“Who was it?!” a high pitched shriek demands from the crowd.
A catcall.
“We love you, Layla!”
Another catcall.
The air is electric. In their perverse quiet, the Riot Dykes are chomping at the bit, waiting for Layla to tell them what they want to hear.
“She asked me not to say,” Layla says, gravely serious. “So we will be respecting her privacy. And I’m only telling you because as the Riot Dykes and our recruits, you deserve to know. But this is classified information. What I just said does not leave this room. The last thing we need is the police coming after us.”
Pause. More silence. The entire room holds its collective breath, the significance of what Layla’s saying settling in over everyone.
The last thing we need is the police coming after us.
“We’re an underground organization
