STILETTO SISTERHOOD - Book Two

Eshe | Chasing dreams

Eshe Diallo's head bobbed like a fish on a line.

Up. Down—up, again. God, that morning espresso wasn't enough to make up for the three paltry hours of sleep the night before. A result of ass-kicking jet lag thanks to a weekend jaunt to Washington to visit Marco and Shayne.

Eshe swiped under her eyes, clearing smudged mascara—evidence she was dead on her feet and seconds away from snoring through Dr. Cavannagh's lecture on Frontotemporal dementia: signs, symptoms and diagnosis.

Grey eyes pivoted across the auditorium, lancing Eshe as if she knew what had flashed through her mind and guilty Eshe straightened, plucking up her pen like a dutiful student ardently scratching down notes.

The presentation flashed and clicked across the screen but Eshe couldn't latch on to any of it, her mind blank with static and the hum of loud pumping music from last night's rave. So loud and wild her eardrums rang all the way back to London, a swan song of dying hair cells.

Hello, Tinnitus. It was worth it, she told herself, for a night of Shayne's musical mastery because for all her talent in the ring, she was an artist behind a turntable. Eshe stifled a bloated burp and the rise of acrid booze that came with it. God, what had she hoped to accomplish? Racing to a morning lecture, fresh off the plane after a weekend long party, was a serious mark of stupidity.

The responsible thing would've been for her to have stayed home, preparing for today's lecture and lab, rather than squeezing in an unexpected state-side trip, but with all that had happened in the last few weeks, Shayne had needed the release and someone to share in it with her. With and Isobel and Priya wrapped up in work, and Cait pinned with meetings, Eshe had obliged. An act of Sisterhood.

A fun and reckless act, to be sure, but that's what friends did for one another.

Another burp, this one bringing a wave of pain to roll to the front of her skull and throb, Eshe decided she'd fought long enough in a losing battle. Time to wave the white flag and go home, crawl into bed and die.

Closing her notebook, she tucked it away in her satchel and shouldered the strap, weaving out of her row of seating and up a side of steps to the doors. Pushing out into the hall, grey, watery light pressed against her eyes and she dragged the sunglasses atop her head down, turning everything to a deep, brooding shade.

Each step pulsed in her head like a drum that kicked her temples. Pausing only long enough to make a quick stop to the cafe to buy a bottle of water, she guzzled it down and punched in a request for an Uber pick up because no way in hell was she bouncing along for near an hour on a bus.

She'd dropped her bags off at Lana's—much to her older sister's chagrin, but her flat in the city was closer to the campus then her parents home and shaved a full thirty minutes off her travel time.

I'll grab them tomorrow, she thought, yawning into her cupped hand, eyes narrowed to slits behind her sunglasses. God, even the weight of her lashes she blinked hurt. Soon as she got home, and downed a couple painkillers, she was diving beneath the covers and not resurfacing until it stopped her head rolled off her shoulders.

Whichever came first.

"Eshe."

She jerked straight at the sound of a stern voice—female, and sharp. Unmistakable. Eshe pivoted around and winced as something in her head sloshed and slammed against the dome of bone. Her brain, likely, pickled in one too many shots.

"Dr. Cavanagh."

Dr. Stella Cavannagh linked her hands before her, shoulders drawn and features set in her usual impassive glare. But Eshe sensed something brewing behind her grey eyes and she shrank from it. Shamed and embarrassed.