Chapter 1: The Dare and the First Shot
The bass throbbed through the floorboards, a physical pulse in the soles of Silje’s boots. Neon light, a sickly electric blue, bled across the faces of the crowd, painting them in alien shades. The air was a stew of spilled beer, cloying perfume, and the sharp, clean sweat of bodies moving too close together. It was Friday, and the place was heaving.
Astrid leaned against the sticky bar top, a blonde pillar of cool amusement in the chaos. Her tight black dress absorbed the fractured light. “You’re looking twitchy,” she said, her voice slicing through the music’s rumble.
Silje tossed her long red hair over a shoulder, a practiced, defiant motion. “Bored.”
“Bored.” Astrid’s smile was a slow, knowing curve. She traced the rim of her own glass with a long-nailed finger. “Or restless?”
“Is there a difference?”
“For you? Probably not.” Astrid signaled the bartender, a lazy flick of two fingers. Two shot glasses appeared, filled with something amber and sharp-smelling. She slid one across to Silje. The liquid sloshed, a tiny dangerous sea. “Dare you.”
Silje’s bright green eyes, the color of sun-struck moss, locked onto hers. A mischievous glint ignited in their depths. “I’m listening.”
“One hour.” Astrid’s voice dropped, intimate despite the noise. “As many kisses as you can get. From women. Real kisses, not cheek pecks. Tongue optional, but encouraged for bonus points.” Her grin turned wicked. “Think you can handle it?”
A laugh bubbled out of Silje, loud and unselfconscious. The dare was stupid, reckless, completely pointless. It was perfect. The restlessness coiling in her limbs found a target. This was a challenge. A game. She could be someone else for an hour, someone bold and consequence-free.
She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers closed around the cool glass. She threw the shot back, the liquor burning a gratifying path down her throat. She slammed the glass down, the crack of it a period at the end of Astrid’s sentence. “Clock starts now.”
Astrid checked her watch, a sleek black band on her wrist. “Fifty-nine minutes and fifty seconds.”
Silje turned, leaning her back against the bar, her eyes scanning the room like a hunter sizing up prey. The crowd shifted and pulsed. A group of guys in too-new shirts laughed too loudly by the pool table. A couple was already making out near the hall to the bathrooms. Too easy, too messy.
Too easy, too messy. She wanted a challenge, a little friction. Her eyes skimmed past the obvious, settling on a woman sitting alone in a curved booth at the edge of the dance floor. She was older, maybe mid-thirties, with dark hair chopped in a severe bob and a gaze that was watching the crowd, not lost in it. She nursed a dark drink, one leg crossed over the other, looking like she was evaluating a specimen under a microscope. Interesting.
Silje pushed off from the bar, the music swallowing the sound of her boots on the floor. She moved with a purpose that parted the crowd. She slid into the booth without invitation, the vinyl squeaking under her jeans.
The woman’s evaluating gaze didn’t change. “This seat is taken,” she said, her voice flat, almost bored.
“By me,” Silje said, her smile widening. She leaned an elbow on the table, putting her face directly in the woman’s sightline. Up close, she could see fine lines at the corners of her eyes, a silver ring piercing her nostril. “I’m playing a game.”
The woman took a slow sip. “I’m not.”
“It’s simple. I have one hour to collect as many kisses as I can.” She let the statement hang in the sticky air between them. “You look like you’d give a good one. Efficient. No bullshit.”
A flicker of something—amusement, irritation—passed through the woman’s dark eyes. She set her glass down with a soft click. “You’re very forward.”
“Time’s ticking.” Silje’s heart hammered, not from nerves, but from the pure, sharp thrill of the gamble. This wasn’t seduction. It was a direct deposit, and she was waiting to see if the transaction would clear.
The woman studied her. The neon from a nearby sign washed over Silje’s face, highlighting the freckles across her nose, the determined set of her jaw. “Why would I help you win your game?”
“Because it’s Friday. Because you’re sitting alone. Because my mouth looks like it would feel good on yours.” The filthiness of the words, delivered with a casual, cheerful tone, seemed to do the trick.
The woman’s lips, painted a deep plum, quirked. She uncrossed her legs. “One.”
“One kiss.”
“Make it count, then.”
Silje didn’t need another invitation. She closed the distance, one hand coming up to cradle the woman’s jaw. Her skin was cool. There was no slow build, no tentative exploration. This was the point of the dare. Silje’s lips met hers, firm and demanding. The woman’s mouth opened under the pressure almost instantly, a surprised, yielding gasp. Silje’s tongue swept in, tasting the bitter tang of gin and tonic.
The kiss was deep, wet, and profoundly functional. Silje mapped the roof of her mouth, sucked on her tongue, heard the woman’s breath hitch into a quiet, sharp gasp through her nose. Her own body reacted, a dull throb of heat between her legs, but she controlled it, channeled it into the mechanics of the act. Her other hand found the woman’s hip, gripping it through the fabric of her dress, holding her in place as she took what was offered. It lasted ten seconds, fifteen, a merciless, skillful extraction.
Silje broke it first, pulling back with a soft, wet sound. A string of saliva connected them for a fraction of a second before breaking. The woman’s eyes were wide now, her plum lipstick smeared at the corner of her mouth.
