WICKED INTENTIONS { Completed}

Chapter 4

Even for a Saturday morning, Nappy Palace was booming. The moment they entered the salon, the smell of chemicals, oil and burning hair assaulted Shakira's nose. However, the scents whirling in the large rectangular space were nothing compared to the noise level. The chattering of the multitude of clients who occupied every swivel seat was punctuated by the sound of running dryers and the latest rhythm and blues tunes playing in the background.

Though the salon was painted in an airy pastel shade of purple and had mirrors lining each wall, it still seemed overcrowded. Even so, Miss Wendy, the proprietor, spotted them immediately.

"Shakira? Is that you?" Her voice thundered over all the clamoring and drew every one's attention towards the door where Shakira and London stood. Straight away, the commotion level increased as everyone welcomed Shakira. Given the warm welcome it was hard to believe that they'd all been at the courthouse the previous day cheering the loudest when the jury had pronounced Shakira innocent.

Shakira took it in strides. She was used to it – to them. Nappy Palace was the closest thing she'd ever had to a home. Her nana and Miss Wendy had been close friends and most of Shakira's infancy had been spent toddling around the salon.

When Nana had died when Shakira was eight, Eve had come back for Shakira. Nine years later, tired of 'touring' the US with Eve and all her 'friends', Shakira had applied for emancipation and had come back home. Miss Wendy had given her a job in the salon washing hair and a place to stay while she finished high school and college.

Abandoning the client whose hair she'd been perming, Miss Wendy strode towards Shakira and engulfed her in a warm embrace. The older woman was even shorter than London, though rotund, and the strands of her auburn streaked weave tickled Shakira's nose.

While she embraced everyone else, Shakira unobtrusively searched the room for Eve. There was no sign of her. Shakira's heart dropped.

Maybe she stepped out for a little bit. She tried to bolster her own hope. After all, Jeanine, as Eve called her car, was almost as much Eve's sidekick as Shakira had been. Eve took it with her everywhere and it had more mileage on it than a seventy year old salesman. She's here somewhere.

"Were those people even feeding you?" Miss Wendy clucked disapprovingly as she gave Shakira an up and down once-over.

"She needs some cornbread in them thighs," the client Miss Wendy was working on suggested.

"Alisha," Miss Wendy shouted out as she parted another section of the client's hair and slathered it in white cream. "Alisha."

A light-skinned, thick girl walked out of the storage area with a broom in her hand. "Uhn uh!"

"Uhn uh!" Miss Wendy mocked. "What you think this is? That the way I taught you to answer people?"

"Sorry, ma'am," Alisha answered obediently. She was most likely one of Miss Wendy's kids. Miss Wendy was the resident foster mom. With many foster parents preferring younger children, Miss Wendy was one of the very few who took teenagers in and had had over thirty teens pass through her house including London.

To Alisha, she said, "Go up to the house and get Shakira some of that okra and chicken."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Oh no." Shakira rushed to forestall the inevitable force-feeding. In Nappy Palace being slender meant that you obviously weren't eating well. "She doesn't have to. I'm not-"

"Nonsense." Miss Wendy cut her off with a wave of her hand as she turned back to Alisha. "And tell Raheem and Dezzy that they better not leave the darn house until they've fixed Mr. James window."