Lola Flannigan

By Abigail Drake

This hairdresser has an ability that's out-of-this-world.

 

After getting struck by lightning seven times, hairstylist Lola Flannigan has a shocking problem. She can no longer touch anyone with her bare hands and must wear gloves for the protection of others. 

 

She isn't sure if she's freakishly lucky, or simply a freak. It makes her job as a beautician challenging. It makes her dating life nearly impossible. All it took was one little episode involving singed chest hair during a particularly intimate moment, and suddenly she's a pariah in four-inch heels.

 

Lola is ready to give up when sexy billionaire Morgan Slade struts into her shop. He promises to teach her more about herself than she could have ever imagined, including how to control her dangerous hands. But can Lola learn to trust Morgan, or will he be her biggest mistake of all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abigail Drake
• Release date: Oct 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201390983

Abigail Drake

Abigail Drake is the award-winning author of seventeen novels, but she didn't start her career in writing. She majored in Japanese and economics in college, and spent years traveling the world, collecting stories wherever she visited. She collected a husband from Istanbul on her travels, too, and he is her favorite souvenir. Abigail is a coffee addict, a puppy wrangler, and the mother of three adult sons. She writes contemporary romance, women's fiction, and young adult fiction, and has taught workshops for many different writing organizations. In her spare time, she blogs about her dog, Capone, and teaches writing classes for children at her local library. 

Book preview

One

I had the most magnificent breasts.

Mrs. Waddle, a former burlesque dancer with dementia who came into my shop every Tuesday night to have her hair done, always paid in cash. She placed the bills inside an envelope and printed my name neatly in block letters on the front.

Lola Flannigan. Tuesday. Wash and style.

Conversations with Mrs. Waddle often began and ended with her breasts. She also loved to talk about her days on the stage, her many former lovers, and the sexual kinks she found especially intriguing. And she found most of them intriguing.

As I dampened her hair with a gentle spray of warm water, a small smile played on her coral-colored lips. Her head rested in my shiny ceramic sink, and her eyes were closed, but she continued speaking.

Have you ever slept with someone who has a foot fetish, Lola?

I paused, shampoo in hand. My heavily pregnant assistant Maria shot me a surprised look. I knew exactly what Maria was thinking. We’d been friends so long I could basically read her mind.

What the heck? How does she know about your feet?

After responding to Maria’s unspoken questions with a tiny shake of my head, I continued washing the older lady’s hair. Why, yes, I have, Mrs. Waddle.

Sadly, I knew all about foot fetishes, since I hid an embarrassing little secret inside my blue satin heels. Mrs. Waddle’s words sent a jolt of panic through my body, from my funky toes on up, but she hadn’t intended to make me uncomfortable. She just wanted to tell me about the millionaire who’d paid her big bucks to suck on her piggies.

He always wanted to do it right after I performed, in my dressing room, before I’d even bathed. She shook her head, bemused. And he paid me per toe. It was easy money, but definitely weird.

Other than the topic of foot fetishes, Mrs. Waddle’s stories didn’t bother me. They were entertaining, even those she’d told so many times I had them memorized. It also didn’t bother me that she paid me what the old owner of the shop charged years ago, at a time when giant hairdryers filled the air with noise, and bubble gum pink walls glowed garishly under bright fluorescent lights.

In those days, the shop had been called Wish Upon a Style, and I’d learned everything I knew about hair, life, and cuticle care from the former proprietress, Miss Florence Flannigan. When Miss Flannigan decided to retire and move to Florida, I bought the shop, changed the name to Lola’s, and poured my heart and soul into making it a success.

The shop evolved under my careful hands, turning into a sleek, modern oasis with white walls, wooden floors, and subtle lighting. It contained expensive, minimalistic furniture and I’d hung real artwork on the walls. A classy place, it had grown steadily over the past several years, quickly becoming one of the best beauty shops in Pittsburgh. That meant I could afford to help little old ladies who paid a fraction of the going rate and tipped me with a single, crisp dollar bill.

Mrs. Waddle was an oddity and a free spirit, especially when it came to men. In other words, we had a lot in common.

