Page 8 of Tracking Snow

All the voices inside me go silent.

My fingers close a little tighter around her delicate, bird-like wrists, and suddenly the streets are too quiet. I’m so painfully present, my own breathing is too loud. Everything crisps into extra high-definition sharpness, from the rough brick of the building behind her, to the warm filtered streetlights casting a glow on her hauntingly striking features.

It feels like I’m standing on the edge of a moment that could explode into anything. I’m not in control, and any move I make will tumble my world into chaos.

The sudden urge to kiss that pouting mouth grips my entire being before I can stop it. An aching tingle develops in my lips, needing pressure to relieve it. Her magnetic pull has me dipping my head until there are only a mere few inches separating us.

Snow’s expression softens, her mouth parting. Like she wants it too.

I swallow hard.

Don't you fucking dare.

Seven's warning voice shatters the moment, and my spine stiffens.

My jaw tenses then flexes as I fight with everything I have against the unexplainable tide controlling me. "I don't care what you do but stop following me and leave me alone." It comes out as a savage, direct command.

Her eyes go flinty.

I tear myself away, releasing her with effort. This time when I go, she doesn't follow.

When I round the next block, I shove my hands back into the pocket of my hoodie. My breaths come quick and uneven as if I’d just run a mile. I try to inhale deeply even as the riot in my mind becomes a dull roar.

Some of them want me to turn back. To talk to her. To answer some of her questions and ask my own. No one says it directly, but I feel it.

It's Seven's voice I lean on.

You did good. Always walk away.

Because it's he and I who know it's best not to get involved with anyone. It would only complicate things, and the seven of us are complicated enough.

Chapter 3

Flamethrower for Your Friends

SNOW

"You've said his name four times since we left the apartment," Ariel says as we head to work our shift at Poison Apple.

"I have not."

"Hoodie guy." She ticks off a finger. "Mystery man." Another finger. "The magic one." Third finger. "And then just him, which honestly was the most telling."

I open my mouth. Close it.

A middle-aged man openly gawks at us as I walk and Ariel rolls by in her wheelchair.

Four PM and it's another blazing hot summer day, so we didn't bother to cover up our work attire.

My leather bustier bodysuit is barely covered by a tiny red and black plaid schoolgirl skirt with garters holding up my stockings.

Ariel is similarly dressed in turquoise rhinestone-covered booty shorts and a purple crop top that beautifully brings out the copper orange of her hair. Her black choker is the perfect touch of extra edginess.

We aren't just bartenders.

We are Lost Girls.

Spectacles, myths, booze-pouring legends at Poison Apple, the hottest bar in the city.