Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

I check my face in my side mirror, feeling a little weird, less dressed up than
when I go to school.
But Liv isn’t into frills, and I don’t want to be beautiful or manicured or
make her afraid to mess me up.
Holding my phone, I walk toward Mariette’s, a little early, so I can pick
the table. Saints don’t usually come here in the middle of the week, but I
don’t want to take the chance. I want her to myself.
The warm air caresses my bare arms, my stomach, and my chest,
everything that’s not covered by my tank top as I walk inside in my jeans and
flip flops. I put some waves in my hair with the curling iron and minimal
makeup, hoping I look so positively kissable that she can’t wait to touch me.
“Sit anywhere,” the server with the ponytail and black bandana tells me
as I walk in. “Can I bring you something to drink?
She grabs a tray of crawfish and carries it to a table. “Two Diet Cokes?” I
ask. “And a dozen on the half shell to start. With condiments, please.”
She nods once, and I make my way through the diner to the courtyard in
the back, the scent of flowers hitting me as I veer through the sparse diners to
a table situated on the other side of a tree.
I drop my bag to the ground and sit down at the white, wrought-iron
garden table, my chair scraping against the brick floor. The white tent walls
billow with the breeze, the plastic windows fogged with the humidity, and I
look up as the tree next to me reaches beyond where the roof should be, the
sky overhead filled with stars.
The server sets down two drinks and then returns with a tray of oysters on
ice, and I pull my water bottle out of my bag, uncapping it and instantly smell
the Patrón inside.
“Don’t get started without me,” I hear someone say.
I smile and look up, seeing Liv head for the table.
But my heart nearly stops, seeing her short black skirt, long, golden legs,
and black studded heels with a band secured around her ankles, making her
look like she’s cuffed to a bed. Her ankles are definitely a feature I missed.
One of her best. Fantastic ankles. And calves. And thighs.
Heels. I’ve never seen her in heels. Her faded, black band T-shirt is
twisted tight around her body and tied at the back, baring her stomach, and I
have no idea who Black Flag is, but I kind of love them now.
She wears faint red lip tint, and her hair is straightened and spilling