“So what’d you get her again?”

“I’m not telling.” Smugness oozed from her tone.

“Awwww!”

“Pretty pleeeeeasssse??”

“You’ll get to see it when she opens it.” They peered around the deli with scant interest, leaning in toward the clear case displaying the hot items.

“I feel like some chicken wings.”

“We’re not here for wings, we’re here for spinach dip. So we’re getting spinach dip.” This declaration was matter-of-fact and impatient, indulging no whining.

“Party pooper.”

“That was the last thing on her list, y’all. That and the vodka oughta just about do it.”

“Tell me again why we’re out here running around at the last minute while Betsy and Emma are sitting on their asses back at the house?”

“They would have argued for a half hour whether it was vegan, glucose and dairy-free. Just drop it, Allison. Don’t even go there.”

“Fine, then.” She perused the bread shelves and picked up a sweet Hawaiian kettle loaf, inhaling its light aroma. “Why are you guys dragging me to his thing again?”

“If I’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go,” Lorna grumbled.

“There. There you go.” That reason was cut and dried enough. It still didn’t cut it with Allison, who was already regretting having her highlights redone for this.

“You’re no help, ‘Ro. Back me up, here.”

“You’d feel guilty if you didn’t go. I can’t let you feel guilty, Al. I just can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

“Jean’s one of your oldest friends.”

“So automatically I’ve gotta pull bridesmaid duty in foofy taffeta and matching dyable shoes. I mean, was it really that bad, Ororo?”

“Was what really bad?”

“Whatever I did in my past ten lives that warrants such punishment? You know what this means, don’t you? Another trip to the consignment shop with a friggin’ trunkload of dresses from the Bridesmaid Graveyard in the back of my closet. I haven’t worn one of those damned dresses a second time. Not once, do you hear me? ONCE!” Ali’s voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch, drawing furtive stares from a harried looking soccer mom struggling along with her two toddlers grinning out from the shopping cart shaped like a car.

“Ungrateful much?” Rogue quipped. “It’s ‘sposed ta be an honor, sugah. Nobody bent yer arm ta say yes.”

“Wanna bet? You’re looking at nobody right there,” Ali sniffed, nodding toward Ororo as she selected the larger tub of spinach dip that was the featured member purchase of the day.

“How often do we all get together anymore?” Rogue pointed out. “Never. Only once in a blue moon if we’re lucky. We plan a girl’s night out? Work gets in the way. We plan a movie night in? Men get in the way. We plan a weekend drive to Virginia Beach? Life gets in the way. One of us gets married, though, and we all drop everything like a pair of dirty drawers and show up with bells on.”

“Gotta be the hosted bar,” Lorna rationalized. They trekked through the liquor aisle looking for last minute necessities and laughing at the names of the drinks. “Fat Bastard Merlot,” she announced out loud, grinning from ear to ear.

“Pinot Evil,” Rogue challenged, holding it up.

“Nice,” Ali confirmed with a shake of her head. “First person who grabs a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry and thinks they’re walking through the line with me to pay for it gets to run alongside the car on the way to the house.”

“You’ve forgotten your roots,” Rogue accused.

“Nope. Just highlighted ‘em today. C’mon.” They trekked to the cashier’s counter and waited in line behind three boys who barely looked old enough to drive to the Laundromat and separate their own lights from darks. Two of them were sporting fraternity sweatshirts and board shorts. Ali turned to face Ororo and rolled her eyes with emphasis toward their purchases lining the conveyor belt: four cases of Keystone, a bottle of mudslide mix, three bags of ice and a jumbo-sized, one-pound bag of crunchy CheeTohs. Ororo smothered a giggle behind an unseasonal cough, clearing her throat when one of the subjects of it turned around and leered.

“Where are you ladies headed tonight?” The youngest looking one of the three “ a mere pledge, Ororo guessed, probably an incoming frosh “ nodded his approval and gave his best impression of someone beckoning a horse to gallop with a clicking sound of his teeth. With a pang, Ororo sighed over the irony. Ten years ago, she would have fallen all over herself to muster any semblance of “banter” or “small talk” to keep guys just like these engaged long enough to swap a phone number, or an email address.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Junior,” Lorna muttered under her breath.

