Playing (Inked Hearts 2)

My gaze goes back to my phone. "I'll be okay."

She studies my expression for a long moment before she speaks. "If you're going to text during the whole damn movie, I'm going to put in something I like."

"Okay."

"Something with subtitles."

"Go for it."

She shakes her head like I'm hopeless. But, still, I turn back to my phone.

Miles: We have a show next week. Why don't you come? Then you can come and come and come.

Miles: That was three. But three is the bare minimum.

I turn my phone over and slide it into my pocket. "There's a Sinful Serenade show next weekend?"

Kara taps the remote, starting play on some independent film with stark scenery and a minimalist soundtrack. She raises an eyebrow like she's challenging me to explain. "Friday. Starts while you're at work, but I can wait."

I shake my head. "I'll take the bus."

"You can't take the bus to Hollywood that late. No way in hell. I'll pick you up."

"You'll miss—"

"It's decided," she says. "And you'll text me if you decide to leave with someone?"

"I promise."

* * *

My shift at the ER ends at ten on the dot. By 10:05, I'm in Kara's car, in one of her bodycon dresses, applying makeup with an unsteady hand. Black eyeliner, dark lipstick, plenty of blush. One of the upsides of having dramatic features is that I can pull off a lot of makeup.

I run a comb through my messy hair. It doesn't help. Better to return it to a work-appropriate ponytail.

At least the dress is nice. A little short for my long legs, and I certainly don't fill it out well, but it looks better than I'd expect given the ten inches I have on Kara. Or the four cup sizes she has on me.

I scroll past the flirty texts about nothing to get to Miles's promise.

Miles: We have a show next week. Why don't you come? Then you can come and come and come.

Miles: That was three. But three is the bare minimum.

I'm not dreaming. This is really happening.

Kara parks two blocks from the venue at an expired meter. She smiles. "Here goes nothing."

I take a deep breath, pulling in all the confidence I can manage. The walk to the venue nearly undoes me. These aren't even heels. They're wedges, short wedges, but I can barely move in them.

Kara gives our names to the bouncer. We're on the list. I've never been on a list before. I've never been anywhere that needed a list.

I try to channel Miles's cool aloofness but I fail. I'm teetering. My dress is too tight. Do people really go clubbing for fun? I feel hopelessly out of place.

Until I hear his voice.

It's a low moan, not actual words, but I'm still positive that Miles is the guy who is singing. Which means Sinful Serenade is in the middle of a song.

Sound echoes around the high ceilings. It gets louder the further we get into the club. A guitar screams. Drums pound. The bass-line throbs. The energy from the music flows into the room.