18. Give the Asshole an Oscar
Give the Asshole an Oscar
ONE
Snow serves three other people at the bar before I recognize the obvious. She’s ignoring me.
The next time she reaches past me for a clean glass, I say, "Snow."
She doesn’t acknowledge me.
I wait until she walks near me again.
"Snow, can we talk? I want to—”
She grabs the limes and keeps moving.
It’s another ten minutes before she comes back my way to grab a bottle of vodka.
"Are we done pretending I’m invisible, or should I come back tomorrow?"
The bottle lands with a hard clack. Both palms hit the bar as she finally looks at me.
"What do you want?"
You, someone whispers, but I can’t figure out which one of us said it.
"To buy a drink." When she doesn’t budge, I tug down my hood. "And to ask you to forgive me for acting like an asshole."
"Oh," she says with mock surprise. "You were just acting." She claps her hands with slow, dramatic effect. "You deserve an Oscar for that performance then."
She drops her hands and her flat gaze tells me she’s unmoved.
"You were right." I struggle to find the words, never having done this before. And the discomfort of being in this place makes it doubly hard to get out what I need to. "Everything is...boring without you."
For a split second her hardness wavers, but then she leans in, eyes narrowing. "Then why don’t you find some other useless human chick to bang?"
With that, she spins on her heel and goes back to serving everyone except me.
I feel a pair of eyes on me. When I turn, I see the slim, copper-haired Lost Girl. Ariel, I think? With a jerk of her head, she beckons me over.
Shoving my hands in my hoodie pocket, I squeeze my way to the other end of the bar as she rolls out from behind it.
"You the guy? Err, guys?" she asks.
Snow has been talking about us.
Seven blares alarm into our system like an air raid siren, but I do my best to ignore it.
I hesitate, then answer. "Yeah,"
She gives me a soft, tentative smile, beckoning me to meet her at face level with the crook of a finger. I lean over.
The girl’s soft, pretty features harden as a spark enters her eyes.
"Well, listen up fuckfaces, because Snow doesn’t need anyone in her life making her feel less than, who could take her or leave her.
That bitch is a ride-or-die, loop-de-loop roller-coaster of excitement that makes every day brighter and fun just by being around.
If you give her a complex that she isn’t good enough because she doesn’t have magic, so help me fae lords, I will shove the entirety of my wheelchair up your tight, cinched asshole. Got it?"
I’m so stunned it takes a moment to register that we are all stunned.
Whoa, breathes Four.
Shit, agrees Two.
What a good friend, Five says.
SHUT UP, FIVE, we all yell at him.
"I said," she grinds out between her teeth with menace, "got. It?"
We nod.
Her expression relaxes, though her intensity leaves behind an almost palpable sizzling brine in its wake. "Good. Now either grovel your ass off or get the fuck out." She rolls away. "Don’t forget to tip your waitress," she throws over her shoulder.
We’re not scared of her, Two says.
We’re a little scared of her, Three responds.
"Ha!" Someone laughs loud and hard nearby.
A full-figured woman in a silky dress sits at the bar with a martini glass in hand, the pale gold drink catching the low light.
A lemon twist curls over the rim. A cherry glows at the bottom.
The scent of gin and orange peel cuts through the heavier sweetness of the bar, followed by a strange licorice bite I can’t place.
A heart locket rests against her chest, and her amused face tugs at my memory.
She looks familiar.
"Can I get another Spellbinder?" she calls to the bartender with a mischievous smirk. "And maybe a shovel for the clueless man digging his own grave?"
This is going to be harder than we thought.
It’s been almost two weeks, and every night I’ve swallowed my pride and shuffled into Poison Apple to sit at the end of the bar. Patiently, we pay our penance.
We fucked up hugely. It’s near torture to be without Snow, and at least here, we can watch her. Be nearby. Try to show her that we can do better.
Not that we deserve another chance...
Night after night, we are ignored by the Lost Girls. Not one of them will acknowledge me or serve me a drink. I’ve got to earn it. That much is clear.
I’ve watched their intro so many times, I know exactly who all of them are. And while my skin still itches as Seven keeps pressing on our brain about being in the dead center of the biggest magic hub we’ve ever seen, we stay.
Even though we can’t get over the blatant, relaxed way everyone has been using their magic or abilities to show off and party together.
Not that any of the patrons are that powerful, but they’ve done everything from fill the dance floor with floating bubbles to dance in the air with a partner using levitation powers.
How can they not want to hide what they can do? They aren’t even ashamed.
