13
The makeup I put on Friday morning was less cosmetic enhancement, more war paint. My eyeliner was black and heavy, my mascara spiky, my lips blood red. I wore all black, every inch the kickass warrior.
If only my twisted-up insides had matched my outward appearance, because I hadn’t been able to eat breakfast. Ro kept offering to find a drive-thru as we sped toward Demon Club, but I shook my head every time, not even wanting coffee. I’d fiddled with my hamsa ring so much that I was gonna have a permanent groove in my finger and the inside of my cheek was bleeding from gnawing on it.
“Hey.” Ro took his hand off the wheel to squeeze my thigh. “Badenov isn’t going to know what hit him, Moose.”
“Changed my mind. I’m Squirrel,” I said. “Height-wise, it makes sense for you to be Bullwinkl
