The lighting's bad, the music's too loud, the drinks are (thankfully, cause lightweight) watered down and (not so thankfully cause poor) over priced, and most of the girls (and all the guys) are showing way more skin than they're covering.

In short, it's Shane's idea of heaven.

Amy on the other hand…

She wonders, not for the first time, why she didn't listen to Lauren ('worst. idea. ever.') and why she did let him talk her into this, why she let his holding her and comforting her and (apparent) forgiveness of her lies and deceits (though now she's not so sure he has forgiven her cause… here) persuade her into listening him and thinking, even for a second, that he actually had some idea how to solve her problem.

This was Shane after all. The man (boy) who had never met a problem he didn't think snark, a little blackmail and a whole lot of making out couldn't solve.

"The best way to get over someone," he said before Amy cut him off, reminding him even as she huddled in his arms, tears drying on her cheeks, that she didn't actually want to get over Karma, at least not yet. Not while there was still some (read: ridiculous and faint and desperate and pretending that Liam fukcing Booker didn't exist or had been swallowed by a black hole) hope that maybe (possibly) (might) (like a .000001% chance but that's still a chance) Karma might have felt something during that kiss.

She said 'woah' after all.

"Fine," Shane said and Amy had pretended not to hear the dismissal in his tone. "You don't strike me as the 'get under' someone type anyway, though trust me, you're missing out."

Amy was sure, on some level, that she probably was though there was no chance (not even a .000001% one) that she'd admit that to him. She hadn't even really broached the subject with Lauren and it was hard enough dealing with it herself. Kissing Karma hadn't just awakened feelings she didn't know she had. It had woken… hidden lustful desires. And yes, that was just about that cheesiest and most ridiculous and bad Supernatural fanfic like way she could think to express it, but it was also the most accurate.

She hadn't noticed it at first, not with her mind such a swirl of Karma and feelings and Karma and kisses and Karma and lies and Karma and Booker and did she mention Karma? The feelings part of the equation had dominated her brain and she hadn't, for most of the first week of faking it, slowed down enough to even think about anything else, much less feel or want or need.

And then there'd been the dream.

Her. And Karma. And less clothes than usual. And lips. Everywhere. Everywhere. And then Lauren had barged into her room and caught them and then she'd been followed by Ivy and then Brandi and then some blonde Amy had seen around school and then Mrs. Harper, their fifth grade teacher with the huge…

Pots.

Pots and pans. Clattering in the kitchen as Farrah, for some inexplicable reason, chose that Saturday morning to try and cook family breakfast and Amy snapped up in her bed, the dream fuzzing out and the spell broken and (even as she checked frantically around her) no actual outward signs that she'd been dreaming of that.

Except the fluttering in her stomach. And the racing heart in her chest. And the ache (the very very wet ache) between her legs and the question racing through her mind of what the absolute fuck was that?

She couldn't look Karma or Lauren in the eye for three days and she feigned sick to avoid gym class cause she shared that with Brandi and Karma and no, seeing either of them (much less both) in just towels was so not a good idea right then.

(even if parts of her argued that it was an exceptional fucking idea and why was she not doing that, right fucking now?)

Amy was still a bit scandalized by the whole thing, still a bit shocked at the way her hormones seemed to kick in overnight, and then announce their presence as loudly (and wetly) (and nearly uncontrollably) as possible at the most inopportune moments.

Like when she found her eyes wandering in class or at the mall or (most unfortunately) during lesbian research movie nights with Karma, nights when she was convinced Karma knew what was going on and was actively trying to fuck with her, choosing the most titillating and arousing and fucking hot movies and it drove Amy nuts, like when she found herself enjoying the Megan Fox and Amanda Seyfried kiss in Jennifer's Body a little more than she might have a week before or when she shifted uncomfortably on the bed when Brittany Snow's eyes roamed down Anna Kendrick's body in the Pitch Perfect shower scene (and , like, had Anna always been that hot?)

Or when she absolutely, one hundred percent, no chance in fucking hell refused to watch Blue is the Warmest Color cause Lauren was right across the hall and her mother was right downstairs and Karma was wearing her favorite outfit (that she hadn't even realized was her favorite until right fucking then) the onesie kinda thing, the one that made her look like she wasn't wearing pants when she flopped on the bed and how had she never noticed that Karma was like ninety five percent leg (and the other five was ass) before?

Love was a bitch but lust, Amy was discovering a little more every day, was hell.