“No Man’s Land,” Rogue agreed.

“Just a little house party,” Ororo hedged, wanting to be polite. Her tone of voice suggested something boring like Pampered Chef or Mary Kay. It was moot. The boys’ collective ears pricked up at the word “party.”

“Might wanna swing by ours tonight, just follow the crowd down to East Fifth. Can’t miss it. A few of our brothers are pickin’ up a keg, might have a little Jaegermeister, maybe even some wine coolers?” Ororo could tell the last was for their benefit, and that it must have been a big draw for previous girls they’d tried to impress. She reminded herself that she wasn’t a girl anymore, without an ounce of regret.

“Enjoy your party,” she cheered goodnaturedly as Allison pulled out her Visa card and ran it on the scanner. The spinach dip made its way into a tiny white plastic bag, and Rogue looped the handles around her slender wrist, taking care not to tangle it in her favorite charm bracelet. Lorna followed behind, purchasing a pack of mint breath strips, some orange TicTacs, and a pack of vanilla spearmint gum. Some old habits died hard. Just because you didn’t have to step lightly over creaky floor boards in the dark past curfew didn’t mean you stopped observing the niceties, such as not letting strangers get downwind of your liquored burps in a tight space.

Jean’s house was going to be packed to the rafters tonight. Ororo shivered. Pietro had never let her hear the end of it.

“I can’t believe you’re actually going.”

“You went to Scott’s,” she reminded him.

“That was different.”

“Sure. Tell me another one.”

“You’re going to watch naked men…”

“No. One man. Probably in his fancy underwear. Last time around, it was a pair of black tuxedo ‘man panties’ with a sparkly little bowtie on the front. It was cute,” she assured him with a perfectly straight face. Then it occurred to her,” But since you know so much about naked people at bachelor parties, perhaps you’d like to fill me i-“

“Not a chance.” Pietro tapped the microwave off ten seconds before his food was finished cooking and already had his fork in it before he’d even shut the door. Boy was always so impatient, she considered. Couldn’t ever wait for anything.

Except for a real commitment. Let’s not forget that. Shit, not that she could.

Ororo simply watched Pietro slurp up a hearty mouthful of reheated chow mein, enjoying the little pucker of his chiseled mouth as he sucked up a long noodle. He lounged on the beige leather sofa with his stocking feet propped on the cedar coffee table, enjoying a quick dinner while he watched the movie “The Italian Job” on basic cable. His body was relaxed; he was easy in his skin. Pietro was good at doing just enough to get by. He was the physics major who could study for a test mere hours before and ace it, or leave a sonnet he had to memorize for a literature class til the very last minute and recite it back without stuttering over a single syllable. He was a fast study. Not much got by him, particularly the tall, stunning woman with café au lait skin and eyes the color of dusk that worked in the local coffee shop he frequented for his favorite biscotti.

”What size do you want on that latte, sir? Venti, grande, or tall?”

“Er…tall. Tall would be nice,”
he stammered. And she was, easily eye to eye with him in her bare feet. It never occurred to him that he’d ordered the smallest size they had. Nothing else mattered but getting her to go out with him.

She let him dangle for six months.

They actually made a connection outside the café in a grungy dive that was Ororo’s favorite watering hole, called Harry’s. Ororo, Betsy, Allison and Anna had stumbled out from the rest room, avoiding the eyes of the bouncers lest they get thrown out, or heaven forbid, cut off. Ororo was halfway through explaining that she was one more purple hooter shy of passing out when she ran smack dab into someone very lean, firm and warm, who smelled damn good. Ororo stared blearily into familiar eyes as silver as new dimes that she didn’t remember being so beautiful all of the times she’d seen them before. They studied her, lingering on her face, drinking in the lushness of her mouth. His hands held her steady and curtailed her escape. They were nice hands. She felt a pleasant shiver run up her arms beneath his grip.