“Thanks,” Silje said, her own breath a little short. She patted the woman’s cheek twice, a playful, dismissive gesture. “You were great.”
She slid out of the booth, not looking back. She could feel Astrid’s eyes on her from across the room, could almost hear her low, approving laugh. One down. The clock was still running. The restlessness was gone, replaced by a fierce, focused hunger. The crowd wasn't just bodies anymore; it was a field of possibilities. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, tasting gin and a stranger’s lipstick, and scanned the room for the next.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, tasting gin and a stranger’s lipstick, and scanned the room for the next.
The dance floor was a writhing mass, too chaotic. The bar was lined with pairs and groups, too entangled. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept the periphery. And there, tucked into a dim corner where the wall met a heavy velvet curtain, she spotted a lone woman.
She was perched on a tall stool at a small, high table, her body angled away from the crowd as if studying the condensation on her bottle of beer. She had a softness the first woman lacked—a roundness to her shoulders, a fullness to her lips that was currently pressed into a faint, pensive frown. Her hair was a mess of light brown curls, and she wore a simple grey t-shirt dress that clung to her curves. She looked… separate. Unclaimed.
Silje felt the challenge like a static charge. This one wouldn’t be easier. She’d require a different approach.
She weaved through the crowd, her movements less aggressive now, more fluid. She came to a stop beside the small table, leaning against the wall. The woman glanced up, her eyes a warm hazel, wide with a flicker of surprise.
“Hey,” Silje said, her voice pitched to carry over the music but not shout.
“Hi.” The woman’s reply was cautious, her fingers tightening around her beer bottle.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard for a Friday night.” Silje nodded at the bottle. “Trouble in paradise?”
A faint, sad smile touched the woman’s lips. “Something like that.”
“Fuck paradise, then.” Silje said it with a grin, disarming. “Paradise is overrated. This is purgatory.” She gestured to the swirling, noisy club. “And I’m on a mission to make it more interesting.”
The woman’s eyebrows lifted. “A mission?”
“A game. A dare, really.” Silje leaned in closer, letting the scent of her perfume, something clean and citrusy, mix with the bar’s heavier smells. “I have to collect kisses. As many as I can, tonight, from beautiful women.” She let her gaze drop to the woman’s mouth, then back to her eyes. “It’s stupid. But it’s keeping me from thinking too hard, too.”
The woman blinked, processing. She didn’t pull away. “You’re… asking me?”
“I’m telling you you have a fantastic mouth,” Silje corrected, her tone gentle but loaded. “And I’m asking if you’d like to help me win my stupid game. Just one kiss. No strings. No thinking.”
The woman looked down at her bottle, then out at the sea of people. A loneliness seemed to radiate from her. When she looked back at Silje, there was a resignation, a surrender to the moment’s absurdity. “My night can’t get any weirder,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Silje didn’t wait. She stepped into the space between the woman’s knees, her hands coming to rest on the woman’s thighs. The fabric of the dress was soft under her palms. She felt the muscle tense, then relax. Up close, she could see a faint dusting of freckles across her nose.
This kiss was different. It wasn’t a conquest. It was a conspiracy.
Silje closed the last inch slowly, giving her time to turn away. She didn’t. Their lips met—a soft, tentative press. The woman’s lips were full and yielding, tasted faintly of beer and chapstick. Silje applied more pressure, slotting their mouths together with a practiced ease. A small sound, a sigh, escaped the woman, and her hands came up, not to push Silje away, but to clutch weakly at her hips.
The surrender ignited something hotter in Silje’s gut.
She deepened the kiss, her tongue tracing the seam of the woman’s lips until they parted on a shaky inhale. Silje swept inside. The kiss grew wetter, deeper. One of Silje’s hands slid from the woman’s thigh up to her waist, feeling the soft swell of her belly through the dress. The other hand came up to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in those soft curls, holding her gently in place.
The woman moaned into her mouth, a quiet, desperate sound. Her own tongue began to move, shy at first, then with more confidence, sliding against Silje’s. The kiss became a true exchange, a slow, building rhythm. Silje could feel the heat of her through the dress, could feel the woman’s body arching subtly towards her. The loneliness was gone, replaced by a hungry, present-tense wanting.
Silje broke the kiss slowly, pulling back just enough to rest her forehead against the woman’s. They were both breathing heavily, their breaths mingling in the small, hot space between them. The woman’s hazel eyes were dark, unfocused.
“See?” Silje whispered, her voice rough. “No thinking.”
The woman gave a dazed, breathless laugh. “Yeah.”
Silje stole one more quick, soft peck on her lips, then straightened up. The spell broke. The noise of the club rushed back in. The woman looked flushed, her lips swollen, her curls mussed where Silje’s hand had been.
“Thank you,” Silje said, and she meant it. This hadn’t just been a point on the scoreboard. It had been a moment of genuine connection, a shared escape. She gave the woman’s thigh a final, friendly squeeze. “Go get another beer. Forget about paradise.”
She turned and melted back into the crowd, leaving the woman sitting alone on the stool, one hand lifted to touch her own kissed-red lips. The taste of her—honey and sadness and cheap lager—lingered on Silje’s tongue as she checked the neon clock above the bar. Forty minutes left.