laughed and tossed her short blond curls. Peg looked at them with envy. Why hadn’t she been born tall, thin and blond, instead of short, curvy and carrottopped?
“Come on,” Shirlie urged. “This new club is fab. Hot men, cold drinks, great music!” She kept on blandishing. Shirlie was twenty-two, fresh-faced and eternally optimistic.
Peggy herself was twenty-nine, cynical and currently cranky, even though she kept reminding herself that she didn’t like cranky people. “I think what you mean, Shirl, is gay or gruesome men, cheap, watered-down vodka and lip-synching to the latest prepackaged boy band. I love you, hon, but I think I’ll pass.”
Men were of no interest to Peggy for the next fifty-two weeks; she was committed to finding her center. Before the year was out, she’d be floating in a state of total balance between mind, body and spirit. She’d taken up meditation, she was reading about Buddhism and she not only gave massages and treatments but underwent them regularly herself.
Peg popped the lids off some new erotic lipsticks from Sugar Lips and inspected them. Nice. High quality. Very kissable. The company was new, and she’d only recently discovered it.
Since the image for After Hours was oriented to sexy, evening fun she’d tested one and ordered some immediately. They glided on beautifully and tasted delicious.
She chose three different flavors and drew stripes of them on the inside of her wrist: one cinnamon raspberry, one pink and one deep slut red. “Hmm. Try this on, okay?” She tossed the red one to Shirlie.
She tested the pinky cinnamon one on herself, applying the Ride Him Raspberry generously.
Then she lip-synched—puckered up against an invisible microphone—to the Brazilian pop song on the sound system. She moonwalked to the