Page 8 of Feeding Beauty (The Lost Girls #5)

Hot Girl Jail

AURORA

“ S o, what’s the deal with you and hot boy?” Snow asks, as she and Ariel lead me out of yet another clothing store.

I brought enough cash to cover getting started here, but I’m quickly running out. Hefting several bulging bags, I'm realizing how much these Lost Girls spend on clothes and accessories. Oh, and the shoes. My fae lords, the shoes.

The tendons in my shoulder pull painfully from holding up the bag with not one, but two pairs of combat boots. If Talon were here, he wouldn’t let me carry these heavy bags. He’d take on the weight like it was nothing.

I bristle at the thought. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone to carry my bags. I’m a normal girl, going shopping and getting ready for her first day of work.

“We...” I pause, remembering how Rap said they’d catch onto any lie. “We grew up together.”

Ariel rolls the wheels of her chair along the Boston sidewalk without so much as a strained breath. “There is a lot of chemistry between you two.”

Despite her fantastic show of popping wheelies in provocative clothing, I find Ariel is rather careful with her words.

It seems to me as if half her mind is always somewhere else.

She pauses to lift a camera from the strap around her neck and snaps a picture of the city street.

She’s always taking pictures. Like she wants to collect every single moment she can.

“Like scalding hot chemistry. Why haven’t you tapped that?” Snow adds. Unlike Ariel, Snow has zero filter and tosses out whatever is in her mind at any given moment.

“It’s...complicated.” Not a lie.

“Is it because his dick could roast you from the inside out, or is there something else?” Snow asks.

They both watch me expectantly as my mouth flaps open and closed a few times before I break out into a grin. “Yeah, that pretty much covers the issue.”

“That’ll do it,” Ariel breathes.

“Major bummer.” Snow shakes her head.

“Do you think we should put him out of his misery and invite him in?” Ariel asks, as Snow holds the door of our next destination open for us.

The urge to turn my head to try and catch a glimpse of him trailing us is strong, but I push down the impulse.

The girls caught on early that we were being followed.

My ever-present shadow. I can’t tell right now if I feel grateful for the familiar support or annoyed that I can’t escape our old patterns.

“No, I think not.” It comes out a little haughty. I still feel raw from last night’s fight.

A child’s rebellion. Hmph.

He doesn’t understand how I feel. Talon thrives on solitude and compartmentalization. I tried to be like him, really tried , but the loneliness ate at me until I couldn’t stand it. And I can never escape what I am, or what I’ve done.

Talon doesn’t wake up in a cold sweat, stomach churning over who he is or what he’s had to do to survive. He simply views his job as serving my basic needs, and his feelings end there.

Mine keep twisting and tightening until I think I’ll break out screaming and never stop.

“For the best,” Snow says, interrupting my morbid thoughts. “I get the sense hot boy won’t care for what we’ve got next on the agenda.”

It’s only then I realize we’ve stepped into a tattoo shop with a big green neon sign behind the checkout counter that says Inked by Tink .

Instead of neon lights and sterile walls, the space is cozy chaos.

A velvet loveseat, floral-print lamps, framed awards, and glittering magazine covers clutter one wall.

The scent of antiseptic mingles with something floral—lilac, maybe—and ink.

The black-and-white checkered floor is slick from the melting snow on my boots.

Everything about this place feels lived-in and lit up from the inside.

A woman leans back on a stool, boots propped up on the reception desk, sketchpad balanced on one knee. Her long, wavy platinum hair is buzzed on one side.

She’s pierced all over—ears glittering with rings and studs, silver hoops in her lip and brow. Her black tank top reads Don’t be a dick. The tank clings to her bird-like frame, her low-waisted pants showing off a jeweled belly ring that catches the light.

And her tattoos...they’re art. Blooming vines. Stardust and lush trees. A full skeleton of a phoenix crawling over one arm.

She's vintage pin-up collided with a punk witch and came out furious and fabulous.

“What’s up, ladies,” she asks without raising her head.

I get the sense she knows it’s Snow and Ariel without even looking.

When she finally looks up, I am struck by the unusual color of her eyes.

Green, lush fields of grass, with pupils rimmed in aquamarine.

Like she's seen the ocean from both sides.

“Ah, fresh blood.” She closes the sketchbook and stands, stretching the tension from her petite frame. Her wings— yes, wings —twitch and shimmer in the light. Boston isn’t the human-only city I was led to believe, which is a bit of a relief. Having other fae around makes me feel a little safer.

“I’m Tink, and you must be the new Lost Girl.” She reaches out to shake my hand. Her many rings are cold as she grips my hand in a firm shake before letting me go.

“H-how?—”

She smirks as she pulls out a pair of thick black framed glasses. “You got that look about you.”

I recoil on instinct, my stomach tightening uncomfortably. A realm away from home and I’m still being judged at first sight. “What look?”

“Like you're ready to burn down who you were to become who you really are,” she says conspiratorially with a flash of white teeth.

My shoulders drop, releasing all tension. Her words drop into my gut. That’s exactly how I feel.

A hand on my arm draws my attention to Ariel, and she gives me a reassuring smile. I see recognition and acknowledgement in the aquamarine depths of her eyes. They say, “I’ve been there too.”

“Are you sure you're up for what it means to become a true Lost Girl?” Snow asks, easily jumping up to sit on the reception counter. She’s far more athletic than I would have guessed.

“Hell yes.” It comes out breathy because I have a feeling becoming a Lost Girl is an awful lot like being found.

Tink pushes up her glasses with the back of her gloved hand, continuing to focus on the design she’s needling into my skin. It’s almost like I’m not even in the room. The playlist of grungy indie covers has become the soundtrack to this new experience.

