Chapter Text
“So,” The twenty-two-year-old nail tech started, filing the sides of his client’s plastic nail tips, light blue acrylic dust falling away from the file and nails. “You told me you were going to a concert, who are you going to see?” Spencer was an inquisitive nail tech. Liking to strike up small talk so the awkwardness could die down if the client took to scrolling through their phone during the nail process.
The client waved her free hand around as she replied with giddiness in her voice. “Only the most handsome man around, Billy Joe Cobra! He’s coming into town tomorrow and, well,” She looked down to her fingers before cracking a smile. “I wanted to try and look nice for him. Maybe even get taken backstage.” The wink that came after the statement made Spencer chuckle a little.
He’s heard of the great womanizer Billy Joe Cobra from a few people, he was almost sure he’s heard one or at least two of the songs this man has created; but has yet to look up what he looks like simply having no interest.
He tapped her finished hand, a signal for her to bring her other one down so he could shape it down into that desired short coffin nail she requested.
“Well, if you do get backstage, just be safe,” Spencer replied absentmindedly, filing the sides methodically.
She almost seemed offended, like Spencer had just called the Cobra, dangerous. - Well, with the last stage name like that, who could blame him for assuming. -
“Duh. But he wouldn’t hurt me, he’s sweet with everyone!” She smiled then, making the tension go away.
“Haha, I believe it,” he didn’t believe it, all-star singers had their dirty little secrets. Especially the ones with “perfect” track records. “Just be safe is all. I wouldn’t want to see your name in the news for something like that.” He muttered as he finished up her other hand.
Seeming ecstatic with the results, she looked down at her nails and giggled a little as Spencer dusted the acrylic dust away from her fingers.
“Thank you, Spencer! You never fail to amaze me.” She’d been in there two other times. Spencer had recognized her but didn’t remember her name, now feeling awful that he didn’t remember it.
“Thank you! I hope to see you again soon.” He replied with a friendly wave as she got up to leave, already paying beforehand.
--
Spencer watched her leave for a moment before he got to cleaning up his station. Grabbing a rag and beginning to wipe away all the acrylic dust and whatever else was left behind on the station.
The salon was rather well known for being in the center of Beverly Heights. Being known had its perks though. Bring bound to attract some pretty big people from the neighboring city of Hollywood it was rare, but there were times Spencer worked on big-time celebrities.
He enjoyed the thrill of having to get the nail exactly correct, the balance of his carrier hanging within the fates of those nails.
Why wasn’t he working in film, not living out his high school dream of being a director? Easy. He didn’t have enough money. He was living alone working as a nail tech for his mother’s salon to save up for college. He felt no shame in working at a family-owned business, especially if it was helping his mom’s dream of becoming a famous hairdresser. Having this salon really got her name out there, Spencer worked nails with some other coworkers and she did hair.
Today was slow, all playfully wishful thinking of a big celeb walking in was long lost in the slow ticking of the clock. The occasional sound of a hairdryer going off for a few minutes before it would shut off and the gentle buzz of music from the overhead speakers would fill Spencer’s ears one again.
All until he was caught off guard.
He was wiping down the last on his station before his head shot to the door as someone had swung it open dramatically as if expecting a serenade. When he didn’t get one, only some concerned looks and confused gawking. He huffed and walked confidently to the register to get an appointment.
It was obvious this man that had walked in wasn’t just some rich pretty boy.
This man had a sense of style. It wasn’t basic Beverly Heights rich attire, it was unique. Something only a pop star could pull off with that much confidence; but if this was a pop star Spencer was a director.
The jacket was a sleek black, with large gold buckles attached snugly to the opening of the jacket. A dull golden array of faux fur was placed around the neck, framing this man's face almost perfectly. The orange collared shirt and dark blue tie making a statement on their own, the tie sent Spencer’s eyes straight down to the man’s waist. A black belt holding slim-fitting dark blue jeans up, the boots were outrageous too.
Like the jacket, it held the same black and gold buckle-strapped theme.
Spencer tried not to stare too long at the outfit. Looking right back up to the man’s eyes, dark blue, the color of narcissism.
The man was clearly tired, purple bags threatening to break through the obvious concealer covering the blemishes.
The man’s hand suddenly distracted Spencer, bringing it up to sleek it swiftly through his fluffy black hair. A faint streak of blue could be seen chasing after the pale hand as it was shuffled out of the fluffy mess.
The assumed pop star gave a confidant strut over to Spencer’s station and sat down, clearly not seeming to care whether or not Spencer was busy. He placed smooth hands down and tapped his fingers in a line. The nails looked to have been through some shit though, ridges along the thumbnail, chips in the general nails… must’ve been a guitarist.
Spencer heard a tired groan from the client, who he was quickly realizing was not enjoying the time waiting. Who would?
”I am so sorry sir, wh- what can I do for you?” Spencer asked, grabbing his acrylic supplies just for the ready in case the man was going to get acrylics.
“Jet black, short acrylic.”
The voice made Spencer’s spine tense as if someone grabbed it only to shove it back into his body. He could’ve sworn he’s heard that voice sing. But once again, he was dragged out of his thoughts when he saw the man's head cascading forward on top of his arms. What was this guy’s problem?
