Stiletto Sisterhood

Chapter One

Priyanka Seth was always a girl with a plan, and arriving hungover for a life-changing interview—sans panties!—was not part of it. Jumping into the backseat of a cab already loitering at the curb, Priya slapped a hand on the Plexiglas divider. "I need to get to Sutton Place then straight back to East Fifty-Third and Park before eight."

The driver lifted heavy-lidded eyes from his phone screen to meet hers in the rearview mirror. "You got a pair of wings in that purse?"

Opening her clutch, Priya frantically dug inside. "I have . . . seventy-seven dollars with your name on it if you can figure it out." She handed over the wad of mixed bills and the cab roared like a waking panther and charged—slamming Priya into her seat with an oof. While the car tore down the street, she unlocked her phone and scrolled through her contacts for the one person who could save her in her hour of need.

The line rang twice before Caitlin's bleary face filled the screen, all rumpled violet hair and sleepy dark eyes. "For the love of Vogue—what!"

"Cait! Oh thank God! Get up, get up right now. I'm on my way to your place. Meet me outside in ten minutes. It's an emergency. A Stiletto Sisterhood Code Red Emergency." If citing their code like a preacher would a passage from the Bible made her a touch melodramatic, so be it. Her life was on the line.

"Wait, slow down. I can't follow stupidity this early without coffee." Caitlin vanished in a flash of bedding and the creak of floorboards. "Where's the fire?"

"I'll explain when I see you, but I'm pulling a walk of shame to a last-minute interview, and I need to borrow a suit."

Caitlin's face smushed close to the screen. "You realize there's a height disparity between us? Like six inches? I'm good, but I'm not a wizard."

"No, you're Caitlin Choi-Emerson. Fashion guru. Savant of suits." As a self-taught stylist, Caitlin's brand was menswear made boldly female—with lush fabrics, daring cuts, and all the accessories. "If anyone can save me from this seventh circle of hell, it's you."

"Ah, flattery," she purred. "Well played. I'll see what I can dig up."

"Thank you. And Cait," Priya added with a panicked jolt before disconnecting, "something basic, okay?"

"Boo." Caitlin sighed. "See you in ten."

As the cab sped down the Upper East Side streets, mercifully empty on a Sunday morning, Priya combed through her purse for any other clues to fill in the missing gaps of last night's hazy memory. There was a receipt from the bar for almost three hundred—holy fuzzknuckles!—dollars, some spare change, and her lipstick cap but no lipstick. Of course it had to be her favorite discontinued shade.

No random numbers or drunken texts appeared on her phone, and by some miracle, all social media came up clear of damaging posts, but in her gallery there was a video . . . and given the thumbnail, it was absolutely NSFW.

Priya hugged the phone to her chest and closed her eyes with a fervent prayer before lowering the volume and hitting Play. Her voice slid out first. All heavy panting and hot gasps. The answering accompaniment of a man's laugh was smooth and wicked as he whispered something that got swallowed up in the start of a killer orgasm and ended abruptly with a partial view of his face. Vague and blurry as her memory, but it stirred a fleeting recollection of quick hands, a hot mouth. And something about an elevator . . .

True to her word, Caitlin stood waiting on the curb, dressed in yellow sweats, orange heels, and oversized sunglasses, a white garment bag hung over one arm.

Priya pushed open the passenger door and Caitlin slid in, draping the garment bag between them. "As requested."

"I could kiss you." Priya drew down the zipper and her joyful smile vanished with a horrified gasp. "It's teal."