STILETTO SISTERHOOD - Book Two

Shayne | Let's make a deal

Music throbbed, lights strobed—illuminating the bobbing sway of a dense crowd packed into the massive Washington nightclub. Shayne stood at the turntable, head cocked and headphones half on, her hands slipping over the table, twisting knobs and flicking switches—their queen.

The crowd cheered, arms tossed in the air, as the beat dropped with a bone deep pulse that shook the floor, rattled the walls.

Smoke machines blasted, pouring a slithering cloud at their feet. It spread around them. Rising. Swallowing the mob whole in a filmy haze.

Smoke. Fire.

The ringing cheers so similar to screams. Her hand trembled on the table, but the crowd—her fans—barely noticed the unintended skip.

Closing her eyes, Shayne tried not to think about it—the blood curdling fear of hearing the words plane crash and everyone on board killed except one. Her brother, the sole survivor of the tarmac explosion. Burned and battered. The last few weeks had been a difficult slog of surgeries and recovery.

Shayne finished her set to the roar of praise and swept off the soundstage. Tucked in the staff room, she pressed her hands over her ringing ears and sucked in slow, deep breaths, willing her heart beat to ease.

Trembling, she plucked out a prescription bottle and cracked open the lid, palming a tiny little pill and slipped it under her tongue.

"Hey." The door pushed open behind her and Sara, a slender Latina with ink black hair dyed in a blue ombre, slid inside. "You alright?"

"Fine." Shayne smiled, not entirely forced. The Ativan was sliding into her system, pushing away the rise of anxiety and steadying the beat of her heart.

"You kinda flew off the stage tonight. Not like you." She advanced, her movements slow, sensual and prowling. The glimmer of concern in her wide, brown eyes echoed with a thread of desire.

Easing back against the breakroom table, Shayne reached for her hand, tugging her forward. The full shape of Sara's mouth a pleasing temptation. "I said," her head dipped, skimming a breath and her lips across Sara's neck, "I am fine."

Sara hummed a throaty purr, and a sigh as Shayne's teeth followed the path of her lips. "Good. Had me worried."

Shayne's head popped up and she met that hungry, warm gaze. Dammit. "Don't do that."

"What?" Sara's hands slid over her hips, her waist, circling the smooth line of skin exposed in between pants and shirt.

"Worry about me." Shayne let her go, eased her back and moved away from the table. Plucking her battered leather jacket off the wall, she shrugged it on.

"Where are you going?"

Searching the pockets, Shayne found a fat, round sucker, peeled off the wrapper and stuck it in her mouth. "Don't do that either."

Confusion rippled across Sara's striking face, like light flashing across choppy waters. "I don't get you, Shayne. You pull me forward, you push me away. We've been doing this dance for weeks and I don't know the steps." Sara shoved her hands in her back pockets, faux leather that molded to shapely legs. Slung low, they gave a teasing glimpse of a sexy tattoo that wound from hip to ankle. "I don't know what to do with you."

Shayne almost laughed, and would've if it were anyone else. Me neither. And because she was right, and dammit—this wasn't Sara's fault—Shayne looped an arm around her shoulders, pressed a kiss to her brow.

A mark of friendship. A door she should've never opened in the first place.

"You can do better than me, Sara. Much better."