First different kind of trap
The heavy bass from the living room vibrated right through the cedar paneling of the hallway, but inside the cramped laundry room, the only sound was the sharp, hitched breath of someone caught red-handed.
Kendra froze in the doorway, her fingers still resting on the cool brass knob. She had slipped away from the main floor to escape Adriana’s suffocating, heavy-lidded stares by the bar—only to walk straight into a different kind of trap.
There, jammed between the washing machine and a stack of folded linens, were Quinn and Jaira.
Quinn, the quiet, brooding intellectual who had spent the last three weeks left-shifting his schedule just to walk Kendra to her car, had his hands buried deep in Jaira’s thick curls. And Jaira—the loud, unapologetic bartender who had literally picked a fight with Quinn at a diner just to win Kendra’s phone number—was pressed flush against his chest, her lipstick smeared thoroughly past her lip line.
They parted instantly, eyes wide, chests heaving with panic as the fluorescent light flooded their hiding spot.
"Kendra," Quinn stammered, his usual calculated composure evaporating. "It’s—we were just—"
Kendra didn't blink. She let her gaze track slowly from Quinn’s wrinkled collar to the flush on Jaira’s neck. A massive, chaotic realization bloomed in her chest, but she didn't scream. She didn't cry. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile pulled at the corner of her lips.
They thought they were competing for her. They thought they were rivals. But right now, looking at the sheer terror in their eyes, Kendra realized she didn't just have options.
She had leverage.
"Don't stop on my account," Kendra murmured, her voice dripping with smooth, icy amusement. She stepped back into the shadows of the hallway, letting the door click shut just enough to plunge them back into the dark. "We'll talk later."
