Where Her Loyalties Lie...

Katrina Colt makes a living pulling men out of their own lies. The meet with Ruckus is nothing new—she explains the drill, gives the price, lights a cigarette while he digs cash out of a drawer. He wants her to poke his fiancée. Not just poke, sniff out the girl in her—Sandra likes pussy on the sly. Katrina waves it off. She doesn't touch women. Then he pours it on thick, a weak, greedy bastard about to marry blind. She caves. Figure she gets close, shows the soft spot, leaves. Keep it professional. They sketch the trick—Katrina’s the wedding planner. Sandra swallows it cold. A week later she’s on the doorstep, ring on the bell. Ruckus ushers the women inside, bails on some bullshit errand. Leaves them in the living room with coffee getting cold. Katrina watches Sandra from the corner of an eye, soft skin, tight skirt riding up her thigh. Business at first, schedules, flowers, bands. Then the flick comes. Katrina leans in, mentions how a bride needs one night to herself before the ring clamps shut. Just talk, that dangerous lilt in her throat. Sandra bites. Her smile tilts. She crosses one knee over the other slow enough that Katrina feels it in the gut. Heat pools between her legs, sudden and humiliating. She tells herself it’s the game, but the game stopped obeying. They’re four sentences from dirty when the door at the back hall clicks. Sandra hears it, doesn’t jump. Instead she uncrosses her legs, moves a little closer, the silk of her blouse whispering across the table, fingertips nearly touching Katrina’s wrist.