Work your magic, Lola, she said. I may have one foot in the grave, but when I go, I’m going out in style. I used to be so beautiful.

You’re still beautiful, Mrs. Waddle, I said as I combed out her freshly washed hair. She’d dyed it herself, a brilliantly unnatural red, which suited her perfectly, but seeing the gleam of her scalp through her thinning ringlets saddened me because it made her seem so vulnerable and frail.

Her eyes met mine in the mirror, and she reached up to pat the gloved hand I’d placed on her shoulder. Beauty doesn’t last. Enjoy it while you can, Lola. You remind me of a stripper I once knew.

Maria snorted. Lola gets that a lot, Mrs. Waddle.

I flicked my blond hair over my shoulder in annoyance as I glared at her, but she was right. I did get that a lot, and not only because of my short dresses and high heels. I made bad choices and poor decisions. I always picked the wrong men, and I lacked impulse control. Also, I exuded sexual hormones like some kind of invisible cloud, signaling my location to any loser, bad boy, or Casanova within smelling distance. I was like…a beacon of sluttiness. But I preferred to describe it differently.

I embrace my inner goddess.

I shifted, trying discreetly to adjust my dress under my utilitarian black work apron. The skirt had ridden up again, and if it got any higher, I might flash someone. Since I currently wore a thong roughly the size of a string of dental floss, too much exposure would definitely not be a good thing.

As Mrs. Waddle watched, I gave up on trying to be polite. Shifting my apron aside, I pulled the hem of my dress back down to a socially acceptable length and smoothed the fabric. Skintight, strapless, and in a shade of blue matching my eyes, it would have been perfect for a night out on the town. Unfortunately, my date had canceled at the last minute, so, as usual, I was all dressed up with nowhere to go.

I’m sorry to say that happened more often than I cared to admit. Whatever drew men to me initially repelled them just as quickly. So, instead of having a night on the town, I’d probably spend the evening gorging on chocolate, drinking pink Moscato, and mentally chastising myself for always, always, always picking the wrong men.

A typical night in the life of Lola Flannigan. I dreaded it already.

Embracing your inner goddess? asked Mrs. Waddle. Is that what they call it these days? In my time, we called it being a two-bit floozy.

Maria laughed, rubbing her lower back. Her third child was due to arrive any day now. I’d attended the birth of her first two and planned to be there for this one as well. Maria and I went way back. I’d known her since kindergarten and loved her like a sister.

It’s one of the things that makes you special, Sparky, she said with a grin.

Sparky? Mrs. Waddle frowned, puzzled.

We’d explained my nickname to poor Mrs. Waddle many times already, but I did it again, with patience. Because of the article, I said, pointing to the framed newspaper clipping mounted on the wall. When I got struck by lightning last month, a guy from the paper came to interview me. He gave me that nickname.

And when he found out it’s happened to you more than once, the story went viral, said Maria.

Mrs. Waddle put a bejeweled hand to her chest. She had rings on every finger. Oh, gracious. How many times have you been struck?

Um, seven.

Seven? I always thought seven was a lucky number.

Not for me.

Well, if you think about it, she said with a tilt of her head. I suppose you are lucky. After all, you really ought to be dead, young lady.

Lola’s like a human lightning rod, said Maria. She attracts it the same way she attracts bad men. It’s a skill.

I gave her a dirty look, one that made her laugh so hard she snorted. We both knew she was right.

The important thing is, for some reason, the lightning doesn’t affect me, Mrs. Waddle. I narrowed my eyes at Maria. And neither do the men.

Whatever you say, Sparky, Maria said, but her tone was gentle. My heart had been broken more times than I could count, and those seven lightning strikes had affected me, too. My hands had become weapons, and I shocked people whenever I touched them. Not a mild zap, either. Electricity shot out of my fingertips, sometimes knocking people right off their feet.

The first time it happened, I was only sixteen-years old. A freak thing, the lightning came out of nowhere and struck me in the middle of gym class. Maria and I had been pretending to jog laps at the time. Although standing only a foot away from me, Maria emerged unscathed. I’d been knocked flat on my back. It incinerated my clothing and I had to go to the hospital by ambulance, even though I felt perfectly fine. Mortified and humiliated, but fine. Being nearly electrocuted in front of the whole class was a lot to handle. Having hands that could seriously hurt someone made the rest of my high school experience tricky.