“You’re Biscotti Boy,” she announced. Behind her, Anna Marie and Allison dissolved into giggles while Betsy muttered incredulously, “Biscotti Boy? Did she just call him Biscotti Boy?”

“If you want.” He grinned back at her. “I’ll be whoever you want.”

“Hmmmm…” she considered. “Whoever I want?” Anna tsked behind her. “Who do I want you to be?”

“Anybody but that dumb ass that was lookin’ under yer skirt at Crazy Horse,” Allison slurred. “He was skeevy.”

“Short skirt, fair game,” Betsy reasoned. “Couldn’t blame him for trying.”

“No. You couldn’t,” Pietro agreed, letting his eyes wander over her lithe, endless legs. Dancer’s legs, possibly. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“It’s not Sweetheart,” she chirped, before turning back to Anna for input, “is it?”

“Naw it ain’t.”

“See, it’s not Sweetheart,” she confirmed confidently. She reached back to swat ineffectually at Betsy who was still muttering “Biscotti Boy?” under her breath. “Ororo. It’s Ororo. That’s me. I think.” She reached up to straighten her hair before she could stop the reflexive effort at preening. That just made his grin wider, and his eyes looked downright wicked. “Was this morning, anyway.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Just my word?”

“Unless you had something else in mind?”

“How about a phone number?” She wanted to kick herself. What the fuck? No more shots for you tonight, Munroe.

“How about a dance first?” Mmmmmmm…

The next two hours whizzed by on a flood of drinks, innuendoes and dancing that became more wanton as the night progressed. They moved together as though they’d danced together for years, complementing each other’s steps and flow, melding together on the floor and growing lost in the music. Ororo never wanted to find her way back. Ororo’s arms were draped around his neck, and her hips followed his lead. Pietro’s hand flattened and splayed across the small of her back, guiding her into the steps, allowing her to swing and dip, arching against him, snug as a garment. Ali had to pry her away, reminding her that they were sharing a cab home, and Ororo had everyone’s keys in her pocket. Pietro marveled that she found anywhere to put them.

“So,” Ororo hedged, peering up at him through her lashes.

“So…” Pietro murmured. “I don’t kiss on a first date.”

“This isn’t really a date,” Ororo reminded him.

“Ah. A loophole.” Ororo knew she was courting trouble. He’ll never call. He’ll never darken my doorstep for a biscotti again…she dismissed that nagging voice as he kissed the breath out of her. Her fingers twined through his thick platinum hair as she tasted his hunger, smothering a sound rife with need. His lips were cool from the ice in his Tanqueray and tonic as they devoured her. Please, don’t do that shit of losing my number, her mind screamed.

“Damn, ‘Ro!” Anna Marie drawled. “Save him something for later, girl!” And she did. One date, arranged three days later, turned into two. That led to a comfortable routine of dinner together. Gym workouts. Watching Pietro play softball. Showing up with each other for “work stuff” and weddings.

And here she was, wondering when “comfortable routine” nosedived to “ponderous monotony.”

“So are you gonna save me some for tonight when you get home?” Pietro teased.

“You’re such a lech,” Ororo nagged. “Quit it!”

“C’mon, baby, does it make you hot? You like to watch, don’t you? Hmmm? C’mon, baby, bring it home to Daddy!”

“Eeeeeeww.” She curled her lip at him as she wandered back to the bedroom of her tiny two-bedroom condo to get ready.

“You know you like it,” he accused, letting his words trail after her.

“Watch your sports crap,” she snarled. Truth was, she didn’t like it that much. She’d already been there, done that, had the tee shirt to show for it, thank you very much. It was just…silly. Sweaty. Contrived. She got a bigger thrill from her bookcase of novels and watching old Patrick Swayze movies on free cable. Despite herself, Ororo dragged some glad rags out of her closet and laid the clothes on the bed before she ran her shower. The bathroom fogged with steam quickly; Pietro always liked his showers so hot, and always left the water dial turned all the way up. She’d scalded her tailfeathers more times than she could count first thing in the morning, forgetting to check the temp before stumbling into the tub.