A single stud glints from my nose. A silver bar in my brow. Countless new piercings arc up my ears like constellations.

She noticed I kept admiring hers until she asked if I wanted the same.

At first, I was worried I would be seen as copying, or that it would be weird, but with these girls, there are absolutely none of the passive-aggressive or combative undertones that I’m used to.

No sizing me up. No testing if I deserve what I have.

Admittedly, I’ve only spent the afternoon with them, so my gut remains slightly clenched and on the defensive as I wait for the other combat boot to drop.

Combat boot?

Wow, they really have influenced me in the last couple of hours.

Tink is finishing the outline of a curling black vine of flaming roses with thorns winding around my arm. My throat went dry when I realized what she was designing. I never mentioned being from the Realm of Roses. The fire reminds me of Talon.

“Tink’s talent is giving you the marking you need,” Ariel says after snapping another picture.

Snow’s sprawled across the couch, legs flung over Ariel’s lap as they sip iced coffees they got from The Magic Bean across the street. I nervously sucked mine down a while ago.

“Yeah, I got a handheld mirror that has the glass shattered,” Snow says, showing off the beautiful ink design on the inside of her forearm. “Still not sure what that’s about,” she mutters.

“You’ll know when you’re meant to,” Tink says without breaking her concentration.

“I can’t believe how nice you’ve all been,” I say, barely louder than a breath.

They all glance at me. Even Tink pauses for a moment.

Ariel raises a brow. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

I stare at the ceiling for a second. “People usually...treat me different. Either they want something from me, or they treat me like I’m not real. Like I’m some...object. Pretty, maybe. But not really a person.”

Snow lets out a low whistle. “Ah. Hot girl jail.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’ve been in hot girl jail,” she says, like it’s obvious. “People think you’ve got it so good they feel entitled to hate you for it. Project their own shit. Blame you for being born lucky. Sucks.”

That lands sharper than expected. Back home, no one had any concept of how difficult it was to be me. They just expected me to be grateful.

Grateful for the stares. Grateful for the silence they wanted from me. Grateful to be an ornament.

“That shit doesn’t matter here,” Ariel adds. “We all get judged when we walk in the door. Doesn’t mean that’s who we are.”

“Don’t you mean roll in the door?” Snow grins wickedly at her.

Ariel narrows her eyes in fake annoyance. “I’m going to steam roll right over you. And apparently no one would blame me, because I’m just a poor, helpless girl in a wheelchair.” She says the last part in singsong.

I nearly choke on my own spit. My laugh escapes in heaving wheezes.

Ariel blinks. “Oh my gosh, that’s how you laugh?”

“Be still,” Tink murmurs, pausing until I calm down.

“Dammit,” Snow gripes. “Well, Aurora knows better now. You’d avenge my death even against a seemingly defenseless girl, wouldn’t you, Aurora—ow!” Snow’s legs snap up as she rubs the part where Ariel gave her a wicked pinch.

“Thought you said I was defenseless?” Ariel bats her eyes at Snow.

I try to suppress my laugh so I don’t move, but it comes out as a rough snort.

“Sometimes people judging you by what they think you are leaves them at a huge disadvantage,” Ariel says with the first true grin I've seen from her. “I’ve learned to either prove them wrong as often as possible or,” she says with a lofty shrug, “exploit their assumptions.” Her face softens. “Really, Rap taught me that.”

A solemn moment quiets the group, as they pay silent alms to the bar owner.

“They'll underestimate you. Let them,” Tink says as if repeating some mantra.

“They’ll want you to play nice. Don’t,” Snow continues, still holding on to her bruised leg.

“Because Lost Girls aren’t made to fit in. We’re made to find each other,” Ariel finishes.

“And become unfuckable with.” Snow pumps a fist, finally dropping her leg.

I get the feeling there’d be a clink of glasses, and everyone would take a drink if there had been a round present.

Tink wraps my fresh tattoo, assuring me the pixie dust she used will heal it in a matter of hours.

I glance toward the front of the shop where my reflection stares back from a vintage mirror half-covered in stickers, and barely recognize the girl looking at me. She’s someone I might want to be—edgy, unpolished, self-assured. Dare I say, chaotic.

But something’s still...off. Not unfinished, exactly, just….

“Hang on,” I mutter.

Tink glances up, but I’m already heading for the front counter. There’s a pair of hair scissors resting in a mason jar beside a comb and some latex gloves. I grab them without asking, stepping toward the mirror again.

“Uh,” Snow says, sitting up straighter. “What are you doing?”

I sweep my pink hair over one shoulder. It falls past my waist, the same way it has for as long as I can remember.

And then I cut.

The first lock falls to the floor like a ribbon severed.

“Oh, witchtits,” Ariel breathes, wheels whirring as she rolls forward to get a better view.

I cut again. And again. Until the ends lay just below my shoulders, jagged and wild.

When I’m done, I run my fingers through the shorn waves. It’s lighter. It’s freer. It’s mine.

“I think I’m done being who I was.” My breath comes quick with excitement. I feel I’m on the edge of everything.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, then Snow lets out a whistle. “Hell yes.”

Tink’s smile is impish as golden motes float off her fluttering wings. “Respect.”

A moment later, Snow practically springs to her feet. “OHHHH—we have to do blue tips.”

“No, we don’t, ” Ariel shoots back. “Her pink is iconic. You don’t mess with iconic.”

“She needs to be more punk!”

“The pink is gorgeous as-is! ”

“Oh my fae lords,” I laugh. “Are you two really going to fight about my hair?”

They both turn toward me, totally unrepentant.

“Yes,” they say in perfect sync.