Boots
She’s still thinking about Wendy by the time she gets to Icons. One thing Boots is certain of: that woman isn’t innocent. It’s more than arrogance; it’s the relentless entitlement. She’d warned Simone, but Simone only laughed.
“Let me test this white lady out,” she’d said, amused. Simone always did love a conquest.
She lifts her champagne, eyes scanning the VIP section. In the far corner, Daphne is stretched out in her usual seat. Then Boots catches it—a quick handoff. Some guy slides in, passes Daphne something, then vanishes.
“Daph,” Boots calls over the bass.
Too late. Daphne’s already dipped the key and inhaled. Heads turn; Shane’s among them, watching from just beyond the VIP rope. Boots sees him catch everything.
Ugh. She knows that look.
“Daphne.” His voice cuts clean through the bass as he pushes past the rope. “What the hell are you doing?”
Daphne looks up, pupils wide but unfazed. “Relax, Shane. I’m off the clock. Technically a guest.”
“You’re off the clock and off the payroll. You’re done.”
“Fuck off,” she scoffs. “Jesus. Chill, bro.”
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“Do I need to spell it out?” He pulls her up from the banquette, gripping her tighter than he should, until she yanks her arm free.
“You’re fired, Daphne. Get your ass out of my establishment.”
Boots jumps to her feet, stepping between them before it can escalate. “Shane, come on. Let it go.”
“Back off, Boots,” he snaps. “You want to take her in? Fine. She’s your problem now.”
“She’s not a problem, Shane.”
“But she’s the only one doing drugs in front of a packed room. You’d tolerate that at one of your events?”
“Shane,” Daphne tries again, almost pleading.
“Out!” He’s shouting now, but she doesn’t budge. “I said, get the fuck out of my bar!”
For a beat, Daphne gives nothing. Then, she lifts her drink, drains what’s left, looks Shane straight in the eye, and lets the glass drop from her hand. It smashes against the floor.
He lets out a low, disgusted laugh. “Real class act, you know that?”
Daphne grabs her clutch and turns, pausing just long enough to look back over her shoulder. “Fuck you, Shane. You’ll regret this.”
Boots doesn’t move, just watches her go. Shane shakes his head, then brushes past.
“Thanks, Boots. Appreciate the backup.”
She exhales, frustrated, but she can’t let it go. Not yet.
“Daphne!” she calls, pushing through the exit. Outside, Daphne stands on the sidewalk, dragging hard on a cigarette, mascara smudged, foundation blotchy under the streetlight.
“Daph, come on!”
“Don’t,” she snaps, turning away. “I know that look. Save your pity for someone who needs it.”
Boots grabs her arm. “It’s not pity. It’s me, Daphne.”
“Please, Boots. You love this. Scraping me off the floor. Makes you feel clean.”
“I’m here because I care.”
“Bullshit,” Daphne shouts, pulling away with a bitter laugh. “You just want a front-row seat to the crash.”
“I’m trying to stop the crash.”
“Don’t bother,” she scoffs. “I’m already wrecked.”
Then Daphne turns and walks off, swaying slightly in her heels. Boots steps after her, but then she stops.
Let her go. She’s not your responsibility. You care too much. She turns for the entrance.
“Fuck you, Daphne Marks,” she mutters to the dark.