Right Side Up (GxG)

- Ava - 

The rooftop bar in Miami smelled like summer and sin—sweat, tequila, and something floral clinging to the bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the purple haze of string lights. Someone had the audacity to play Dua Lipa, and suddenly I remembered how much I missed being young, dumb, and free.

"I'm just saying," one of the volunteers slurred beside me, her drink raised high in celebration, "if I had your tits and your trust fund, I'd have gone off the rails way earlier."

I clinked my glass against hers. "You think this is off the rails? Sweetheart, I'm only on the first bend."

The gin hit my bloodstream like a kiss from the devil—sharp, addictive, promising regret. I'd already lost count of how many I'd had, but that was the goal, wasn't it? Not to forget, exactly. Just to... smudge the edges of everything.

Everything being her.

Daphne Holden. PR puppet master. Desire incarnate. The reason my vibrator now had a name and a death sentence.

And the reason I was here.

Because if she could avoid me for days—if she could pretend none of it meant anything—then I could grind my hips against a stranger on a sticky bar top and remind myself I was still wanted. Maybe even worshipped.

I tipped my head back and let the music swallow me.

Somehow, I ended up on the bar. Or maybe not somehow—I'd definitely kicked off my heels and let the staffer with the glitter bra hoist me up. She screamed "Icon!" and I gave her a wink and a body roll that made her spill her drink.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it. I was dancing now. Hair wild, sweat glistening down my spine, my dress riding dangerously high. I was the centre of the room and the room was worshipping.

Then she showed up.

Not Daphne. Just some girl with lips like cherry gloss and a crop top that read GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS like a prophecy.

She climbed up beside me, smiling like she'd just spotted dessert.

"I've seen you on the news," she shouted.

"I'm not running for anything," I replied.

She didn't care. Her hands found my hips. Mine found her waist. We moved like we'd done it a hundred times before. I leaned in and let my mouth brush her jaw.

She tilted her head back. I kissed her.

Hard. Hungry. The kind of kiss you give when you're trying to bury something. And I was. Buried so deep in my chest I wasn't sure if it was lust or love or just desperation masquerading as both.

We kissed until the crowd cheered. Until hands slid beneath my dress. Until the world blurred into the throb of bass and sweat and the taste of cherries.

Somewhere below, a camera flashed.

Somewhere, a phone caught the whole thing in 4K.

And somewhere, probably, Daphne Holden choked on her fucking tea.

Perfect.

I hopped down from the bar, tugging my dress into place and stealing one last kiss from the girl who now had my lip gloss smeared across her cheek.

"Thanks, baby," I whispered. "I needed that."

I stumbled outside, heels in one hand, hair stuck to the back of my neck. The night air slapped me like a blessing. A cool, stinging wake-up. I threw my head back and laughed.