FAO
The salon smelled like poison.
Chemical, burning, wrong — my nose screamed at me to leave, to get fresh air, to escape this small building full of toxic fumes. But Elowen was here, sitting in a chair while a woman painted something onto her hair, and I wasn't leaving without her.
"You can wait outside, babe." Elowen caught my eye in the mirror, amused. "You look like you're being tortured."
"I'm fine." I was not fine. I pressed my sleeve against my nose, trying to filter out the worst of it.
"He's so loyal," the stylist — a woman named Dani with purple streaks in her own hair — cooed. "Mine won't even drive me here, let alone wait."
"He's a little overprotective."
"A lot overprotective," I corrected, still breathing through my sleeve. "What is that smell?"
"Bleach. Developer. T
