Page 4 of Hexed, Vexed, & Undersexed
The network sends me to Boston, which is a half-hour away, for my ‘make-over.’ I grumble to myself the entire drive while mentally chanting that this is the only way to save my family’s legacy. Of course, having grown up with no magic—well, you can’t really miss what you never had. I envied Gram-Gram what little magic she possessed, but her daughter and her grand-daughter—my mother—didn’t have much of anything to envy.
I suppose I have ‘some’ magic, but it’s negligible, at best. The only thing that I’ve ever been able to do is call animals to me—like I’m some misfit magical animal whisperer. Even then, it’s not like this ‘power’ is useful. I can call on a flock of ravens, but I can’t make them attack anyone or peck their eyeballs out. I’ve tried—in the eighth grade when Cassia Parish told everyone that I practiced making out with a picture of the hottest boy in school. The look on her face was priceless when this swarm of birds flew over to me vengefully.
And, then, shit all over my hair.
I never tried calling animals again.
If my family is hexed, then I am doubly cursed, because the world seems to want to make an example out of me—like now. How else would you explain the fifty million hoops I have to jump through just to get my hands on what should rightfully already be mine? I’ll be honest, I’ve already tried to jump ship on this wreck of a TV show idea, but Gram-Gram keeps guilting the crap out of me. Without a doubt, the next generation will have zero magic if the hex is not reversed, and the Porter family legacy will die.
Of course, I remind her that I would need to be having sex to potentially have children to continue the next generation, but my words fall on deaf ears and that’s why I’m getting out of my car to meet Preston at a store called Black Magic—another neo-pagan novelty shop, I’m sure. Truthfully, my ‘coach’ is really what’s keeping me going. Watching his denim-clad form walk toward me makes this trip worth it.
“Ready to become ‘Crystal Moon’?” he asks with a waggle of his brows.
I roll my eyes.
“As ready as ever,” I concede, and he opens the door, ushering me inside the Wiccan boutique.
The fragrant smells of burnt herbs and incense fill the air. The shop is softly lit with candles and Himalayan salt lamps, which reflect light off the dozens of rocks and stones that line the walls. Even I can admit the place looks magical. Part of the store has bookshelves and another has racks of clothing, which is where Preston steers me. He begins rifling through the myriad of colorful garments, pulling out this and that.
I try not to shudder.
I might be a witch-bitch, but I’m a basic one. Charcoal tanks and black leggings all day, every day. I’m pretty much Lego Batman—I only work with black or very, very dark gray. But Preston is over here picking out a rainbow of clothes like I’m little Miss Sunshine. I better get to see what’s underneathhisclothes when this is all said and done.
“All right, go try these on,” he orders, shoving the offending garments into my dubious arms. “I’ve got to go make a call, but I want to see you in these.”
I snort as he walks off.
The man is nuts if he thinks I’m going to parade around the damned store in this, but then I realize the whole country—maybe even world—is going to see me dressed as a clown-witch, and I deflate, wondering how important magic really is. Kids today are already so lazy; do I really want to compound it by throwing in elemental powers? Again, not that it matters because I’m not having any spawn.
The first outfit is a layered olive-green tunic with a hood and a belt—unless it’s supposed to be a dress?I put it on and slap my hands on my hips as I stare at my image. All I need is a bow, some arrows, and a penchant for stealing under the guise of helping others, and I would be a modern-day Robin Hood. I shrug out of it and try on the next piece—a ceremonial dress with a slit up to my thigh.
Does one of the show’s trials include sex magic?
Because I can’t imagine any other reason for wearing this monstrosity.
Just as quickly as before, I slip out of the silky number and just rifle through the rest. There’s a handful of bright shirts with cutesy sayings like ‘good witch’ or ‘I put a spell on you.’ Why can’t I have a black shirt with ‘witch, please’ or ‘resting witch face’?What does the network have against the color?Black keeps the negative away. Thereisa gray tank with ‘I drive a stick’ and a broom on the front.
I guess that will work.
I tug it on and then add a dark burgundy Hogwarts-style robe edged in lace. Feeling ridiculous, I step out of the dressing room to show Preston and bump into a stranger—his chest, more accurately. His very muscular and wide chest, most accurately. I tip my head up and stare into the face of an angel. His hair is golden and pulled back in a bun at the nape of his neck. Deep, piercing blue eyes are lined with long, dark lashes, but it’s his full, sensual mouth that captivates me.
It’s twisted in a condescending sneer.
Immediately, my spine stiffens in defense and my eyes narrow, ready for confrontation—and the arrogant-looking douche doesn’t disappoint.
“Cute dress, Hermione.”
“It’s a robe,” I correct, personifying Ron Weasley.
“Right. . . did you finally get your letter? Are you hoping that you get into Gryffindor or are you secretly a Slytherin fan?”
I roll my eyes at the obnoxious man.
“Clearly,you’veread the books,” I point out.
He shrugs.
“Who hasn’t. Besides, I like your shirt better.”
