Page 56 of Painted Scars
Her shimmery blush has an extra glow. “Love you even more.”
“Enough for a threesome with a hot stranger?” I nudge her and give her a theatrical wink. “Asking for a friend.”
She splutters and twitches. “Not that much.”
Charlie’s more conservative than Harper and me. Raised by a strict mother who monetized her childhood, banned friends and boyfriends, and punished her for wanting normalcy.
She nudges me back. “Maybe one day I’ll work up to it. Right now, I want to be the center of attention.”
“I get it.” I rub the top of her cold hand. “If I had a harem, I’d be the center of the orgy. No sharing!”
“You’re both vanilla,” Harper calls over her shoulder, eyeing the bouncer like she assesses whether she can take him down Cat Woman-style.
I poke my tongue at her. “I prefer morally gray vanilla, thank you.”
“That’s not a color,” she counters.
“I just made it up,” I say. “Hashtag morallygrayvanilla. It’s trending!”
Harper rolls her eyes. Rules are her religion. I bend them for breakfast.
My mind wanders to my sexy moral stalker who fits that vibe.
“It’s better than morally black.” I shoot at her head-to-toe noir.
Harper’s mouth twists into a cold smirk. “Did you just shade me?”
“Never.” I wink.
“You’re lucky I love you.” Harper turns back to the line, keeping guard over us, our own personal security.
Inside the club, we order vodka shots and throw back our first round. I’m glued to Charlie’s side like a sequined barnacle offering comfort. I whisper stupid jokes, tell her little anecdotes about my hot night with my stalker, and steer away the elbow-jabbing crowd. By the end of our third drink, she’s looser and relaxed, her eyes focused on the circle of girls, and not skipping from person to person.
I rub her hands between mine. “Want to dance?”
She asked me to push her tonight, and I started gently.
She hesitates. Breathes. Squares her shoulders. “Yes.”
I beam. “Let’s go, brave bitch!”
We drag her to the floor, sandwich her in the middle, and make her the center of our chaotic trio. She flicks her hair like a woman channeling Beyonce. I shimmy, and the glitter in my heart triples.
I whistle. “Look at you!”
She throws her arms up and sways, letting the music’s beat replace her frantic heartbeat.
A few songs in, she tugs on my arm. She needs air, so we peel off to the bar for a water and one last shot. The night throbs like a pulse of neon, sweat, and bass. Harper stays on the floor, glowing and wild. Charlie tenses beside me. I slide behind her, hugging her, being her buffer.
A meathead in a wifebeater sidles up behind Harper and grabs her hip. Big, square, born in a protein shake.Good luck, buddy.She once stabbed a man with a nail file for calling her sweetheart.
Out of the fog steps a man in full Joker cosplay—plum suit and a matching top hat, black lips, white face paint, eyes as dark as a villain arc. Harper’s type to a terrifying T. He whispers something to meathead, and boom, he vanishes.
Cosplay nerd slides a tattooed hand up Harper’s waist and says something to her. She pulls a blade from her boot and presses it to his throat. Foreplay has started. It weeds out the wimps from the black hearts. Her words, not mine.
He grins instead of flinches and drags the blade along his chin like he’s shaving. She licks the blade and tucks it away. They kiss like it’s the end of the world.
Praise the Fiction gods! It’s love.
