Page 86 of Hunted

After a few seconds of uproarious laughter, Gina patted my arm and said, “Oh, I can see why you like her, Beckett. Come this way, dear, and let’s get this mess fixed up.”

Gina led me to the nearest chair—an obnoxiously designed but ridiculously comfortable black-and-gold leather stool—propped in front of a floor-length, gold-rimmed mirror. She met my gaze in the glass, still smirking, and began working her way through the tangles.

“How are my other two favourites?” She tossed the question over her shoulder to where Beck now waited lounging on a tiny sofa to the right of the door. He looked ridiculous—like a Ken doll in a tiny Barbie Dreamhouse.

“Is Van still growing out his hair?”

“No, I think he’s content to follow orders and leave it as is,” Beck answered, chuckling softly.

Gina beamed. “Oh, good, so that brain of his does know when to listen to those who know more than him.” She leaned in, conspiratorially whispering in my left ear, “The last time I saw that boy, he’d decided to grow out those beautiful caramel locks purely for the purpose of tying them back into a manbun!” Aghast, she pulled a face I couldn't help but giggle at. “As for Deklan, well. He still insists on box-dyeing his hair black and messing up every style I try to fix for him.”

“A travesty, honestly.”

She tapped the top of my head with her comb. “I don’t know you well enough to know if you’re being snide or not, but in giving you the benefit of the doubt, you’re right. It is a travesty. He has the most beautiful, rich, chocolate-brown hair.”

A soft smile graced my lips. “He must have ditched the box dye then, because I’ve only known him to have chocolate-brown hair.”

Gina dropped the section she was working on to clap—excitement made audible. She continued to prattle on about things I didn’t care to listen to for an hour, holding an entire conversation by herself. The whole while, I scrutinised her—trying to place who she reminded me of. It was on the tip of my tongue… someone I knew well, yet not at all… someone irritatingly familiar, yet not close enough to know overly much about.

I glanced over at Beck, who was pretending to read a lifestyle magazine, but was really staring at us over the top edge of its pages—its upside-down cover was a dead giveaway if his sparkling irises weren’t. I couldn’t see his mouth, but the lines surrounding those smouldering eyes wrinkled in a way that suggested a peaceful kind of joy I’d never seen etched across his features before.

For some reason, it unsettled me, and I twisted back around just as Gina announced she’d finished. And it was then—when she made that proud declaration, tacking the word darling onto the end—that I successfully placed her.

Gina was a real-life Edna Mode.

Stifling a giggle, I examined her handiwork in that fancy mirror.

It had been a very long time since I’d been able to catch my reflection in anything but stained glass windows and the screens of dying laptops.

Staring hard, I barely recognised the woman who peered back. She was harder and colder than any version I’d met before—but I knew that sparkle of joy still existed somewhere within her ironclad exterior. At least until Blackwing extinguished that tiny glimmer too.

[ 29 ]

BECK

VINCENT LIMA – THE FIRE

Gina spent a good hour working on Adelaide’s hair, then a further thirty minutes monologuing all the things Addie had missed on the outside over the last eighteen months. Which celebrities were dating, who had died and how, and which new movies had come out that G recommended—all the tearjerkers; the ones that didn’t end in happily ever afters.

Ugh.

Don’t get me wrong, those stories are good on occasion—but we see enough death and darkness in our real world; we don’t need it in our fictional, escapism-driven lives, too.

When G was done, Addie could have slid right in with those celebrities on their red carpets. Her captivating white-blonde tresses now fell to her mid-back in masterful forties-style waves, reminiscent of days long since passed—when Marilyn Monroe and Rita Hayworth were the epitome of beauty. Not like today’s gaunt, malnourished, catwalk trends.

She cleared her throat, somehow appearing before me like an apparition. I lurched to my feet, much to the amusement of the black-haired, severe-fronting Gina.

“What did you say?” I asked, rubbing the back of my neck.

Adelaide frowned, her eyes narrowing like she was trying to see through me.

Maybe she could.

Maybe she’d be the only one to ever see through all the layers I adorned.

“I asked what was next,” she said, chewing the inside of her cheek.

“Don’t do that. You’ll get an ulcer,” I scolded, evidently surprising her. “Next you’ve got Marie for resets, who I believe is next door?” I directed the question to Gina, who nodded, already sweeping up the remnants of Adelaide’s trimmed ends.