The laughter grows louder… except for Frankie.
She stands near her tattoo counter, jaw tight, staring at a wall that definitely didn’t look like that the last time I was here. Nestled between her sketch of a raven and a framed print of a skeletal moon goddess is a cream-and-blush plaque that says Bless This Mess in curly cursive.
It is… aggressively cheerful.
Another pastel frame peeks from behind a jar of ink caps. This one is a kitten in a teacup gazing up at the universe like it wrote the stars. A floral throw pillow has appeared on her velvet chair, embroidered with Live, Laugh, Love.
Frankie inhales slowly through her nose, the kind of breath someone takes right before committing homicide.
Ruby notices, snorts, then stage-whispers, “Careful. If one more inspirational quote materializes, she’s going to go full Carrie.”
Frankie’s eyes stay locked on those cursed decor items. “The next man who brings a kitten picture into my shop,” she says calmly, “is leaving without a soul.”
Her voice is velvet-soft but dangerous as a scalpel.
The girls howl. The tension fractures cleanly.
“I have to go feed the stray,” Frankie says, her voice a little too casual as she pours a shot of whiskey into a separate glass. “Be right back. Don’t let Ruby light anything on fire.”
“No promises!” Ruby calls after her.
As Frankie disappears into the back and we hear the heavy thud of the basement door closing, Ruby turns to me, her eyes gleaming. “Okay, so Nash thinks he can play games? Fine. We’ll play.” She turns up the raw, driving rock song, and pulls me into the center of the room. “We’re not just going to sit here. We’regoing to celebrate. We are goddesses, and these men are our playthings!”
The rest of the night is a blur of laughter, tequila, and the easy, comfortable camaraderie I’ve been starving for. We dance and drink. We plan a new, even more diabolical round of pranks, our ideas getting wilder with every shot.
At one point, I find myself standing on the loft’s narrow fire escape with Sloane, the cool night air a relief against my flushed skin. We’re just watching the city lights, the noise of our party a dull, happy thrum behind us.
“It’s loud in there,” I say, just to break the silence.
“It is,” she agrees, but her voice is distant. She’s quiet, this woman, and I recognize the stillness. It’s the same armor I wore for seven years, the mask of someone harboring a life-altering secret.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice softer.
Sloane stares out at the streetlights, her hands wrapped tight around her wineglass. “I’m… new to this,” she admits, her voice so quiet I have to lean in. “This… friendship. The laughing. The yelling. My family? We weren’t like this. Everything was quiet. Controlled. You were only as valuable as your last success, and you were only as safe as your last secret.” She shakes her head, a small, bitter laugh escaping her. “I don’t know how to just… be.”
The words hit me hard, a shared, chilling acknowledgment of a life I understood too well. “I get that,” I murmur. “For a long time, the quiet was the only place I felt safe, too. Even when it was suffocating.”
She finally turns to look at me, her eyes full of a raw vulnerability that I’m sure she rarely lets anyone see. “Frankie said something to me. That if a storm comes for me, you’ll all fight it.”
“We will,” I say, the words an absolute, unshakeable promise. “That’s just how this works.”
She nods, a fragile, hopeful smile touching her lips. “Good. That’s… good.” She hesitates, her gaze dropping to her hands, her vulnerability a stark contrast to the tough-as-nails nurse. “Do you think…” she starts, her voice barely a whisper. “Do you think Knox will stick with me? Like Malachi stuck with Candace? Like East is... sticking with you?”
The question is so raw, so full of a fear I know so well, that it makes my chest ache.
“Sloane,” I say, putting my hand over hers. “I don’t know Knox that well yet. But I know the men trust him. He’s solid. I saw him move when that girl recognized you at the clubhouse. Instantly, he became a wall. A protector, just like them, he wasn’t going anywhere.”
She gives me a watery, grateful smile. In that moment, our bond solidifies, a silent understanding passing between two lonely girls who are finally finding their family.
We’re about to head back inside when my gaze drifts down to the alley below. A dark, expensive car has pulled up, its engine a low, silent hum. A man gets out. Arden. He’s just as I remember him, all sharp angles and unnerving stillness, not a man who has aged a single day. He doesn’t look up, just heads for the basement door at the back of the shop.
A moment later, Frankie emerges from the same door. The exchange is fast. Tense. He hands her a small, insulated bag. She hands him a folded piece of paper. He nods once, his gaze sweeping the alley, then he’s back in his car and gone, a ghost in the night.
Frankie looks up, her eyes finding me on the fire escape. She doesn’t look surprised. She just gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Not now.
I just nod, the message received, and follow Sloane back into the party, the mystery of the “stray” in the basement settling in my gut like a cold, heavy stone. We are a pack of beautifullybroken, fiercely loyal women. And we are all of us, I realize, keepers of dangerous secrets.
Chapter 38
