Page 19 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“Ah. Sorry, man,” Damien says with genuine remorse. His cheekbones even go a little pink with it. “I’m a musician; we see the worst guys at some of our shows. I just get really protective of girls. Sorry about flying off the handle. I promise I’m not a douche.”

“Of course you’re not a douche, my bad witch would never date a man with an unwashed ass,” Naomi says, rounding the corner. “Girl, where have you been? I’ve been ordering so many books for you to check out.”

She hands me a stack of about seven books, all with incredible titles like Hoodoo in the Modern Age and A Compendium of Illustrative Grimoires from Antiquity. I flip through the titles and get more excited with each one. “I still can’t believe how good you are at finding these, Naomi.”

“It’s kind of a hobby now,” she admits.

“I found the Illustrative Grimoires one,” Binx says proudly.

“Yeah, he did,” Naomi admits.

“Those things look heavy... and thick. Let’s buy them,” Damien says. “Then you can crack the spines all you want while you read them.”

Naomi grasps her chest like he’s stabbed her there. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, you monster,” she says.

“Damien, no way, the illustrated one alone is like, seventy dollars,” I say.

“I don’t remember asking how much they were,” Damien says, plucking his debit card out of his wallet and handing it to Naomi.

“Oh, I like him, Lil,” Naomi says. I try to snatch the card out of her hand and she lifts it way above my head. “Nuh-uh. I’m not letting you sabotage king behavior. I’ll be right back.” She says the last bit to Damien.

Damien grasps my thighs from where he’s sat behind me and pulls me down onto his lap. Binx stares at us. After squinting one more time, he says. “Wait, you said you’re a musician?”

Oh. No. No, no, no. Binx has been subjected to so many of my late night hyperfixations, particularly the ones where I swoon over the vascularity of Damien’s hands. The ones with visual aids. The ones where I scroll through Damien’s feed and zoom in on his perfect hands, or pine over the Pinterest boards devoted to them.

“Yeah,” Damien says. “My band’s on tour. Portent.”

“Oh, you’re the one Lillith is totally in love with, then,” Binx says as if he’s realizing Damien and I are wearing the same colors and not spilling that I absolutely gush about this man to randos in public. “Lillith watched me draw your hands a whole bunch a couple months ago.”

I’m absolutely frozen in horror. Time slows.

Damien leans over me, waiting for me to look at him. When I do, his lips are curled in the most self-satisfied, smug, shit-eating grin that has ever been seen on this plane of existence. “Did she?” he asks.

Binx is so focused on flipping back through his sketchbook that he doesn’t notice the horror on my face or the glee in Damien’s. “Uh-huh,” he says as he goes almost all the way to the front of his sketchbook and lets out a pleased sound. “Here it is,” he says.

“Binx—N—”

“Oh yeah! Let me see,” Damien says eagerly.

Binx hands him the open sketchbook where about ten copies of Damien’s hands in various positions stretch before us like a fucking scarlet letter. There are some where he’s holding a drumstick, one where he’s mid-spin. A pair of sketches of his fingers latticed together, like in that photos where he’s got his hands hanging between his bent knees. One picture focuses on the vascular lines of his blacked-out hand.

“It was really cute,” Binx says. “She begged me to give her the pages, but I told her she’d have to wait ‘til I finished this one. When you rip two pages out, it ruins the signatures and makes the binding loose. Makes it a nightmare to draw in.”

I hide my face in my hands, groaning. It keeps getting worse.

“You’re really talented, man,” Damien says. “Do you do this professionally?”

“No,” Binx says. “I make really good money as a researcher.”

“You could make good money doing this too,” Damien says. “Tattoos or prints or something. How can I get in touch with you about making this a print for our band?”

“Oh, Lil has my email,” Binx says. “That would be really cool. I can do the hands of all the bandmates if you want.”

“Sick, I’ll be in touch, man,” he says, handing the book back to him.

I look at Binx as he retreats with a pleased little smile on his face. I’ve been telling him to pursue art forever and of course he only listens to Damien when he says it. I glare at Binx’s back as he settles into his hyperfocus again. I feel Damien twist a lock of hair around his two forefingers as he whisper into my ear.

“Someone has had a little crush for long, long while,” he husks against the shell of my ear.