Chapter 3

Freya’s heart thumped like the Èl Mìera Club’s pounding bass, her mind a fuckin’ wreck as the bartender’s words sliced through the neon-lit chaos.

“Get your ass backstage, refill the stock, and you’re talkin’ to the manager later!”

The bartender’s sneer burned, her lips curled like Freya was some skanky smudge on her shoe. Katrina’s petite body was a damn cage—her tight waitress uniform choked her waist, the cheap polyester scraping her skin raw. Her ponytail swung like an annoying-ass toy, and her squeaky voice, shriller than her own, made her wanna hurl every time she spoke. The pinchy shoes stabbed her feet, each wobbly step a fight to not eat shit, Katrina’s frail frame feeling like a drunk dude’s elbow could send her flying.

This body’s a goddamn joke, she thought, her small hands shaking as she gripped the bar.

“Katrina, are you even listening to me!?” the bartender yelled back.

Fuck, I gotta get backstage before I make this worse, Freya thought, her gut twisting at the thought of piling more problems onto Katrina’s already shitty night. Katrina, out there in Peter’s body, was probably flexing and charming the crowd, maybe even screwing with Ralph or Peter’s rep. I’m not letting her fuck up my life—I need a plan to get her ass and swap back, she fumed, shoving toward the backstage door, her ponytail bouncing, the mini skirt riding up Katrina’s thighs, making her feel half-naked.

But fuck, there was a spark—Katrina’s young, tight body had a zippy bounce, legs quick as hell, skin so smooth it practically glowed. This vibe ... it’s like that night I swapped with that college chick, Freya thought, a rush hitting her, remembering how she’d danced like a wildfire in a younger body at some past party, feeling alive in a way she hadn’t in years. Still, her eyes dropped to Katrina’s perky B-cups, and a pang hit—she missed her own banging double D breasts, the kind that stopped a room cold.

Backstage was a dim, cluttered mess of crates and bottles, stinking of stale beer.

“Where the hell’s the refill spot?” she muttered, her squeaky voice grating her nerves.

She stumbled around, Katrina’s weak arms barely lifting a crate, no clear shelves or instructions in sight. After tripping over boxes, she spotted a crumpled stock list on a wall, half-faded, and pieced together the method—grab vodka, gin, and whiskey, stack ‘em on trays. Her hands shook, the youthful zip in Katrina’s legs barely keeping her upright as she bent over to take out the things required.

Suddenly, Freya felt her ass getting cupped up like a small ball in large hands. A tall man in a slick tux loomed up, his hand grabbing her ass, hard.

Freya spun, her squeaky voice snapping, “Get the fuck off me!” she yelled back and froze.

The tall man chuckled, his smirk pure sleaze. “Hard to get, huh, Katrina? You’re too clean for punishment tonight, lucky you.” He leaned close, intimidating her with his height before finally backing off.

The man looked up at his phone and back to Freya. “Well, I’m busy, the bartender’s got some issue, she wants to talk, so get movin’.”

He strutted off, leaving Freya’s heart racing in Katrina’s chest. That perv’s the manager? And punishment? Shit, I’m fucked if the bartender’s snitching, she thought, Katrina’s B-cups heaving with her panic. The manager’s creepy vibe and “punishment” talk screamed trouble, and she wasn’t sticking around to find out what it meant. Gotta sneak out and find Katrina before this gets worse, she decided, her plan set: slip out, track down Katrina in Peter’s body, and force a swap before the bartender’s complaint landed her in some pervy manager’s crosshairs.

Freya crept toward the backstage exit. The exit meant passing the bar, where the bartender was—shit, thank fuck—on the phone, her back turned, voice sharp as she bitched.

“Yeah, Katrina’s slacking again, breaking rules,” Freya overheard, her heart skipping in Katrina’s chest.

She’s definitely snitching, she thought, her small hands clenching. But the bartender’s distraction was her shot. Freya ducked low, Katrina’s zippy legs moving fast despite the pinchy shoes, weaving past crates to slip through the curtain. The crowd’s heat hit her, music thumping, as she escaped.

Gotta find that bitch and swap back before I’m screwed ... in her body, she thought, her squeaky voice muttering curses as she merged into the party, the bartender none the wiser, still yapping on the phone.

Peter’s head was spinning like a damn DJ booth, Freya’s curvy body throwing him off as the Black girl with tight braids dragged him to the Èl Mìera Club’s bar, her trench leather coat swishing, hiding some wild-ass outfit. Freya’s hips swayed too damn smooth, her double D breasts bouncing under the tight red dress, the floral perfume choking his nose with every step. Her heels had him wobbling like a drunk, her long hair tickling his shoulders, driving him nuts.

“Girl, Freya, I still can’t believe it!!! We meet again, and it’s another SwaParty!” the Black girl teased, all bestie-vibes, leaning close as they nabbed an empty couch spot.