Sweet Blood of Mine by John Corwin Page B

love to his hand for the rest of his life if I didn't change. It seemed almost funny I was more afraid of getting a haircut seemed almost funny I was more afraid of getting a haircut than the petrifying night before. The human mind is apparently capable of blanking out those things too terrible to behold.
    After removing the furniture blocking my bedroom door and the front door, I looked for Dad in the usual places—the couch and his bedroom—but he was nowhere to be found. I wondered if I'd locked him out of the house with my furniture blockade, but it appeared he'd never returned home last night. Oddly enough, his car was stil in the driveway, so I took it and found the salon in East Atlanta Vilage, a neighborhood stil struggling between trendy and gangster. A cute girl in jeans and a tight pink T-shirt sat at the reception area. I stared at myself in the mirror on the wal behind her so I wouldn't stare at her realy nice breasts. They weren't huge, but the tight fabric of her shirt gave them the extra oomph to make me a fan for life.
    Even the hopeless romantic in me couldn't resist the lure of female anatomy.
    She smiled at me. "Hey Justin. Be just a few minutes."
    I was surprised the receptionist knew me on sight.
    It certainly boosted my ego a bit. After al, she didn't seem to have fangs. But when I opened my mouth to hit on her, nothing came out. My vocal cords locked up. The large mirror behind the desk showed me just how stupid I looked with my mouth hanging open. The girl raised an eyebrow.
    "Don't be nervous. I told Mom you needed al the help you could get."
    Recognition dawned on my sluggish brain. My eyes widened. "Crye?" Without the piercings, makeup, or Goth clothing she looked normal. Pretty cute, in fact. "I didn't realize it was you." I grimaced. Nice job, idiot.
    She smiled and shook her head. "Mom won't let me wear my Goth clothes here. Too many people wouldn't understand."
    "Wel, she's the boss," I said lamely trying to recover.
    A tal brunette with an imperious gaze, long legs, and epic cleavage—yes, I'm obsessed with boobs—came to the front. She pursed her lips and stared at me. "You were right, dear. This one needs serious work." She spun on her heel and hooked a finger over her shoulder at me.
    "This way."
    "Ooh this is gonna be fun," Crye said, her violet eyes sparkling. I stared at her eyes, wondering why she was stil wearing her colored contacts without her Goth garb. "Better hurry," she said. "Mom's impatient."

    I hurried back to the chair where her mom waited, towel in hand. The place was ful of women in chairs and mostly male stylists molding hair and chatting away. A cross between ammonia and roses scented the air, no doubt a toxic cloud from hair chemicals.
    "Thanks for doing this, Ms., um…"
    "Cal me Leia."
    "Thanks, Leia." It felt strange caling someone's mom by her first name. And she looked so young too. She and Crye could almost be sisters. I forced my eyes from her cleavage and sat in the chair. Leia spent the next several minutes washing my hair, then shooed me over to a salon chair. I took a seat and stared at the mirror. My hands trembled as I thought about the irrevocable change I was about to commit. It wasn't too late to get up and run.
    Leia's hand clamped onto my shoulder.
    Now it was too late.
    Her hand on my shoulder reminded me
    uncomfortably of Stacey. My neck felt very warm where she'd licked it, like that hot ice stuff athletes slather on their sore muscles. I hoped it wasn't infected. I stared at the right side of my neck in the mirror. It looked redder than the moon-white skin around it.
    Leia left for a moment then returned with a spray Leia left for a moment then returned with a spray bottle. She stood behind me and appraised my hair with an arched eyebrow. Movies depict major lifestyle changes as quick and easy with a montage set to an upbeat pop tune.
    In real life, they're a lot more traumatic, time consuming, and boring. That, and it takes a lot longer than