So, yeah, Shane was right, she isn't exactly the 'getting under to get over' type (and she's read enough lesbian literature and erotica online in the last few weeks and then had a few more 'inspired' dreams to know that she's not sure she'd ever be the 'under' type anyway) but right about now with the watered down drinks and the thumping bass and the idea of Shane's plan (time to kiss some lesbians) (or at least girls who might be lesbians) (or lesbians for the evening and really does it matter as long as they're girls and you're kissing them?) echoing in her head, she's not sure she wouldn't reconsider that stance.

For the right girl.

Like that one over there in the mini skirt and when she says 'mini' Amy's not sure she's ever meant the word more. Or maybe that one, over there, in the crop top that's barely a top and Amy's quickly developing an appreciation for what they call 'underboob' (and feeling more like a horny teenage boy by the fucking second). Or maybe that one… or that one… or that one and oh, fuck all, she's so unbelievably screwed.

And not in the way Shane (or her, to be honest) would prefer.

"This," Lauren mutters at her side again, "is the worst idea ever."

Amy's not entirely sure her sister-to-be isn't wrong but she's also not entirely sure Shane's argument didn't have something of a point.

"You don't know if this is all about Karma or if you're actually gay or if this is just some sort of weird faking it induced lesbosis," he said.

"Lesbosis?"

"Lesbian psychosis," Shane said. "It's a thing. Squirkle it."

Amy had, for just a moment, considered throwing him out on his remarkably intolerant ass but he wasn't all wrong. She didn't know anything, not for sure, and there was no way she could see to move forward until she did. Or, at least, until she knew something.

"You've kissed Karma and that's made you feel… things," Shane said. He'd moved from her bed and was rifling through her closet in search of something, the ever growing frown on his face (and the pile of clothes he was tossing aside) told her that he hadn't found it. "So now you need to figure out if those things are all about her or all about you. In short," he said, "you need to kiss some lesbians."

Well, of course she did. Who would've ever thought otherwise?

Oh. Wait…

"Or," Amy said. "I could just talk to Karma about my feelings and explain to her that when we kissed I started to feel something and I realized I've been in love with her since…"

She trailed off, Lauren and Shane both staring at her, her bacon sweats clutched in Shane's surprisingly dainty hands.

"So," she said. "Where do we find these lesbians?"

The where turned out to be an underground rave just inside the city limits. Shane's sister, Sasha, had once been a regular at such… gatherings… and had passed on her contacts to Shane as something of a graduation gift when she'd gone to college. He was, he said, a semi-regular (though if the number of men in neon latex outfits who greeted him by name was any indication, 'semi' might have been a bit of an understatement.)

"What's this thing like?" Lauren had asked, clearly stating her intent to go with them (though not in so many words) and Amy was relieved that she was coming and even more relieved that Shane didn't bother trying to argue the point.

"It's like a party," he said, frowning again at Amy's clothes as she breathed a sigh of relief. She'd done parties before. OK, maybe party (singular) (his) and maybe it hadn't gone quite as well as it could have (he'd outed them) and she hadn't been looking to kiss anyone (not even Karma, then) but still… she could handle a party.

"It's like a party meets Tinder meets Grindr," he said, "meets Craigslist with a smidge of Pornhub and just a dash of 'you won't know what happened in the morning'," he said. "You know. The usual."

Amy sat on her bed and made a mental note to reevaluate her life choices. And her friendships.

So, yeah, the lighting is bad and the music is loud (though not too bad, the DJ seems to have some skills) and there's more skin than Amy's really comfortable with and there's a dude in the corner dressed like he's on Breaking Bad (like Jesse and not Walter and not tightie-whities) and she's pretty sure he's selling Ecstasy and the bouncers seemed more concerned that their IDs weren't fake enough but Amy's here and there is no shortage of girls and so maybe, just maybe, this won't turn out to be as bad as she thinks.

And then she turns around and Shane's gone and Lauren's nowhere to be found and yeah….

Worst. Idea. Ever.


Never again.

Never ever again.

Never fucking ever ever again.

She will never listen to Shane again, no matter how logical he seems or how much of a gay guru he claims to be or no matter what secrets she tells him and needs him to never tell anyone.

Amy has no idea where he is and she's pretty sure that's intentional. Shane's one of those that would teach a kid to swim by tossing them in a fucking lake and hoping they don't drown. She's caught sight of him a couple times, for fleeting moments across the club and then he's gone again, like he's dropped down the rabbit hole (or, knowing Shane, dropped down and she so doesn't want to see that, so no, she's not looking too hard) (no pun intended.)

