Maya has spent years putting her time as one quarter of a world-famous girl band, Trouble Clef, behind her, along with the intense romance she shared with her closeted bandmate, Kyra. But now, ten years after their last controversial show, Trouble Clef has a chance to pick up where they left off with a reunion tour, and Maya is forced to face the past—and the lingering feelings she still has for Kyra—once more.
Be Warned: f/f sex
We waited in pairs at opposite sides of the stage, and I danced from foot to foot as we held out on the order to go out. I was paired up with Kyra, who was standing, as she always did, stock still, her face radiating utter calm. I was never sure how she did it, because I was always in such a panicky mess at times like this, but it was as though she was meditating to the sounds of the screaming tweens a couple of hundred feet away.
“You okay?” I asked softly, and her eyes flew open.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked coolly. And then, all of a sudden, she lunged toward me, caught my face between her hands, and planted a wet kiss on my lips. She pulled back, a little breathless, and I gaped at her as she grinned at me. Her eyes flashed with excitement, and I wondered if I was the cause of it.
“What was that for?” I asked, eyes wide.
“I just…” She shrugged. “Do I need a reason?”
“Never,” I promised, and I was about to take her hand when the order came through our earpieces to head out on to the stage. We exchanged a look, and then, with Kyra leading, pranced out in front of the ten-thousand strong crowd gathered to see us perform.
It came to me like clockwork by then, performing. There was no room for second-guessing or shyness when you had hundreds of paying customers to entertain day in, day out. I wasn’t one of those kids who got pushed into showbiz by their fame-hungry parents. I did it all myself, seeking out a label and manager all by myself, so it wasn’t like I was crippled with stage fright. But simply finding the energy to make sure that everyone in the crowd had the best night of their life (as Thompson often reminded us) was impossible. At this stage in the tour, it was like tapping a well that had been dry for generations. All I could do was smile and hit my marks and hope no one looked too closely at me beneath the make-up.
The whole time, I couldn’t get that kiss with Kyra out of my brain. How could I? It was … spontaneous, passionate, a little crazy, when I thought about everyone who could have seen us. But it was so her. I kept on stealing glances at her, as her forehead gleamed with sweat and her eyes shined with effort.
Before I knew it, the set was over. It was so easy to lose myself in the music and the movement that I barely noticed the ninety minutes go by. Well, and this time I had basically lost myself in Kyra. She hit every step, her movements confident and practiced, her voice clear and powerful. The whole way through the set, she didn’t look at me once. She never did, preferring instead to keep her eyes fixed on the audience in front of her. It kept her focused, she told me, reminded her who she was performing for. I, pathetically, found myself a little jealous of every member of that crowd, of every person who took her attention away from me.
But this time, just as the last song came to an end, she turned to me. Our eyes met, and she beamed over at me, her breath heavy and fast. It was a total movie moment, the ear-shredding noise of the crowd dimming to nothing, the music fading away into silence. I took a step toward her, put my hand on her waist, and, before I had a chance to give what I was about to do any thought at all, I kissed her.
