A warm flush crept up Carly’s neck and onto her face as the crowd in the Flying Owl pressed in on her, their sweat and perfume becoming her own. She edged her way through the throng, pressing against sweaty backs and oversized purses until she came to a clearing near the bathroom. She leaned against the wall and wiped her forehead: her fingers came away shiny with sweat and make-up.
The voices of the crowd reached a crescendo, morphing into a single yell as the band walked out onto the stage. Carly tried to catch Tyler’s eye, but he bent over his amp, a crease forming between his eyes as he turned the knobs. She knew that look, and it twisted her insides to see it now.
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A tingle crept over her. She pulled her eyes away from Tyler’s face and wrapped her arms around herself, unable to shake the uncanny feeling that she was being watched. The sea of people parted, their attention everywhere but on her, and Carly locked eyes with a woman leaning against the bar. A small smile crept onto the woman’s face.
Carly searched the woman’s face for some sign of familiarity, her skin tingling more with each passing second. Carly ground her teeth. Maybe she was a security guard, looking for a chance to throw Carly out of the bar for being underage. But no, she was wearing skintight leather pants, a low-cut shirt, and her curly hair was hanging down around her shoulders – hardly the wardrobe of a security guard.
So what does she want?
