Suede to Rest by Diane Vallere

can’t have you showing up with me. If you’re adventurous, you can use the shower here. Sometimes I get caught late and can’t make it home, so I installed it. It’s pretty bare-bones for the high-maintenance salon crowd around San Ladrón, but it works for me.”
    I followed her through the garage to a door in the back corner. How bad could it be? I wondered to myself. She led me to a small room, about eight feet square. After I followed her through she kicked a rubber stopper out from under the door. Wedged into the corner was a shower unit shaped like a hexagon. The back three walls were molded out of white laminate; the front were panels of textured Lucite. Someone—presumably Charlie—had lined the Lucite with sheets of contact paper so the unit wasn’t see-through.
    â€œLike I said, it’s pretty bare-bones. I got the shower unit on clearance. The quality is questionable, but I reinforced all the joints with caulk. The drain’s so-so, so don’t worry if it backs up a little. There’s shampoo and conditioner and soap in the caddy. Your biggest problem is going to be the hot water. It runs out after four minutes. After that you’re auditioning for a spot in the polar bear club. The door sometimes sticks, too, but if you put your weight into it, it’ll pop right open. Clean towels on the bench. Dirty towels go in the basket underneath it. There are two doors, but I’m locking the one that leads to the shop. You can leave out the door over there.” She pointed to a door that separated us from outside. “Got it?”
    I scanned the small room. The interior walls of the shed had been whitewashed. Framed pages from a vintage calendar, featuring watercolors of women posing behind robes, blankets, and nightgowns, hung on three of the walls. The ground had been covered with a grid of gray plastic squares that snapped together. I’d seen them advertised somewhere—Sears, Home Depot, Lowe’s—for use inside a garage. Along one wall was a white picnic bench with a round wicker basket underneath. A terry-cloth robe hung from a hook next to the bench.
    â€œWho assembled this place?” I asked her.
    â€œWho do you think?” she answered, hands on her hips.
    â€œI like it.” From the look on her face, an angry twist that softened into a smile, I realized she thought I was judging her. “You don’t let a lot of people back here, do you?”
    â€œI keep this place secret. People think they’ve figured me out, but that’s because they don’t want to look past the obvious things they already know. My business is my business. Professional
and
personal.”
    â€œSo why are you letting me back here?”
    â€œYou’re different from the people around here.” She pulled the door open and turned back around. “Have fun tonight, Polyester,” she called, then left.
    I threw the flimsy interior lock—a metal hook that fed into a loop—on the inside of the door, because it was the only privacy measure available. I stripped down and turned on the water. Four minutes, I thought to myself. I hoped it was long enough to rid myself of the motor oil and grime I’d picked up in the past twenty-four hours.
    The jet blast of water was strong, pounding against my shoulders, head, and body. It felt good against my sore, tired muscles, and I was tempted to test Charlie’s four-minute estimation. It was around seven o’clock when I’d gotten back to the auto shop and that left only half an hour for me to get ready and get to the Waverly House for my dinner meeting with Vaughn. I had no intention of being late.
    I washed and conditioned my hair and lathered up my body with the lemon-scented bar of soap in the caddy. The scent was invigorating. Water swirled around my feet, backing up by the drain like Charlie had predicted. It, too, felt good, soaking my feet like a pedicure bath might have