Her bottle of bath gel from Victoria’s Secret was down to its last gasp; she gave it one last futile, sputtering squeeze and lathered up. She was just leaning back into the spray to wet her hair when she heard the swish of the door. The shower curtain rings skittered across the rod with a clatter as Pietro bounded into the tub, eyeing her with crystal-clear intent. He looped an arm around her waist and ground himself against her, capturing her indignant words in a nipping kiss.

“You already took a shower! There’s only one dry towel left,” she complained. Then he pulled the move she was ready to brain him for: Spun them around and took her spot under the spray, letting the water bounce off the top of his head and splash the spray into her eyes. Errrrgh. Why did he always have to DO that?

“Awwww. and I can’t even get you a new one. Little baby ‘Ro doesn’t have a towel,” he pouted back, not the least bit sorry. “I’ll get you one on my way out,” he promised, dropping his tone to a rumbly purr as he closed in on her throat. She put her protests aside as her body responded to him. The steam and heat of the shower relaxed her, and his lips did the rest, encouraging her to slump against him and fit her curves against the planes of his chest and washboard stomach. She’d get him back later, she promised herself. Right now, it was time to settle his hash. She needed to get ready.

“Mmmmph…mmmm. Ororo…oh. If you insist…?” His voice trailed off as her mouth blazed a hot path along his jaw line, dragging over his collarbones and working their way south. “Weren’t you mad…at…me…a few minutes ago?”

“Mmm-unh-mm,” she shrugged around him, caressing him with her mouth. He arched back, collapsing against the slippery tile wall, senseless in his ecstasy.

“You win. Stay out and enjoy yourself. I’ll quit talking shit about it,” he gasped. She coddled and loved him, enflaming him with the caress of her hands over his body as she took her time. “Ororo!” He bucked and jerked beneath her ministrations, letting his fingers drift through her saturated hair. She peered up at him through damp lashes, relishing his lax features. He was beautiful to her in his pleasure. She sighed, and the sound resonated through him, mingling with the small cries that continued to escape him.

“That’s it. Save something for yourself!” he rasped, jerking her to her feet and drawing her back against his chest. Naughty teeth found her earlobe and drew on the morsel, evoking cries from her this time. His fingers stroked her, finding her center unerringly. He’d had five years of practice. Arguments over finances and nights out were frequently settled in the “conference room” in similar fashion, usually after throwing out the agenda. Pietro laced his fingers through hers as she braced her hands against the shower wall. Her voice rose in desperation, resonating off the shower walls.

“Oh, God! PIETRO!” Her breath staggered out in gasps that were nearly guttural and broken as he claimed her, moving in the rhythm she knew and craved. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, needyouneedyouneedyouOHGODyessssss!”

“Shit!” he hissed through his teeth, dropping his head to his shoulder and tasting her skin. “So…good…damn it, Ororo…feel so damned good…oh, GOD!” Minutes later, it was over. Pietro kissed her one last time before stumbling out of the shower. He didn’t even offer to wash her hair, she carped to herself. But to his credit, he at least brought back a towel and dropped it on top of the toilet seat before taking off. She ignored that it was the same half-damp towel he’d used for himself.

“Nice,” she grumbled. “Real nice, ‘tro.”

She yanked on her clothes, including the prerequisite “foundation” underneath, namely the mother of all demi-cup underwire bras with convertible straps to “push ‘em up under yer chin,” as Anna so eloquently put it when they bought it. Thong panties guaranteed a clean, pantyline-free finish beneath her slim little black capris. A backless black handkerchief top that tied around her neck and beneath her shoulder blades made an excellent backdrop for the gold earrings and slender bangles laddered up her wrist, as well as an ornate arm cuff that her friend Stevie brought back from her dance troup’s tour of Ghana. Tiny black mules with a three-inch heel and dripping with knots of seed beads over the toes completed her look. She pulled her hair back from her face with a black leather barette, letting it hang down her back, and spritzed on some of Pietro’s favorite cologne “ his, not hers. Out of long habit, she still enjoyed carrying his scent around her. She put on her face, taking it easy with only a light coat of lipstick and a dab of eyeliner. No sense in putting on anything she didn’t want to sweat off.