I tried to hide it, but it got worse and worse each time I got struck by lightning. My hands grew more powerful, and accidents happened on a regular basis. By the seventh strike, I worried I might be deadly.

I always wore gloves now. Many beauticians did, in order to keep their hands safe from the harsh dyes and chemicals they worked with daily. But in my case, I did it for the protection of those around me.

And not just at work. I kept them on all day every day. I’d learned to do so after once grabbing an old boyfriend during a particularly amorous moment, and accidentally singeing him. There was no greater turn off than the smell of burning chest hair or the screams of a man getting zapped in bed. Trust me. It was awful.

The doctors hadn’t been able to help me one bit. I’d allowed them to poke, prod, and scan me in the hopes of finding an answer, but no one ever could. They concluded I was some sort of weird conduit for static electricity, took my money, and sent me out the door.

Maybe I should have put that on my online dating profile. Lola Flannigan: Single, ready to mingle, and with fingertips that will make you tingle.

I found it hard to believe men weren’t knocking down my door. After all, who would not be eager to date a tall, blonde, medical mystery in four-inch heels?

I finished Mrs. Waddle’s hair at exactly 7:45 p.m., just as a car pulled up in front of the shop to pick her up. Our Tuesday night routine never changed. We waved goodbye to Mrs. Waddle and cleaned up the shop. I swept the floor, and after grabbing the bank envelope, Maria sank into a chair by the window with a groan. She lifted her swollen feet onto a stool and counted the money from the register.

You do realize Mrs. Waddle is a millionaire or something, don’t you? She has a car and driver and wears Chanel, she said, shoving the cash and deposit slip into the envelope and sealing it. You need to tell her she’s underpaying you.

I couldn’t. She’s sweet, and she’s old. Tuesday nights are always quiet, anyway. I have nothing better to do.

The bell above the door tinkled, and a man walked in. I turned, ready to say we were closing, but as soon as I saw him, I froze, the broom clenched in my hands.

Holy hotness, I murmured, my voice barely a whisper.

He was absolutely gorgeous, with curly, dark hair, sinful eyes, and precisely the right amount of scruffy stubble on his chiseled jaw. My hands sizzled as if eager to touch him, and I made a small squeaking sound deep in my throat. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.

Is it too late for a haircut?

He didn’t have an accent, but his English was a bit too perfect and precise for him to be a native speaker. He wasn’t from around here, which was actually a significant point in his favor.

Maria tried to heave herself out of the chair, since she usually handled men’s haircuts, but I held up my hand to stop her. It’s okay, Maria. I’ve got this. You can go home.

Although we usually closed at eight, I wasn’t about to turn this guy away. My hands itched inside my gloves to touch him. Maria yawned, exhausted, and gave me a worried frown.

Are you sure, Lola? I don’t mind staying.

I shook my head, staring at him. His eyes were brown and warm, like the chocolate I’d planned to binge on later, and just looking at him made my insides go all squishy and weird.

No. I’ll do him.

Which is what I’m afraid of, Maria muttered under her breath.

I gave her a not-so-subtle nudge with my elbow and smiled at Mr. Tall, Dark, and Yummy. Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a second, I said, handing him a new customer information form. I pulled Maria behind the desk, out of the customer’s line of sight.

Are you sure this is a good idea? she asked, frowning as she rubbed the spot on her arm I’d poked with my elbow. This worries me. He might be a rapist or a murderer or something.

He’s fine. I can tell.

She rolled her eyes. "You can tell? You have terrible judgment. You’re just acting crazy because your date canceled, and it hurt your feelings. And you’re bored. And you hate Tuesdays. She was right on all counts. She folded her arms over her ample belly. I don’t like this, but if I don’t leave now, Jimmy will be late for work."

Her husband worked the night shift, and with another baby on the way, they had expenses piling up. He couldn’t afford to miss.

What can I do to make you feel better? Frisk him? I asked, my tone hopeful.

Don’t you dare.

I nibbled on my lower lip. Frisking him