Page 122 of Break Out the Girl

“Let me show you what I mean,” she says. “Yesterday, I spent hours trying to teach Tally a couple of simple spells. Let’s just say wolves and casting don’t seem to go hand-in-hand. But you?” Her eyes are twinkling. “I think you’re made for magic.”

Me? Making magic? I failed the last time she tried to teach me.

“Watch what I’m doing,” she commands.

Releasing my hand, Kitten lifts her palms as her fingers begin an intricate dance. She’s also humming a note. I place the key into my ears then focus on the hands.

The air around her knuckles shimmies and suddenly, a glowing globe of light blooms in the space between us—it has little silver sparkles dancing inside.

Without really being conscious of it, I realize my throat is humming the same note. Finger acrobatics aren’t a problem for me, in fact they are way easier than full body gymnastics, so I look into Kitten’s eyes and try.

Blimey O Riley!

A light bubble burst into existence right next to hers, but doesn’t have silver sparkles, it has swirls like a lava lamp.

Oh! The exact color of Kitten’s eyes!

“London,” Aurora grins, her face lighting up. “It’s just beautiful.”

I stretch out my fingers, increasing the size of my blob. And then I do it again until it’s so big, Kitten and I are enveloped inside.

Her mouth opens then closes, then grins some more. “I’ve never been inside a light globe spell, I didn’t know it was even possible!”

The happy-fizz in my veins goes completely off the charts. “Can I make it warmer, or made out of cotton candy?”

“I never got to do heating spells with my tutors, but I know the theory is to pump warmth into your wrists, and then…”

“Say no more.” I’m a faun with heat-a-plenty, so I flex my wrists like Spidey. The lava lamp we’re standing in begins to gently heat.

“I knew it!” she squeaks. “Fuck, London. I just knew you’d be good at this. I’m so proud of you.”

My heart and brain are on a waltzer, taking turns to smash into my ribs or my skull. It’s dizzy-making but also the best. Our eyes lock on to each other, and before any brain-worms can tell me no, I lean down and press my lips against hers.

It’s a safe kiss inside our warm blue bubble. Soft and safe, like the peach and vanilla shampoo.

But the moment my tongue brushes the seam of her lips, a massive, electric jolt goes straight down my spine. The connection is so good, but also so intense.

Too intense.

Stupid sirens start going off in my head while down in my new sweatpants, my downstairs-faun-horn reacts, twitching and filling and getting hungry.

Danger. Danger.

The cattle prod. The scarred-face man.

The old ladies who smelled like stale gin and expensive dust.

The old men who wanted me to smell like blood and fear.

“You’re up, London. Do your bit.” Buzz, crackle, electric hiss.

“That’s a good little boy, come eat up Momma’s special place.”

“On your knees, boy. Lick the lovely lollypop.”

“Look, his little pee-pee is getting so excited…”

No it’s not. I want to stop. I hate this.