She called out to Pietro, “How do I look? Baby?” She wandered into the kitchen of her condo. “Tro?” Silence greeted her, until she heard the roar of his Jeep careening down the driveway. She clopped out the front door, yanking it open to catch him waving to her from the rolled-down window.

“You never said you were going out,” she accused, trying not to shout. Her neighbors were nosy.

“Never said I wasn’t,” he reasoned. “I’m headed out with Scott, Alex, and some of the guys. I took out forty bucks, and I’m filling up the tank, ‘kay?”

“Yeah. Sure,” she muttered before she remembered to ask, “Did you leave me the card?”

“Yep. On the counter.” He peered over his shoulder at the card bearing down on him before he waved one last time. “G’night, baby. Don’t bring Sancho home with you!” he teased.

“Sancho, my ass,” she muttered. “Who’s he telling?” That’s when it hit her: He knew she’d be annoyed with him for going out without saying anything about it. That’s why he got some first. “Grrrrrrrr.” One-track mind. Jerk.

Ororo mentally cussed him out, jingling the whole way to her car as she fiddled with her keys and shoved small items into her purse. Her bracelets tinkled as she revved the ignition and pulled out, steering her tiny black Honda Civic down the dark street. The streetlights flickered on just as she reached the stop sign. She wasn’t turning back. The mice were already playing, she figured, so it was time to let the cat out, too.

“Booties, ahoy,” she sighed, fiddling with her CD player til she found her Brian McKnight disc and hit play. Ororo, Lorna, Allison and Anna automatically bust out in a fit when they saw each other’s outfits. All black, just like widows at a wake.

“Damn, this is pitiful,” Anna grimaced, shaking her head. “Jeannie’s gonna think we ain’t happy for her.”

“Are we really?” Allison pointed out.

“Yes, Bitcherella! Be nice,” Lorna hissed. “Don’t make me kick your scrawny butt.”

“It’s not scrawny,” she snarled. “Hmmmpph.” This only fed her usual insecurities and spurred a last minute turn in front of the full-length mirror in the hall. “Is not scrawny,” she muttered, craning her neck around to stare at it and plant her palms against her denim-clad rump.

“Made ya look,” Anna sniffed. She preened her hair in the mirror over the breakfront in the dining room before announcing “We’re runnin’ on lazy folks’ time. Let’s git while the gittin’ is good.”

“We’ve gotta run to Safeway. Jean forgot the spinach dip.”

“Sure she did. It’s her party, she’s got two maids of honor that haven’t done shit to help her plan it, and we’re running around at the last minute. AND we’ll be the ones buying all her drinks tonight. How’s that fair?” Anna demanded of Lorna, who was dusting her cleavage with the faintest hint of bronzing powder.

“You’ll want us to do the same thing for you when you get married,” Ororo reminded her.

“Fat chance with a capital ‘hell, no.’”

Now they were bundled into the back of Anna Marie’s Ford F150, crammed into the tiny excuse for space in the extended cab. Ororo got to sit up front in the passenger seat by token of having the longest legs. “Ya’ll know we’re takin’ a cab downtown, right?”

“Whatsamatter, don’t you feel like being the designated driver?”

“Nope. Gettin’ mah drink on, ya’ll kin carry mah butt home.” They made their way out of the parking lot in a flood of honking cars as they left Safeway’s parking lot, blinking in the glare of flashing high beams as college kids honked at each other and played in traffic, doing “keg walks” down the road and filing into nearby convenience stores.

“I don’t miss this shit,” Lorna admitted.

“Nope. It’s nice having a couch in the living room instead of on the front porch.”

“You had a COUCH during college? We got by on milk crates, one beat-up club chair, and ate breakfast at the kitchen counter everyday.”

