Chapter Fourteen-Donny
I had a break between appointments and was just finishing my second attempt to reverse the hair-hex that Domoprick cast on me when the door slammed open hard enough to jingle the wards.
“OMG! Celeste was telling the truth?” Evie screeched, bursting into the salon like a one-woman parade. “You went full Marilyn on us without even showing me first?”
She stomped in, hours early for her highlights appointment, brown curls bouncing, oversized sunglasses perched dramatically on her head like she was channeling her inner Norma Desmond.
“You’re early,” Celeste noted helpfully, still chewing that awful gum she thought made her look cool.
“I know, but I’m the mayor. My schedule is chaos incarnate. Donny understands. Right, Donny?”
I lifted my head slowly, like something ancient and angry rising from a cursed crypt.
If she reached for my hair, I was going to bite her. Or possibly cry. The jury was still out.
“But wowza, I was not prepared for this,” Evie breathed, hands flailing like she was a car lot air dancer come to life.
Don’t drop the dye, Donny. Do not drop the dye on your blouse.
Celeste, ever the announcer of the obvious, piped up with a dramatic sigh.
“Donatella hasn’t said a word since this went down.”
Evie didn’t care. She was already across the black-and-white tile floor in two Witchy strides, hip-checking a waiting room chair out of her way like a pro.
I stayed silent. Not because I didn’t have things to say. Oh, I had plenty.
But they were mostly murder threats directed at a certain furry goblin who’d bleach-bombed my iconic tresses.
There are three things sacred to Donatella Andrews:
1. Her coffee.
2. Her clothes.
3. Her hair.
And Gryn had dared to mess with number three.
My nose twitched—literally—and a perfectly timed poof of sink water splashed Evie right in the nose just as she tried to touch one of the still-foiled strands of my redemption dye job.
“Rude,” she said, dabbing her nose with the sleeve of her very-expensive-for-someone-who-never-leaves-town sweater. “I’m just not used to seeing you so, so California.”
Even Celeste had dropped her jaw when I came in this morning with Gryn’s unsolicited golden glow-up.
Like I was some kind of reject from a magical Malibu Barbie prototype.
“Well, I would’ve said keep it,” Evie declared, plopping into the chair beside me with all the subtlety of a rhinoceros in a tutu.
“We could’ve gone with my idea for the Halloween Bash theme!”
Celeste, who I had trained well, appeared like magic, which she probably actually used this time, with a tray of foils, a mixing bowl, clips, and the bleach I’d be applying the correct way.
For Evie. Not for me.
I was back to brunette again, thank you very much.
“I mean, think about it—me as Jean Harlow. Bella as Jayne Mansfield. The girl’s got the hooters for it. And you, Donny, could’ve been Marilyn.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I saw last week.
Evie was grinning now, eyes all twinkly with evil excitement.
“Come on, you in that white dress from The Seven Year Itch? Hot damn.”
“She’d kill it,” Celeste chimed in unhelpfully from the corner.
“Yeah,” I muttered, setting my jaw. “Me. Marilyn? Ha. I’m more Bettie Page. Me as Monroe? Hmph. My round ass.”
Evie didn’t blink.
“Bettie was hotter than sin, and you know it. And Monroe? That woman had curves for days. She’d have been a full-on Instagram baddie today.”
Celeste, gods help her, decided to speak.
“Actually, she’d be considered plus sized by modern standards,” she said innocently.
And that was it.
You could feel the magic pressure in the room spike like a barometer on a hurricane watch.
“EXCUSE me?” Evie barked, rounding on her like a wrathful sorority president.
“I mean—I didn’t mean it like that—” Celeste sputtered.
Evie stood, fists planted on her hips, fingers sparking. “Listen here, Infant. This is what’s wrong with the internet. You think a size four is plus-sized because of whatever bullcrap filters are pumped into those body apps on VampTok.”
I sighed and backed away slowly from the dye station. It was about to get real.
“Marilyn Monroe had a 24-inch waist. Twenty. Four. And curves. And class. And she didn’t take sass from some wild-haired baby Witch who doesn’t know shit about fuck!”
Celeste shrank behind the reception desk, face pale, gum forgotten.
Pink lightning danced across the ceiling, but for some reason no one got zapped.
I almost felt bad.
Almost.
Evie spun back toward me like a fury on espresso.
“Donny, you’d make a kickass Marilyn. Admit it. Just say yes. Halloween Bash. Bombshell theme. Let’s do it.”
“No,” I said, yanking my towel turban off my head and flicking my fingers to dry my hair.
Rich, dark brunette locks fell in waves down my back.
The familiar weight of them grounded me like a magical security blanket.
The golden locks were gone. Order had been restored.
But, well, I didn’t feel quite as relieved as I’d expected.
Something about the blonde had made me feel bold.
Reckless.
Just a little unhinged in the best way.
And maybe I needed a little unhinged in my life.
Still. No one messed with Donatella Andrews’ hair. Except Donatella Andrews.
I really have got to stop thinking about myself in third person.
“You know,” Evie mused, watching me style with narrowed eyes. “It is weird that Gryn targeted your hair.”
“It’s not my weakness,” I grumbled, reaching for my big round brush.
“You sure about that?” she teased. “He could’ve hexed your Prada boots. Your Gucci slacks.”
“If he even laid a paw on my boots, I’d bury him in a backyard full of soul-sucking mushrooms,” I muttered.
“Okay, okay. But maybe—and just hear me out—maybe he’s not trying to ruin your life.”
I gave her a look so flat it could’ve been pressed between dictionary pages.