“hey.” Spencer was deadpanned, grabbing his supplies. He glanced over when he realized he didn’t get a response.
“Sir.” Spencer raised his voice a little. The man never lifted his head. “Excuse me.” Spencer gently bopped the top of the man’s head with a clean nail file, earning a shocked response.
“hmm… Sorry, bro.” The man replied, flashing a tired smile.
“No... problem...” Spencer was a bit worried but not to a point where he would offer to work on the woman who just entered and requested a pedicure. He fucking hated working on toes.
As spencer got the plastic tips ready, he started his conversation off casual.
“What’s your name? Have you been in the area for a while?” He normally asked new clients if they’ve been in the area unless it was a celebrity of course.
The man seemed awfully offended, tired eyes widening as he brought a hand up to his chest with a gasp.
“You don’t know who I am?!” He nearly shrieked, causing some of the clients to look up in confusion.
“Sir ple- “
“Billy Joe Cobra! Only the best singer in California, I can’t believe you’ve never heard of me.” He gave a scoff then set his hand back down. “The nerve.” Those dark blue eyes narrowed, seeming to shine as he saw the faces of a few clients light up.
Spencer mentally snapped his fingers, that’s what it was. That’s why the voice sounded so familiar even for talking! So, this, was the great BJC he’s heard so much about?
“It’s hard to hear about someone whose only personality is their ego,” Spencer whispered, getting everything ready. “I’ve heard about you,“ He picked up Billy’s scar-free hand. “You’re the one who fell off the stage and passed out?” He had heard about the incident a few weeks ago and since this pop star was young, maybe a little older than Spencer, 23 or 24, he found no harm in teasing.
Billy turned red under the foundation and he grumbled, he hadn’t only fallen, he had passed out before he fell. His manager telling the media he hit the ground too hard.
“Uh, yeah.” He replied simply. He didn’t want to explain to a twenty-some-year-old - who clearly had very little interest in him - why he had fallen.
“Hot lights?”
“huh?”
“Were the lights hot, was that why you fell?” Spencer was pressing the fake tips on.
“Oh, uh, what did it say?” Billy asked, referring to the media. Maybe he would tell this kid He seemed… trustworthy. Granted, Billy Joe Cobra wouldn’t know true trust if it hit him in the face.
“Said you fell because you missed a step in your jumpy choreography and then passed out due to heat.” Spencer continued to work as he asked questions, taking note of how much Billy’s hands relaxed as the conversation progressed. You could tell a lot from someone’s hands and the way they relaxed or tensed during a visit.
“Haha…” It was a dry laugh; Billy’s hands tensed a little as his lip pulled itself between his teeth. “Yeah. Yeah, It’s hot on stage.”
Spencer almost rolled his eyes, clipping all the tips and getting the powder ready.
“Oh come on, you’re lying.” Spencer looked up to those dark blue eyes again. “I’m not one of your groupies, I’m not going to go out and tell everyone why their favorite boy tripped off a stage.” Spencer saw Billy’s eyes dart side to side before they landed back to Spencer’s which made the tech look back down to the acrylic powder mixture.
“I had a panic attack,” Billy muttered. Spencer almost snorted, that was it?
“Oh god forbid y-“ Billy’s hand jetting backward, a fierce expression over his features. “Do you know how uncommon that is for me? Getting a panic attack is just as rare as…” He looked Spencer over then decided to jab at the millennial's work. “Just as rare as someone like you getting a mansion.” Those words held malice but it made Spencer chuckle lightly.
“Alright, I get it. It’s a touchy topic but, why is that something to hide?” Spencer asked, working on the other hand as Billy just shrugged. “They would-“ A yawn broke the singer's sentence. “They would worry.” Billy finished when the yawn was over.
Spencer seemed confused, lifting Billy’s hand so he could file the sides of the short nails. Wouldn’t someone like this, want that attention?
--
A few more minutes go by, Billy’s eyes are closed, head resting against his arms and light snoring is distracting Spencer from cleaning around the sleeping pop star.
He smiles a little, he didn’t think this man trusted Spencer enough to fall asleep while his nails were curing.
“Cobra.” Spencer gently places the tips of his fingers onto Billy’s shoulder and shakes him lightly. The snoring stops and is replaced with a groggy reply. “Hng... Hm?” He questioned, slowly raising his head and bringing his hand up to sloppily rub his eyes to wake up.
Spencer laughed before he pointed to a door directly down the hall. “there’s a back room if you need to take a nap.” Spencer teased, wiping down where the singer’s arms were. “No one will question you.” He added.
Billy yawned, considering the offer before shaking his head.
“Thanks, but I’ve got somewhere to be.” He replied, Spencer watched the male stand up. He cringed when Billy tripped a little before finding his footing and clearing his throat. “Meetings, PR talks. The norm.” He tried to play off the trip as he walked away from Spencer before his brows furrowed.
“Oh,” Billy turned around, the buckles making a clanking noise as he gave Spencer another once over before. “What’s your name?”
Spencer froze for a minute. A celebrity asked for his name. Something in him squealed before he replied.
“Spencer Wright.”
Billy nodded as if locking it away in a secrete vault he never remembered the password for, then turned on his heels to walk out of the salon.
“I’ll make it a point to try and see you again Spence.”