“You guys actually ate BREAKFAST?” Ororo topped, grinning over her shoulder. Allison rolled her eyes.

“You guys remember college???” The one-upmanship continued for the rest of the ride. Ororo laughed out loud at the girl decorations strewn over the front lawn, howling at the male blow-up doll dressed in a top hat, sequined pasties, and a black G-string, rigged to sit upright on the porch swing.

“Gads. That’s bad,” Anna snickered.

“I want one of those for my next birthday,” Allison mused.

“Where are we gonna park?” Lorna considered, gazing up and down the street. Cars lined the entire cul-de-sac. Anna slowly rolled along, scanning for an open spot. They found one in front of a house with an old fashioned ceramic lawn jockey and a sunflower-painted mailbox announcing that the Darkholme-Adlers lived there, and that they loved cats, if the folksy knickknacks flanking their front door were any indication. The girls tumbled out, complaining about the faint breeze that kicked up, threatening to muss their hair.

“Feels like it’s gonna be chilly tonight,” Anna pointed out.

“And here I am, half-naked,” Ororo groused.

“Ain’t we all, shoog. Better get some booze ta warm us up, stat!”

“I’m gonna need some. I haven’t been to one of these in a while.” Allison wanted to drag her feet, but Lorna looped her arm through hers and pulled her along.

“It’ll be like old times.”

“Old times sucked ass.”

“You’re such a poop!”

Ororo knocked briskly on the front door, and was practically yanked inside before she pulled her fist away. Emma greeted them, giving her best impersonation of a leer. “So where are YOU ladies headed tonight?” She had a half-empty glass of wine in her already. Betsy craned her neck around from behind the kitchen counter and waved them in, just as she was stuffing a sushi roll into her mouth. Seventies funk music assailed their ears as they entered the foyer. None of them put their purses down; all of them wore tiny purses looped over their shoulder by microscopically thin straps, just big enough to hold an ATM, ID, a wad of singles and some lipstick. They’d walked this road before.

“Shit. You’d think you guys were going to my funeral. Bitches,” Jean jibed, taking in their appearance. Naturally, she was garbed in white, but she looked anything but virginal in the tiny white slip dress. Her red hair was teased to the hilt, hanging long and tousled over her shoulders. Betsy was scrunching it with her hands behind her, aiming an enormous can of hair spray at it and coaxing more volume into it.

“Dude…that’s what you’re wearing tonight?”

“Nope. I’ve got this, too,” she announced, holding up the strange necklace of small cardboard squares, each printed with a letter of the alphabet.

“Shit. Not a scavenger hunt,” Allison groaned.

“Are you kidding? Ah love those damned things!” Anna crowed. “Ya still ain’t throwin’ me one if Ah ever get married, mind ya, but still…Ah can’t wait!”

“What’s the drill?” Ororo sighed.

“Collect a kiss from a guy named with each letter of the alphabet. On the mouth. Then we’ve gotta get someone to sing her a song, preferably ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling.’ She needs to bring home a pair of boxers after convincing the guy to take them off for her. The last item on the list is getting a guy to tell her a bedtime story and sit on his lap. And Emma gets to pick the guy,” Betsy teased, winking at Jean as she gave her hair one last foof.

“Don’t forget the piece de resistance.” Emma had tucked back into the cluttered bedroom and come back, holding out the veil.

“Aw, shit,” Anna breathed.

“Oh, my God,” Allison breathed, aghast.

“Nice,” Lorna mused.

“You all aren’t going anywhere with me, wearing that thing,” Ororo informed them pointedly. “That’s hideous.”

“Hey. I made that!” Betsy settled it atop Jean’s nest of hair, barely making it budge from all the spray. And oh, what a veil it was.

At least a yard of pink and white tulle streamed from the white satin headband it was glued onto, with tacky little silk daisies trimming the brim. Ororo had to look twice at the enormous white silk rose. Tiny plastic penises were sticking out of it, along with fake candy hearts that read “Eat Me.” The tulle was speckled with condom packets that said “Open in case of emergency!”

