His name was Trenton Vitelli, and he first met Clive when he was fourteen years old. He and his mom had moved into Metropolis about a year before, migrating in from the suburbs when the upkeep on the house had become too much.
Trenton's father had died when he was nine, and Mom had tried running her own little hair salon in the garage. They'd limped along on what she could bring in and Dad's pension, but then last year the zoning commission had gotten pissy.
Some of the neighbors (the same one's who ran garage sales every weekend) complained about having a commercial enterprise in the neighborhood, and Mom had to shut down. Whatever job she could get, the salary seemed to get eaten up in transportation expenses, uniform costs, etc.
The house started falling apart, and she would have had to dip into Dad's insurance money to fix it. There was no way she was going to do that: she had tagged that money for Trenton's college.
Trenton told her she didn't need to worry. He fully intended to get an athletic scholarship. His Mom thanked him, but said she wasn't sure how many swimming scholarships there were out there, and they'd hang on to the money, just in case. So they moved to the city, took a small apartment in a run down, but respectable section of town, and Mom went looking for work.
She was thrilled beyond belief when she got a job at Attitudes. According to her, it was the salon. Rather peculiarly for it's time, it catered to both men and women, and it had The Rep.
That meant that it was the chic place to have your hair done. Oh, there were the more high toned, snobby places. There you practically had to present a family tree to get an appointment.
Attitudes was different. You never knew who you'd find there, said Mrs. Vitelli. She went for an interview in the morning and ended up working the afternoon on a trial basis. By the time work ended she had washed or cut or permed an actress on hiatus from a top tv show, an editor for a major publishing house, a baker who promised her a recipe for brownies that were guaranteed to send anyone into chocolate overload, and a bag boy from the local deli who showed her a rather raunchy tattoo on his hip. She was ecstatic, they were happy with her work, and she was hired.
The best thing about Attitudes, his Mom confided that first evening, was the owner, Mr. Clive. Well, Clive. He didn't seem to have any other name, so he said there was no use for the title.
Clive was just fascinating, to hear her tell it. He supervised everything, but only took care of a small number of exclusive clients himself. Must be nice, Trenton thought. Anyway, if his Mom liked him, he must be okay.
Mom had been working there three months when he first came down to walk her home. They lived only a few blocks from the shop and she usually walked home on fine days, but the days were getting shorter. Dark came more quickly, and Trenton didn't want her walking home alone in the dusk.
The front part of the store was empty when he came in. A muted bell announced his arrival. He could see the last customer in back, having her hair carefully arranged by a narrow little redhead. The cosmetologist glanced at him and called. "Clive? Someone came in, and I'm past my wrists in Clara's hair. Could you...?"
"Certainly, ducks."
A man came out of the back and sort of flowed up to the front. He halted behind the counter with a polite smile, and Trenton tried not to gape. He was wearing tight suede pants that were almost the same dark gold color of his thick, wavy hair. He wore an open vest of the same material, showing a smooth, well muscled chest. The only variation in color of his attire was the shiny, knee high black boots. This guy only needed a scimitar on his hip to look ready to swash some serious buckle, but somehow, it didn't look in the least ridiculous.
Clive waited patiently while the boy on the other side of the counter took a good, long look. That was fine by him, it gave him an opportunity to do the same, and the view was very nice.
Mid to late teens, he judged. About five-seven, around Clive's own height, but bound to get taller. He had a lean, lanky build, but carried himself gracefully. Large hands and feet (oh, what the old wives tales made of those measurements). He had a handsome enough face, moving slowly out of the realm of puppyishness, and quite extraordinary lime green eyes. Oh, and the hair.
Clive caught himself before he sighed. It was such a beautiful, thick crop of lush mahogany brown curls. With the right light you wouldn't be able to tell if it was brown, blonde, or red. Oh, he'd like to get his hands on that hair, and maybe the body it was attached to. But of course, that all depended.
Since the teen angel didn't seem inclined to say anything, Clive said, "Well. And who's little boy are you?"
Those pretty, pretty green eyes blinked. "Uh, Lynette Vitelli's."
Clive started. "You mean you're little Trenton?"
Trenton groaned. "Has Mom been doing her baby boy thing again?"
"She has. I would have expected you in Doctor Denton's." Clive came around the counter and offered his hand. "I'm Clive."
Trenton shook hands. "I came to walk my Mom home." He craned his head, peering at the interior. "Where is she?"
"She's just finishing rearranging some stock in the back. She'll be out in a minute or two. Have a seat."
He gestured toward one of the nicely upholstered chairs in the waiting are, and Trenton dropped into one. "Man, these are nice, not like those plastic racks they have in most places these days."
Clive arched an eyebrow disdainfully. "Please. I don't buy anything unless I can afford something decent. There's no need to settle for crap when you can buy all right and work your way up to fabulous. Would you like some coffee?" He went to a small coffee station. "Last pot of the day, and relatively fresh."
"Uh, sure."
Clive regarded him with the barest hint of a smirk. "How do you take it?"
Trenton hesitated. What was the most mature way to drink coffee? "Black." he said decisively. Clive poured two cups, and handed him one. He sipped the dark brew, watching Trenton.
Trenton took a small sip. He managed not to spit it out, but only barely. Clive took the cup away, laced the brew heavily with creamer and sugar, then handed it back. Trenton sipped again, and sighed with relief.
"Silly move, Trenton. When you're inexperienced about something it's better to confess it than to try and bull ahead and fool someone." Clive settled into the chair next to Trenton, and slumped comfortably, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. The leather of the boots squeaked quietly. "What school do you go to?" he asked casually.
"Laniard." Trenton took another gulp of the coffee. It tasted pretty good fixed like this.
Clive's eyebrows went up. "Ah, the junior high."
Trenton wanted to slap himself. "I mean Metro High. I used to go to Laniard. I start Metro in a couple of weeks."
"Hmm." Clive tilted his cup to get the last few drops, then licked his lips. "Fresh-man, huh?" The way Clive said that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "So, what are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?"
"Almost fifteen." Well, in six months.
"My, you young ones grow up so quickly these days. I must admit..." Clive's gaze raked over the lanky teenager. "you're remarkably mature for your age. Physically, that is. I would have thought you were at least sixteen, maybe seventeen at a stretch."
"I've had people tell me I look eighteen." He said proudly. Well, some of his friends had said that.
Clive was shaking his head. "They're fooling themselves. You ought to have UNDERAGE stamped on your forehead."
Trenton felt unaccountably hurt. "Why?"
Clive stood up. One booted foot nudged Trenton's tennie-clad foot. "To protect the adult population from embarrassment and possible federal prosecution."
Trenton scowled in confusion. "I don't get it."
Clive sighed. "That's what makes you so dangerous, dear boy." He leaned over and whispered in Trenton's ear. "You're jailbait, Lynette's baby boy." Then he walked toward the back calling, "Lynn, hon, your handsome little offspring is here. Come and get him before he gives the not-so-innocent a heart attack."
Trenton felt confused, and thought that maybe Clive was laughing at him, a little. That didn't stop him from admiring the way those suede-painted haunches moved. Clive must work out, he decided.
His mother came to the front, pulling on her coat. "Sweetie, you didn't have to do this: Clive would have seen I got home safely." They both glanced back. Clive, leaning in the doorway to his private station lifted a hand and wiggled fingers at them cheerfully. "He's such a dear man."
"Yeah, he seems pretty nice." Trenton held the door for his mother to pass through, preparing to follow her out. As she stepped onto the pavement, he said, "Mom, what does jailbait mean?" He ran into her when she stopped abruptly.