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Hermione goes to the Whyte Wyrm on a dare, and, ignoring every set of eyes on her, saunters right up to the bar and orders a beer. Being in the Southside, in the middle of a bar full of bikers—it’s kind of thrilling, even if it is barely two o’clock. The danger is less but it’s still there.
The beer doesn’t come from the grizzled bartender. He shakes his head and walks away, showing his Serpents jacket. Hermione’s staring at the green snake, wondering if she should pull down the neck of her t-shirt and use her assets, when a blonde head pops up from behind the bar. “Slumming?”
“No. I’m … experimenting.”
Alice leans on the bar top, Hermione’s beer dangling carelessly in her hand. “Uh huh. Hiram dared you, didn’t he?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.” She holds the bottle out, and when Hermione reaches for it, Alice’s other hand grabs her wrist, quick as a hungry wolf. “Let me show you what happens to good girls on the wrong side of town.” Without letting go of her arm, Alice hops over the bar in a smooth, athletic jump that Hermione wants to see again.
Something must be wrong with her, because Hermione lets Alice drag her further into the Whyte Wyrm, to a door near the back of the building. The men nearby hoot and wink, but a glare from Alice shuts them up.
Hermione knows that look. It’s pure fury, like a storm about to break over the ocean. She’s seen it nearly daily in English, every single time her hand raises into the air before Alice’s.
The door opens into a tiny closet, and Hermione is even more convinced something is wrong with her when she lets Alice shove her inside and shut the door behind them. “Don’t worry. They won’t talk. We’re a quiet bunch here.”
“You have no idea how to be quiet,” Hermione spits, regaining her mean girl shield. Bikers gossiping like school kids is thing on her mind—and who would believe them?
A closet in a bar with Alice Smith—this is the last place Hermione should be.
Alice smiles toothily, ignoring Hermione’s attempt at regaining control over the situation. Not that Alice is ever cowed by the act, not even in the hallways of Riverdale High, where Hermione reigns as the queen bee. “Then show me,” she says, in such a sweet voice that it sounds wrong coming from her pink-glossed lips.
Bluff called, Hermione does the only thing she can, which is kissing Alice Smith in a dingy little closet in the middle of a biker bar. Hermione wants to shed the label that hangs over her head. A perfectly good girl could never marry Hiram Lodge with his secrets. He needs someone who will do what needs to be done without second guessing herself.
Somehow—of course not—Alice isn’t surprised at all by her bold move. Two seconds after Hermione smears that sticky lipgloss on her own mouth, Alice’s hands are on her breasts. She’s far better than any guy who has pawed at Hermione, palms light through her t-shirt and bra, gentle but there.
“Been looking at these for the last four years,” Alice mutters against her mouth. They both look down at Alice’s hands on her chest, pastel nails bold against her white shirt, and then suddenly Hermione’s hands are on Alice’s bare upper thighs, right below the hem of her skirt. It’s much shorter than anything she wears to school; if she stretched to reach something on the high shelf behind them, she’d show off everything. Hermione nearly did see everything when Alice jumped over the bar, but she’s hungrier now to see all of her.
Alice’s laugh cuts through the heavy air of the closet. “Ohh, you were serious about experimenting.” Her hands drop, and missing the contact, Hermione leans forward before she can stop herself. Oh God, there is something seriously wrong with her, because she actually whimpers when Alice’s hands return, this time gliding smoothly under her t-shirt, fingertips warm and sure all the way to the clasp of her bra.
Hermione’s surprised at both of them, but maybe at Alice more than herself. She’s here on a dare—Alice was right about that, of course—but Alice … Alice is a good girl too. The sweet, humble kind girls from the Southside have to play if they want to make it out of there and into Riverdale.
Yet here they are, two good girls touching each other, faster than they have ever let boys touch them.
“Seven minutes in Heaven?” Hermione asks, breathless at the thought Alice might agree and end the game early, and breathless with the hope Alice disagrees and keeps going.
Alice unhooks Hermione’s bra and cups her breasts again, palms even warmer now that they are skin on skin. “Nah, we’ve got all night,” she purrs, grinning when Hermione shivers in anticipation of spending the day and night here.