16. Bibbidi Bobbidi Bingo at the PCC
Bibbidi Bobbidi Bingo at the PCC
SNOW
"The best way to cleanse thyself of a bad male," Ariel says from the doorway of my bedroom, already in her going-out clothes of glitter and leather, "is to party like a girl."
Ariel has decided I’ve moped long enough the last couple of days, and we were going out. To the Pumpkin Coach Club.
I want to nod at her wise words, but that would fuck up the mascara I'm currently drawing up through my lashes.
We’re both dressed in the same style we wear for work, but it's Tuesday, and we have the night off.
Granted, I went for a sharper, darker makeup application that’s closer to what our goth friend Cinder would sport. Dark eyeshadow, sharp winged eyeliner, and dark purple lipstick that says, don't even think about it, bucko.
My mind drifts back to the last time I was at the Pumpkin Coach club, and a hard, merciless pang stabs into me. But I refuse, REFUSE to let one of my favorite places in the world be ruined by some...guy. Guys.
Whatever.
If I have to return to the PCC a hundred times with my girlfriends to override the one memory of fucking in the back dressing room with a guy who treated me like garbage, I'll do it.
Though technically, it wasn't only the fucking.
That would be easier to forget.
A heroic amount of tequila might be able to blur the memory of One's hands on me, his mouth, the way he seemed so vulnerable and open when I touched his face.
Enough bass drops might even shake loose the memory of One's voice when he called me beautiful.
But there isn't enough alcohol in the world to make me forget how it felt when he kissed me like he was handing me all his loneliness.
Or how stupidly, dangerously good it felt to hand him mine right back.
That's the part lodged under my ribs.
The part when, for one blinding second, I thought maybe he saw me. Not the human girl trying too hard. Not the magicless tagalong with sharp daggers and a bigger mouth than survival instinct.
Me.
Then he took it all back with both hands and left me standing there with my heart trying to follow him down the alley like the dumbest loyal dog on the planet.
With enough time, I'm sure I can scrub that memory out of my brain.
Maybe.
Probably not.
But a girl has to try.
Ariel rolls farther into my room, spinning one of the rings on her fingers. "For the record, you are allowed to have a bad time tonight."
I freeze with the mascara wand still held up to my lashes. "Wow. Inspirational. Put that on a throw pillow."
"I mean it." Her voice softens. "You don't have to be instantly over it because I decided we're leaving the apartment and trying something other than rotting our brains with old Hex Island episodes and gorging junk food while acting like some kind of godless gremlin who hates love and light."
"Whoa, rude. That is not what I've been like."
Her brows lift. "You hissed when I opened your blinds."
I mumble a protest, but quietly, because yeah, that was my reaction to the warm summer rays invading my moody territory.
Ariel's mouth twitches, but she doesn't push too hard. She doesn't say his name either, which I appreciate and hate in equal measure.
"But," she adds, "you do have to remember you were a badass before him. You were stalking rooftops, throwing daggers, and scaring purist dickwads long before some hot magic boy with seven flavors of baggage got his head wedged up his own ass."
My throat tightens as I turn back to the mirror. "I'm not moping anymore. I'm done. I have officially moved on."
"Okay," she says, not sounding convinced.
I cap the mascara and reach for the tiny bottle of body shimmer. "I'm simply going out looking like a hot villainess because it’s my right as a woman and occasional public menace."
I pick up the bottle and ever so carefully twist the cap off with the precision of a nuclear scientist handling a radioactive bomb. One wrong move and the silver glitter will end up everywhere. And there is no getting that shit out.
A mass of black fur and claws launches from the pits of hell.
Lucifer, my feline nemesis, hits my vanity in a full-body pounce, all four paws skidding across the surface. One claw catches my wrist, another clips the bottle, and the little demon crashes into my hand like a furry grenade.
"Lucifer, no," I cry with the full-body terror of a girl who just realized the killer is already inside the house.
Too late.
The bottle jumps from my grip, spins once in the air, hits the floor, and explodes.
Shimmer oil splatters up my bare legs, across my black leather skirt, and somehow all over one side of my perfectly applied dark purple lipstick.
Ariel gasps.
I stare at my reflection.
Half of me is a dangerous nighttime fantasy with winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass.
The other side looks like I got attacked by a horny disco ball.
Lucifer sits on the vanity, cavalierly licking a paw, watching me with the soulless calm of a creature who knows he's completed his evil deed for the day.
"Snow," Ariel warns.
"I'm calm."
"You’re holding your flat iron like a murder weapon."