And as for Lauren…

"It wasn't my fault," Lauren says. She's wobbling back and forth on one foot, doing some sort of ballet like pose in front of Amy, or trying to cause mostly she's weaving to and fro in (not really) time with the music (which has continued to not suck and that's about the only positive of this whole fucking thing) and her eyes are glassy and she's said it's not her fault every thirty seconds for the last ten minutes. She got a tiny pacifier on a tiny string dangling from her neck and Amy swears to God if the tiny blonde actually puts it in her mouth she's leaving her there.

Except then she'd be alone. Again. So… no.

"It was loud," Lauren says, as if volume explains high and paci and dancing like a drunk penguin. "And I had a… you know… it hurt… here." She waves her hand around in circle over her head and Amy watches as her eyes follow her fingers and then she tips off balance and stumbles (again) into the wall.

"Headache," Amy says. "I know. You told me. Over and over and over again. You had a headache and then you thought you'd ask Heisenberg over there if he had some Ibuprofen and how were you supposed to know he'd sell you X, right?"

Lauren pushes herself upright, her fingers fumbling with the pacifier as her eyes grow wide. "I'm on Ecstasy?" Amy rolls her eyes and leans against the wall and recites Lauren's lines in her head even as the other girl blurts them out, one after the other.

I'm on Ecstasy and Oh. My. God. and what about my pageant career and what will I do if daddy finds out and I'll never be President now cause Clinton and Obama might have done weed but this is X and why didn't I just do weed cause all that does is make you hungry but then I would've just eaten my feelings and they don't taste good, not like Cool Ranch Doritos and do you think they have any of those I think I'm gonna go find some.

And then she's off, disappearing into the crowd in search of the elusive Cool Ranch and Amy thinks she should be worried, but this is the fifth chip hunt in the last hour and Lauren's come back, every time (usually with pretzels) and she's feeling a bit peckish herself (it's the watered down drinks, she thinks) so she lets Lauren go and tips her head back against the wall, letting her eyes shut as the bass thrum-thrum-thrums through her skull.

She's talked to two girls, danced with three (though two were high high high and couldn't manage much more than a sway, which wasn't really a dance and certainly wasn't a grind which even Amy knows is the precursor to the kiss) and hasn't kissed a one, hasn't even come close, hasn't even come within lip distance of anyone but Lauren and no, that's not happening, dream or no fucking dream.

Never again. Just… never.

Amy lets the music wash over her and tries not to freak or panic or storm out into the middle of the dance floor and scream for Shane (not that he, or anyone, would hear her.) No, this isn't the sort of thing she'd normally do and no, she's not comfortable (not in the fucking least) and yes, she wants to go home (she really wants to go to Karma's and tell her all about this and curl up on her best friend's bed and laugh at how ridiculous the whole thing is but that's not happening for all the obvious reasons), but she can't do that and she can't find a girl to kiss (truthfully, she gave up looking long ago) and so the best she can do is listen to the music and drink her weak ass mixer and wait for Lauren to bring her snacks.

But then there's pushing. And shoving. And loud yelling of words she can't quite make out over the music but there's three girls and two guys and something about 'cheating' and a 'bathroom' and 'your fucking knees' and one of the guys looks like Shane (but isn't) and one of the girls looks like she's psycho (and is) and Amy tries to beat a hasty retreat (or as hasty as Amy ever does anything) but they're there and then they're over there and then they're right in front of her and the only place she has to go?

Is up.

Up, up, up the ladder to the DJ station and from there Amy can see everything and by everything she totally means Shane in the far corner of the club with a dude wearing more eye shadow than she is and with his hand resting on a part of Shane she'd rather bleach her own eyes than look at. And Lauren, by the bar, on the floor in some sort of prayer circle with four other girls (Amy thinks they're girls, but it's a distance and the long hair means nothing and neither do the skirts or crop tops, so…) with a bowl of pretzels and a pitcher of beer between them. She can see her friend and her soon to be sister and all the other drunk and high and frighteningly desperate people.

And the DJ.

The DJ who's staring at her with dark eyes under perfectly sculpted eyebrows (perfectly) (like who knew brows could do that) (and if they did know why did they not tell anyone?) and brushing back long dark hair with perfectly shaded purple tips from her cheeks, tiny wispy tendrils of it fluttering against perfectly red and perfectly plump lips (and yes, that's a lot of perfect in one tiny space but… fuck) and if Amy's heart belongs only to Karma, well…

The rest of her might not be so locked down.