“I said maybe.”
I pointed the blow dryer at her and gave it a blast.
“Fine!” she laughed. “Don’t listen to your glorious, wise, fashionable bestie.”
“I’m not listening,” I muttered.
Evie just grinned.
Celeste slowly peeked out from behind the desk, eyes wide, lips zipped.
Smart girl.
And me?
I had no idea what Gryn was planning. Or why he decided to turn me into a magical blonde bombshell. But I knew one thing for sure.
Payback was coming. And it was gonna be fabulous. But that had to wait.
I grunted and winced, dragging the round brush through my hair like it was possessed—which, given the week I was having, wasn’t entirely off the table.
"Ow. Forking hell," I muttered, tugging at another stubborn knot.
The strands were smooth and shiny but tangled like a conspiracy.
Probably the combination of two chemical treatments, a gallon of magical interference, and enough emotional trauma to qualify as a Telenovela subplot.
Still, I was feeling smug.
Victorious, even.
I had beaten Gryn.
My hair was espresso brown again, glossy and rich, like the coffee I’d inhaled ten minutes ago.
Balance had been restored.
My crown reclaimed.
Turning slightly, I looked over at Evie, who was in the chair beside mine attempting to brush out her own hair like she was reenacting a scene from a horror movie.
She’d somehow managed to create a bird’s nest at the nape of her neck, and I was debating whether to intervene or just let her learn from her mistakes.
Despite the hair carnage, I admired her outfit.
Burnt-orange pencil pants, a high-neck blouse buttoned all the way to her chin, and a brooch that screamed I brunch with Aunt Bea from Mayberry.
She was straight out of Bewitched, and she loved it.
Evie’s whole aesthetic was mid-century magical housewife. Meanwhile, I lived and died by whatever haute couture label was brave enough to cut clothes for women with actual asses.
It wasn’t easy to find designer pieces that loved me back, but thankfully my magic had taste. A little charm here, a bit of tailoring there, and boom—my closet was a temple to stretchy couture.
Fashion was my happy place.
Magic was my job.
Hair was my art.
But lately, things were off.
Like, dangerously off.
I could feel it under my skin, jittering like static. Something inside was teetering. I didn’t like it.
“Uh, Donny?” Evie’s voice cut through my spiral.
I was halfway through mixing the bleach for her highlights and not really in the mood for another detour.
“What?” I asked, not looking up.
“You, um, might want to turn around.”
“Nope.”
Evie narrowed her eyes.
“Don’t be a child. Turn around.”
“I don’t think so.”
I dropped the brush on my station and rubbed my now-sweaty palms on my navy pinstriped slacks.
They were Gucci.
I adored them.
Wide-legged perfection, soft as sin, with just enough tailoring to make my waist look snatched and my butt look like a snack.
Paired with a cream silk blouse? I was thriving.
Until I wasn’t.
My clothes were among the few things still in my control.
Unlike my traitorous follicles, which I’d feared had decided they liked being blonde.
“Donny! Just look in the mirror!”
With a heavy sigh and a healthy dose of dread, I turned.
“What the actual fork!?” I gasped.
My hair—my blessed, brown, espresso perfection—was already lightening. Again.
Not even being subtle about it.
Gold shimmered through the strands like sunlight mocking me.
“AHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed, flailing with all the drama of a soap opera villainess who’d just been slapped.
“Oh, honey,” Evie murmured, rushing to my side like I was a wounded puppy.
“I’m gonna kill that furry-assed, tail-having, horn-wearing Domodick!” I shrieked, shaking a fist at the ceiling like the Goddess herself might back me up.
No lightning.
No smiting.
Huh.
Maybe she was letting that one slide.
Bless her.
I plopped into the nearest empty salon chair and buried my face in my hands.
This was war.
“Donny?” Celeste's voice was soft, tentative. “I brought your coffee and croissant. Bella called. Said you might need it.”
My heart twisted.
I hadn’t even noticed she was gone. And now here she was, being sweet and thoughtful, after I’d practically bit her head off earlier.
What the hell was wrong with me?
“See?” Evie said. “Even Celeste gets you. You’re just hangry and cursed. Happens to the best of us.”
“I don’t get it,” I groaned, taking the croissant like it was a life raft. “Gryn hates me. And I don’t even know why.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Celeste offered as I chomped into the pastry.
Evie raised a brow at her. “Shh. Not helping.”
“Mmmm,” I moaned, eyes fluttering closed.
The croissant was warm, flaky, buttery heaven.
“Okay, but—seriously—did Bella put something new in these?” I asked, licking a rogue crumb off my lip.
“Actually,” Evie said, too casually. “Jaxson told me Ryan’s been exclusively baking all the complicated layery stuff lately.”
I froze. Mid-chew.
My Bear Shifter baker crush made this?
My traitorous tastebuds started humming a mating song. I narrowed my eyes and aimed my brush at Evie’s head like a wand.
She yelped when I yanked a little too hard.
“Oops.”
“Liar,” she muttered, rubbing her scalp.
“What? Maybe he just knows your taste,” Celeste piped up from the front desk. “Your familiar. Not the baker Bear. Well, actually, I mean, maybe Ryan does, too.”
“Still not helping, Celeste,” Evie and I said in unison.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
I stood up, brushing pastry crumbs from my lap and shaking out my ridiculous, cursed, slowly re-blonding mane.
Whatever was going on between me and Gryn—and me and Ryan—I needed to get it together.
There were roots to touch up and Witches to bleach.
And if anyone else suggested I looked good blonde, I was gonna start hexing.