“Can’t have a bachelorette after party without the condom veil. It’s a rule,” Betsy shrugged. “Deal with it.”

“Gads. So scared now,” Ororo winced. She set the Safeway bags on the counter and set out the dip and bread shell. Anna let herself out onto the back patio.

“What’s this?” she inquired, nodding to the huge multi-gallon plastic garbage can full of suspicious liquid.

“Jungle juice. Give it a stir, I’ve gotta add more vodka,” Emma ordered, handing Anna the broomstick.

“Damn. Ah feel like one of the Weird Sisters,” she chuckled, doing as she was bid.

Double, double, toil and trouble…” Ororo cackled eerily, sending all of them into fits.

“Okay, Ororo, you don’t need any more alcohol tonight, it’s decided,” Allison quipped. Jean continued to preen and let in her party guests as they arrived. Emma and Betsy carefully dropped chopped fruit into the vat of juice and poured in a bottle of Southern Comfort. Ororo shivered. No one was escaping this party without being shitfaced. Anna rummaged in the freezer and whooped when she discovered the rack of Jell-O shots in…amusingly shaped molds.

“If you think those are bad…” Betsy lifted the dishtowel covering the platter of naughty cookies frosted in flesh-toned icing and pink sprinkles.

“I double dog dare you to eat one,” Emma drawled.

“You first,” Ororo challenged.

“Ask me again in an hour.” Within the next half hour, the living room was packed to the rafters. Retail princesses, cosmetologists, and Pilates instructors flooded the space, talking shop and reeking of perfume and hair spray. Jean was eventually nudged into a “victim’s chair” in the center of the room, chatting easily, but flushed with anticipation. She was in her element, the queen bee of the hive and loving every minute of it. From the looks of it, she had invited everyone that she worked with at the day spa. Ororo wandered over to the jar of clothespins by the kitchen counter and played with them for a while to occupy herself. They heard a knock on the door that was louder than any prior to it.

Here we go, Ororo braced herself. She heard Emma squeal as she tipped over to the door.

“The entertainment’s here,” she called unnecessarily. Jean’s green eyes widened, and her hands flew up to cover her mouth.

“Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into?”

“Yer supposed ta ask that on yer wedding day, not tonight!” Anna called out. “Ororo, pass out the pins.” Ororo did the honors, giving each woman present a clothespin. Two men entered the foyer. Ororo smelled a hint of woodsy aftershave and enjoyed the faint draft of fresh air that followed them into the now-stuffy room. Lorna fiddled with the furniture in the corner, unfolding more chairs and moving a lamp. The taller of the two men made his speedy escape into the bathroom once the shorter one pried it out of two gaping guests where it was. He made himself as wide as possible to block the path of anyone attempting to preemptively sneak a peek. Ororo didn’t get a good look at him through the crowd of women, but at first glance he was built like a brick wall. Emma relieved the chaperone of his compact boombox and clip-on klieg light and set it up in the corner.

“Watch it with that, babe, ya break it, ya buy it,” he growled. Emma emitted a snort of annoyance and went on with her business, placing the equipment where she wanted it without his help. His dark eyes swept over her with no interest before assessing the gathered crowd. Then he began his spiel.

“Awright, listen up, ladies! We’re here from Show Me the Money Enterprises. My friend Remy will be your dancer tonight. You will treat him with respect. By respect, that means none of the following, with no exceptions, or we’re outta here, and you will NOT get a refund on your fee. Hitting, spanking, hair pulling, biting or any other abuse of the dancer are prohibited. You may purchase a party favor or body shot at any time during the night, but I’ll be passin’ out tickets before we get started. We’re here for two hours. The bride gets the first dance.” The women stared at him with their mouths open. Rather than applying any finesse, he’d barked out the way things were going to be without preamble or grace.

“What’s he mean, no hair pulling?” Anna joked, earning her a dirty look from the burly runt. “Just kiddin’ shoog,” she winked. He didn’t smile.

