License to Thrill by Elizabeth Cage

stuff? It’s so . . . bland.”
    â€œTechno rules!” Caylin shimmied to the quickening beat. “Come on, you try it.”
    â€œNo way,” Theresa demurred. “I can’t dance when the music’s got no soul.”
    â€œI can’t believe you’re not into this stuff, techie .”
    â€œHey, computers are good for a lot of things, but making music is not one of them.” Theresa bounced up and down to the beat. “I feel so stupid!”
    â€œWho cares? Have some fun for once.” Caylin spun around and spotted Jo at the edge of the dance floor, looking beyond stunning in her white Armani halter dress. She was flirting madly with two guys at the same time. When another guy rushed over to give her a drink, Caylin burst out laughing.
    She glanced away toward the bar, where someone appeared to be giving her the eye. A woman, she realized. She froze instantly. The brunette sat alone, sipping a glass of something orange. She looked familiar—a little too familiar.
    The realization hit Caylin like a bolt of lightning: Short Hair! Her pulse raced out of control as she watched the woman take a dainty sip of her drink, suddenly oblivious to Caylin’s stare down.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Theresa asked over the music. “Is this a bad song? I can’t tell the diff—”
    â€œShort Hair! At the bar!”
    Alarm clouded Theresa’s features. “What? Where?”
    Caylin pointed back over her shoulder. She scanned the crowd for Jo but couldn’t find her anywhere. A tap on her shoulder sent her reeling around, ready to drop-kick Short Hair in a millisecond.
    â€œHey! Hey!” Jo yelled, holding her hands up defensively. “Some freaky moves you’ve got there, Jackie Chan  !”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    â€œOkay, here comes the strategy,” Caylin announced in the middle of the dance floor. “We chase Short Hair down and demand to know why she’s following us. Tell her we have photographic evidence. Theresa’s been right all along—this woman’s obviously working for the enemy. Let’s rock!”
    Caylin darted off instantly before Jo could even begin to process the information. Shrugging, Jo followed, weaving and pushing her way through the thick crowd, making about an inch per hour. Her left ankle buckled as her platform sandal skidded on the drink-slick floor. With a sigh oflament she kicked off her sandals completely. She’d be better off with grungy feet than a sprain, after all. Barefoot, Jo struggled to catch up, grimacing as she ran over pools of sticky spilt drinks and gross cigarette butts. Suddenly the music cut off and the club went totally dark. Jo stopped in place, blinded.
    â€œUh, we’re the Scorching Radiators,” a guy announced over the PA.
    Jo turned around and saw a spotlit Pete Wentz look-alike front and center on the stage. He made chopping motions at a silver guitar. “Check—one, two. Onetwothreefour! ”
    Painfully loud industrial noise filled the club as the lights went back up. A mosh pit quickly formed, clogging Jo’s path to the bar. She ground her teeth in frustration as she was battered back and forth. Her bare feet were definitely in danger, but it hardly mattered. She had to find Caylin and grab Short Hair before she got away.
    With a shock Jo looked up to see someone being passed over her head—someone in a tiny red dress who was kicking angrily at the moshers with stiletto heels. Caylin! In asecond she was whisked away, out of Jo’s reach. Undaunted, Jo pushed ahead, desperate to make it to the bar. But when she was about midway through the pit, Short Hair’s gaze met hers and she instantly ducked into the thickening wave of people. Cursing, Jo turned sharply left and bulleted forward. She immediately ricocheted off a burly guy in a satin rugby shirt.
    â€œWatch it!” he bellowed. His drink toppled and