Page 71 of Lure

“What about dying her hair?” Bones asked after I’d pulled my hair back into a chignon to give myself a more severe look that I could enhance with cosmetics.

“No,” I said, slicing a hand through the air. “For one, dying my hair would require bleaching the color out of it in the first place and you’re talking a time consuming process that would not only need to be repeated a few times, it’s damn hard to replicate and it could seriously damage my hair. Add to how fast my hair grows and the dark growth would be at the roots in a matter of days. No. We’re not dying my hair.”

“You have distinctive hair.” He didn’t add any qualifiers to it, but he also didn’t push on that train of thought. “Maybe a wig would work.”

“Possibly,” Voodoo said, though he had leaned away from the handful of hair pieces he’d brought back with him from his supply run. “The trick is securing them. Most security agents aren’t going to challenge you on the wig, but they may want to search under it. We are trying to drawnoattention to you.”

My stomach sank before I even made the next suggestion. “What if I cut it? Take it super short.” I suppressed my own shivers. It was hair. It would grow back. “If I close crop it, then it can look like I’m just getting my hair back after some hair loss or something.”

I really didn’t like that idea.

“No,” Alphabet said from the laptop he was working on. We weren’t in his office or my room, but an entirely different kind of room filled with all sorts of costumes, cosmetics, prosthesis, including the kind to adjust the shape of a chin or a nose. I hadn’t seen this much gear outside of a movie studio's special effects and makeup departments before. “One, even if it would alter the shape of your face enough, the longer hair gives you more options in styling. Second, you don’t want to cut it.”

I frowned. “It was my idea.”

“Maybe it was your idea, Firecracker,” Voodoo said from where he was checking different cases. “But you don’twantto do it and if it were life and death—specifically yours—we could revisit it then. We have ways to do this that can distract facial recognitionandhelp minimize people noticing you.”

I didn’t think of myself as having notoriety. “I don’t really know how many people in general would recognize me. People in the business? People I’ve done ads for? Maybe. But the average person?” I shrugged. “Then again, Lunchbox did, but nothing about any of you is that average.”

“Thank you,” Voodoo said with a grin and a wink. He pulled out a case and carried it over. “I think this color palette is the closest to your own. We can do some minor adjustments withyour nose, add a little sharper point to your chin. Maybe a little more fullness to your face.”

He flipped it open to reveal the contents.

“Colored contacts will disguise the eyes. Maybe a birthmark…” He tilted his head as he studied me, his assessing eyes probably didn’t miss much. “You know, a little mole right there at the corner of your upper lip.”

“Reshape her face, add some contours,” Bones said, circling around to glance inside the case with Voodoo before studying me. “Maybe a little pallor and some shadows under her eyes?—”

“Won’t make her any less pretty,” Alphabet stated with a shake of his head. “I mean she’s standing here bare-faced of any cosmetics, hair in a pony tail and wearing an oversized sweatshirt and she’s drop dead gorgeous. What the hell do you think some dark shadows are gonna do?”

I bit my lip. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, pivoting to look at us. “We can go glasses. Different shapes can alter the look of the face.”

“You can’t put on eyewear for passport photos,” I reminded him.

“Don’t need to worry about that.” Alphabet’s confidence didn’t waver. “Passport photos are generally shitty quality, it just has tolooklike you and then you need to look mostly like it.”

They went around another circle. The amount of work they wanted to do might help with the identification, then getting through the security both at the airports and on entering France—where I’d need a visa. Fortunately, it would just be a tourist visa, still…

“What if we went the military ID route?” Lunchbox suggested and it was my turn to give him a bland look.

“No one is ever going to believe I was in the military.” They were mountains, and I was definitely a molehill.

“Shortstop, don’t think like that. Military is full of all types and tiny doesn’t mean weak or powerless.” He gave my nose a gentle tap.

“Thought about that,” Voodoo said. “Problem is we don’t want anyone side eyeing the ID, and military comes with its own preconceptions.”

When Lunchbox handed me a tall, frothy and very green drink with a straw in it I raised my eyebrows.

“Smoothie, fruit—and the spinach and ginger you mentioned. High in antioxidants, got some proteins, plant protein not the heavier kind. Also some boosters. No extra added sugar.” He managed to deliver the description without sounding too pained about it.

He wanted me to eat more and I just could not eat the sheer amount of food he prepared. Especially when I was so sedentary. The protein shakes were a compromise. One sip and I tested it. Not bad. The second sip was better. The third made me smile. “I like it.”

His little fist pump was sweet.

“Thank you,” I said, brushing a kiss to his jaw before I resumed happily sipping my drink.

“Anytime.” He eyed the others. “So where are we?”

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