Should someone be ashamed of making bubbles? Three asks uncertainly.
You’re ashamed of my power, Five says, almost indignant.
That’s different, and warranted, Two fires back. Nobody wants to see that.
Magic is wrong, Seven says with the finality and weight of an anvil.
"You're still here," Ariel says, rolling past with a crate of limes in her lap.
"I'm still here. I’ll be here as long as it takes. Which may be never because I don’t deserve it." I need her to know I know that, because maybe she’ll pass it on to Snow. Maybe part of me doesn’t want her to forgive me. I understand that one better. Being damned and unforgivable.
"Hm," Ariel says before filling a glass with water and setting it on a coaster in front of me before wheeling off.
She doesn't trust us, Six reports.
She shouldn't, says Four.
She gave us water, Five says. That's basically a hug.
It is not basically a hug. But it's also not nothing.
My presence is barely tolerated here, but Snow has made it clear I’m not allowed to patrol with her.
So I don't. I go four rooftops over from her rounds, in the dark, where she can't see me.
Except.
Two nights ago, she stopped mid-route on the Hanover Street roof, stretched her arms over her head, slow, luxurious, like a cat in a sunbeam, and then threw a dagger backward without looking.
It stuck in the doorframe of the stairwell I was standing in.
Eight inches from my shoulder. Then she walked to the ledge, dropped off it into a pigeon-perfect descent, and continued her night.
She knows, Six said.
She knows, Three agreed.
She's amazing, Five sighed.
We are all in so much trouble, said Two.
At two, the crowd begins to thin. At three, Geanie sweeps out the door, blowing kisses, and the music dies.
The lights raise, and everyone left files out. Rap flips the lock behind the last one. I'm still on my stool. Night three of nobody telling me to leave.
Snow comes around with a rag and a spray bottle and starts wiping down the bar top. The air goes sharp with antiseptic under all the leftover perfume and spilled liquor.
"You good, Snow?" Rap calls from her office, leather messenger bag over her shoulder.
The question is obviously about me. Does Snow want me bum-rushed out of here?
"I'm good," Snow says flatly.
Rap nods as Ryder materializes from the back hall.
They both slow as they head for the door at the same time.
Then Ryder takes the far side of the aisle, and Rap angles toward the bar, leaving as much floor between them as possible.
They’ve been circling each other like that all night, every night. Two dogs on a shared street, desperate and terrified, always keeping a leash's length of air between them.
He reaches the door first and pulls it open. Dead summer Boston heat rolls in, thick and damp.
Rap steps through, but her keys slip from her hand and hit the threshold with a jingle.
They both bend.
Their shoulders nearly brush. Ryder’s hand closes over the keys the same second hers does, trapping the silver ring between them.
For one breath, neither of them moves.
Rap glances up.
Ryder is already looking at her.
The humid air curls around them. Her mouth parts a fraction. His grip tightens on the keys before he lets go as if they burned him.
Rap snatches them up and straightens quickly.
"Ryder," she says in a quick goodbye.
"Boss," Ryder answers in a similar clipped tone.
Then Rap cuts left while he heads right.
Snow snorts even as she works her way toward me, having witnessed the same loaded exchange.
When she's close enough, I get off the stool to get out of the way.
"Have I mentioned today that I’m sorry?" I ask, my voice sounding too loud in the empty bar.
"Not today," she says without slowing her cleaning.
"I am. Sorry, that is. You didn’t deserve that. Especially not after we..." I swallow hard. "I miss being stalked." I try to joke, but I instantly feel stupid.
"You miss being chased around? Told how awesome you are? Crazy," she says, rolling her eyes as she moves to wipe off the stools.
I don't understand, Six says. We apologized. Apologies resolve the offense. That's the function of an apology.
"Well, it’s me stalking you now, isn’t it?" I say, some of my frustration leaking through. Not at her, at myself.
My body moves almost automatically as I come up behind her and plant a hand on the bar on either side of her.
Back off, you are coming on too strong, Three cautions.
My fingers dig into the wood edge.
Snow goes still inside the cage of my arms. She could break out of this eight different ways, and at any time.
She doesn't.
"I tried to stay away from you," I say to the back of her white hair even as I resist the urge to bury my nose in it. "We all did. But none of us can, not even..."
She turns in my arms and looks me in the eye for the first time in twelve long days. Heat rises in me as if I were Four.
Her icy stare lands on me, though it’s anything but cold. I’ve missed it. She’s such a complicated contradiction, but in a totally different way than us.
"Not even Seven?" she asks quietly.