Page 26 of Sinful Lies

The idea wasn’t just tempting—it felt inevitable, like fate.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the bottle from Barbie’s hands. She blinked, her expression morphing from playful to startled in an instant. “Hey?—”

She didn’t get to finish.

With one smooth, wide arc, I swung the bottle straight into Aussie’s head. The satisfying crack of glass shattering echoed through the air, followed by an explosion of champagne that showered the nearby crowd and my dress.

He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.

The crowd froze for a beat, then erupted in a mix of gasps, cheers, and horrified laughter.

I stood there for a second, breathing hard, holding the jagged remains of the bottle like it was some kind of trophy.

I sighed. “Happy birthday to me.”

Chapter

Six

“I might be the villain of this story.”

?Rebecca Makkai

Jade

I wiggled my feet under the bench, hissing as a sharp jab reminded me that, yep, there was still glass stuck in my toe.

Across from me, some woman was giving me a death stare.

I ignored her, tilting my head back against the wall.

All I wanted was for this night to disappear into a black hole. Was that too much to ask?

The floor beneath me was a sticky crime scene of gum, spit, and God knows what else. Hugging my knees to my chest, I tried to fold into myself, close my eyes, and pretend none of this was happening.

“You a stripper?”

“No,” I muttered, not bothering to look up.

“Well, you look like one.”

“Thanks.” I cracked one eye open. “I’m not.”

Blessed silence finally descended, broken only by the faint clatter of keyboards and murmured conversations. My body relaxed for the first time all night, the tension in my shoulders slowly unwinding as my breathing evened out.

“Why are you here?”

Groaning, I opened my eyes and leveled her with a glare. “I killed someone. Now, unless you want to be next, shut up.”

She laughed—a loud, snorting, braces-flashing laugh like I’d just delivered the punchline of the year. Shaking her head, she leaned back and crossed her arms, entirely unfazed.

For the first time in what felt like hours—but was probably only thirty minutes—I actually took her in. Hair in a messy bun, a battered leather jacket, and this smug little grin like she’d seen it all and dared you to surprise her.

She looked about forty-five, though the dark spots scattered across her cheeks told me drugs might’ve aged her faster than life ever could.

“Relax. Just makin’ conversation,” she said, leaning back in her chair like we were in some shitty coffee shop instead of a holding cell. “What’d he do to deserve it? Cheat on you? Or was he just a bad tipper?”

“I’m not a stripper!”

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