I glance at myself. My hand grips the handle of the very hot flat iron beside me. Steam still curls faintly from the ceramic plates.
"That's because it is one."
Lucifer lowers his paw.
I lunge. "Die, you furry little hate crime!"
He launches off the vanity a half second before I reach him, sailing past my shoulder in a streak. The flat iron clamps on empty air with a hot little click.
Lucifer lands on my bed.
Right on top of the pile of rejected outfits for the evening.
My heart stops.
The black corset sits at the very top, perfect boning, laces still loose, looking innocent and like two months’ worth of tips, completely unaware it has just become a hostage.
"No," I whisper.
Lucifer turns his head toward me.
A single claw flexes against the fabric.
Every instinct screams at me to launch myself across the room and snatch him up by his furry little demon neck. But if I rush him, he'll bolt. If he bolts, he'll shred the corset on his way out.
Which means I need to do the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life.
I need to pretend I'm not about to commit violence.
Slowly, I set the flat iron aside.
"Nice kitty," I say, in a voice so sweet it tastes like poison in my mouth. "Sweet little Lucifer. Precious baby monster. Come here."
Ariel makes a strangled sound behind me.
Lucifer watches me.
I take one careful step forward.
His claws sink into the corset.
Riiiiip.
Lucifer drags one claw along the boning with surgical precision, his eyes locked on mine as if he wants me to understand this is a message.
Something inside me snaps clean in half. My hand dives under the hem of my skirt, and a dagger is out of the little thigh holster before I decide to pull it.
Ariel throws herself at me from the side, both arms wrapping around my waist with shocking strength at the same time the blade leaves my fingers.
Lucifer launches off the bed.
The dagger thunks into the doorframe an inch above his disappearing tail.
"Snow, no."
"He chose this."
"You can't kill him. Cats don't really have nine lives. You do not want to be a cat murderer for the rest of your life." Ariel tightens her hold around me, the weight of her chair holding me back. "He has no real home. No family. No one who wants him. That's punishment enough."
I stare at the little crime trail of glitter paw prints leading out of my bedroom.
"The hell it is," I say. "That corset was expensive enough to qualify as a dependent on my taxes."
My eyes drop to the glitter streaking my legs, my skirt, the floor, and back up to the mirror. I study the remnants of the violence across one side of my mouth. Then I stare at the shredded corset. My voice comes out low. "We're burning sage later."
Ariel releases me carefully, as if I might still sprint after my enemy. "For an emotional reset?"
I narrow my eyes. "No. To see if it hurts him."
"Bingo!" Ariel shouts, slamming her hand on the table with enough force to rattle both our drinks.
A couple hours later, an outfit change, a hell of a lot of makeup remover, and two Snowdrops in, and I'm sat on the cold, uncomfortable stool in the Pumpkin Coach Club for Bibbidi Bobbidi Bingo.
The Snowdrop is a blue gin-and-lemonade concoction the Pumpkin Coach Club made for me during a Poison Apple crossover night.
Each Lost Girl got her own branded cocktail in an attempt to lure the Poison Apple crowd to their club afterward.
Mine is electric blue, tart enough to make my tongue tingle, and fizzy with lemonade, which makes it seem much more innocent than it is.
By the second one, the tight band around my chest has loosened, and Lucifer’s continued survival feels slightly less offensive.
No, scratch that. Death to devil kitty.
The people around us groan or laugh, and one woman in a gold romper yells, "Check her card! I think she's cheating!"
"Ma'am," the drag queen on stage, Lola La Loca, calls back. "This girl is real down to her fabulous copper hair. Don't tell me how to do my job."
Ariel wheels over to the stage, grinning. The queen bends to inspect her card, one hand dramatically pressed to her chest as if each correct square wounds her personally.
Lola is Latina, short, plus sized, and dressed in green from her eyelids to the tops of her thigh-high boots.
Her sequin bodysuit hugs every curve as she bends over Ariel's bingo card.
With one hand, she brushes a curtain of long black hair back over her shoulder, flashing nails so long and elaborately painted they must have taken an entire afternoon.
As she taps each square, the mic picks it up—clack, clack, clack—over the thump of the music, while the whole bar waits for her verdict.
"Well, slap my ass and call me honest," the queen declares. "She's won again."
Half the room cheers, the other half boos.
Ariel accepts the box of Magic Morsels with a little bow on it as her prize.
The woman in the gold romper mutters darkly as Ariel rolls past her with the box of treats balanced in her lap and an angelic smile on her face.