Page 11 of Poison's Promise

“Showtime,” Sydney says with a grin, striding past me in her blazing glory. Her outfit is a sight to behold, a mish-mash of leather and lace that clings to her figure like a second skin.

Tight-fitting black leather pants hug every inch of her slender thighs, flaring out into boots that look more like weapons than footwear.

They’re high-heeled, of course—not just an inch or two, but a staggering five.

The way she carries herself in them is nothing short of impressive.

Her torso is adorned with a crop top made entirely of black lace.

The delicate fabric reveals her toned midriff, the smooth expanse of her skin contrasting beautifully with the harsh leather below.

The sleeves are long and end in an extravagant flare of lace, billowing around her arms whenever she moves.

But the real show-stopper is the jacket.

It's made of supple leather dyed a deep crimson—so dark it’s almost black—and is studded all over with glittering gems that reflect the stage

Her confidence is contagious. She owns the stage before even stepping onto it.

“Good luck,” I mutter, knowing she can’t hear me over the bass.

My job isn’t to wish her luck, though—it’s to make sure she stays safe. Well, Gears, Dex, and I all share that job.

The lights dim, and the crowd’s energy surges. I can practically feel the buzz vibrating through my bones.

Sydney’s about to take the stage, and these fans are ready to lose their minds.

“All right, everyone!” The emcee’s voice booms over the speakers. “Are you ready for Sydney?”

A roar erupts from the crowd, a wave of sound so powerful it feels like it’s going to knock me off my feet.

My heart pounds in rhythm with the chanting, the hollering.

“Here she is!”

She struts out, and the audience does exactly what I thought they were going to do–lose their mind.

The energy is electric.

I can’t help but admire her. She’s got some damn talent, no doubt about it.

But admiration doesn’t distract me.

My eyes sweep the throngs of people, searching for any sign of trouble.

The fans are rowdy, but it’s just excitement—for now. I stay tense, ready to spring into action if anyone tries something stupid.

“Hello Three Forks!” Sydney’s voice echoes through the speakers, and she struts across the stage like it’s her kingdom.

The cheers surge into a roar that shakes my bones.

Her band kicks in, the first notes of her hit song blasting through the venue.

I stand backstage, every muscle on high alert.

My eyes dart from one side of the crowd to the other.

No telling when some overzealous fan might make a break for it.

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