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Byron’s gaze shifts to me. “You lawyered up all of the sudden? That’s messed up, Mira. I figured we could settle all of this between us like adults.”
“Is there anything adult about hexing someone?” Shauna says with a snort. “Or sending threatening texts to your ex-girlfriend? My ex-boyfriend is a real douche, but even he knew better.”
Delia gives him a crestfallen look that would flay me if she ever sent it my way. “I’m disappointed in you, Byron. I thought you knew how to be a gentleman.”
Maybe he’s not immune to Delia’s puppy dog eyes either, because he lifts his hands in a warding-off gesture. “It was an honest mistake.” His gaze skates across my group of supporters. “And I regret it, okay? Of course, I do. I’m suffering more than you.”
I can’t help but point to my busted ankle. “How do you figure, jackass?”
I can feel Danny at my back again, actuallyfeelhim even though he’s not touching me. I can tell he’s furious on my behalf. Some of my annoyance with him fades, because I don’t remember ever having someone stand up for me like this. I’m usually the one who takes stands. Now that I think about it, it must have cost him to be here. He’s someone who doesn't like stepping out of his comfort zone—and showing up at my ex-boyfriend’s doorstep while his wrist is hurt has to be very much out of his comfort zone. The rest of my annoyance fades, and I feel my throat clog. I step back slightly, not enough to run into him and further damage his wrist, but enough to show that…
Byron whips the towel off his head.
Half a dozen swears rip out of me, and Shauna takes up the chant. His hair is dyed a crispy peroxide blonde, and it looks patchy, as if some of it has fallen out.
“Look what I’ve done to myself!” he shouts, letting the towel fall onto the hardwood floor. Behind him I can see the familiar furniture that’s still hunkering in the living room—the couch I’ve sat on hundreds or even thousands of times. It’s humbling, seeing a glimpse of the life we used to share. I was crazy about this man once. Feral for him.
There is obviously something deeply wrong with my judgment, or at least there was.
“This is because of the curse?” Delia whispers in awe, her gaze whipping to my hair. It’s a little greasy today, I’ll be the first to admit, but it hasn’t started falling out.
“Of course not,” I say on reflex, although I have to admit the timing is pretty damn incredible. “Did you dye it at the roots with peroxide?” I press. “How long did you leave it in?”
He sniffs. “I fell asleep for a few hours.”
“Well, that’s obviously the problem, not Josie the Great, however much you or she would like to take credit for it. I’d say it serves you right, but I’m not a dick.”
He sneers at me, his lip curling up. “You did just say it, you bitch.”
I’m about to make a cutting comment about his boy-band hair, but Danny steps up next to me. “Don’t call her that. Have some respect.”
His words carry a threat I wouldn’t have expected from him—with people he doesn’t know, he usually comes off as quiet and accommodating. Flat. But he looks incensed, like he wants to do Byron some damage. I’d still prefer dealing with this situation myself, but I’m surprised to feel a little tingling between my thighs. It’s turning me on that he showed up here, despite himself. It’s turning me on that he’s throwing out this Cro Magnon spiel that’s clearly unnatural for him.
Looking from him to Byron, there’s no question of which of them is the better man. It’s laughable to compare them, really.
“Oh, fuck off,” Byron says, but he’s clearly intimidated. I see it in his eyes, and in the way he slams the door right in our faces and then turns over the lock. He must remember the presence of my supposed lawyer, though, because he calls through the closed door, “I’m going to leave her alone, Lawyer Guy, I swear. And if I can take the hex back, I will. Obviously. I can’t even go outside. I’m going to have to wear a wig to our next show.”
His hair doesn’t look that bad—just positively fried—but he’s obviously getting off on the drama, and I don’t want to feed the monster.
I remember the voice message sitting on my phone and shout, “Did you know my mother met some rich European dude and cancelled our Thanksgiving plans?”
“Believe it or not, Mira, I don’t give a fuck about your Thanksgiving plans.’
Huh. He seems to mean it, and honestly, I don’t know why he’d know before me. He doesn’t exactly keep the 4-1-1 on my mother.
“Good,” I say. “Because you’re not invited.”
A door down the hall is flung open, revealing my former neighbor, a stout middle-aged woman named Linda. “What’s all this fuss about?”
I shrug and step away from the door of my old apartment. “Byron has regrets about dying his hair platinum blond. We were trying to talk him through it.”
She gives me a strange look, and Shane says, slick as can be, “Has he ever threatened you, ma’am?”
She snort-laughs. “The only threat that man poses is to the national level of intelligence.”
Ain’t that the truth.
“Let’s go,” I say to my crew.