“That’s fine,” Ororo told him crisply. She turned away from him abruptly as though he hadn’t spoken at all. “Ladies, this is your opportunity to show Jean some support. Get her ready.” The women grinned wickedly, brandishing clothespins. “I suggest you get out your spare change,” Ororo reminded him, nodding to his fanny pack tucked under his weather-beaten leather jacket. Inwardly she rolled her eyes at the fanny pack, but she supposed it was practical, considering his profession. His eyes never left her face as he reached down and unzipped the pack, extracting an enormous roll of singles. Her eyes slid away from him quickly before she noticed the curiosity that shone there. “Line up!” The women stood in single file, wrapping around the room as they handed him their fives, tens and twenties. One by one, they began to “decorate” Jean, attaching dollar bills to her dress with the clothespins. Bills were rolled up and tucked into her cleavage, edged behind her ears, stuck into her hair, you name it. Ororo reached into her purse and added the last detail: A pale mint green satin garter, edged in black lace.

“Shit!” Jean snorted. “You wouldn’t!”

“You know you want me to,” Ororo sang.

“This is almost as good as watching the stripper,” Anna considered as Ororo shimmied the garter up onto Jean’s thigh as she clacked her heels against the hard wood floor, completely nervous and restless.

“Anyone who leaks a word of this to my parents answers to me!” Jean promised. A wave of giggles sailed up from the crowd. Emma watched for the chaperone’s nod before clicking on the music. Rick James’ “Superfreak” whined out from the speakers, and the women separated, glancing behind them as the dancer made his first appearance of the night. He was six feet, two inches of sin wrapped in snug navy blue polyester. A silver police badge gleamed from the pocket of his “uniform,” and handcuffs dangled from his fingertips. He strolled out casually, eyeing Jean with blatant interest.

“I’m afraid I’m gonna hafta detain ya, petite. Remy gonna hafta write ya a ticket,” he advised in a syrupy, deep voice. Anna’s ears pricked up, and she enjoyed the funny tingles that made their way into her stomach. She sipped her red plastic cup of jungle juice and played with a bit of melon floating in it. Suddenly, she was jealous of Jean’s place of honor, wanting to be close enough to smell his cologne, to feel the heat radiating out from that fit, lean body.

“What am I being arrested for, officer?” Jean squeaked, playing along.

“Fer sittin’ still!” The music blared, and Jean was yanked upright, pulled flush against the dancer’s chest, and rocked into the groove of his hips. Ororo thought she heard Jean mutter “Okay, why am I getting married again?” under her breath, but she dismissed it, enjoying the show. Yup, Jean was blushing like a raspberry. Homeboy had moves, she marveled. He dipped his head and snagged the first of many dollar bills from the crest of Jean’s cleavage, practically nuzzling her in the process.

“I’m telling Scott,” Allison sang.

“No, you’re not!” Emma threatened, helping herself to a penis-shaped Jell-O shot.

“That’s more of Jean than I ever wanted to see,” Lorna tsked, snickering mercilessly when Jean struggled to keep the straps of her dress up as Remy relieved her of more dollar bills.

“Gads,” Betsy chimed in. “You’re supposed to keep YOUR clothes on, duckie.”

“It’s…not for lack of trying, here!” Bodies swayed throughout the room to the music, voices rose, and dollar bills made their way back into the kitty, guarded carefully by the sullen chaperone. Occasionally he would shoot the women surrounding him something resembling a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Ororo dipped a chunk of shredded sourdough bread into the dip, chewing it thoughtfully, then nearly choked on it as Remy lifted Jean up and wrapped her legs around her waist, playing a game of “ride ‘em cowboy” that exposed that damned garter again.

Then his clothes began flying off. Lord, have mercy. Every woman in the room suppressed drool. This wasn’t your average over-oiled, fake-and-bake tanned bodybuilder. He was lean and rippling, perfectly sculpted and putting Roman statues to shame. His body was devoid of any tattoos or nipple rings or any other form of fashionable abuse. His skin was smooth, except for a faint sprinkling of hair in a neat little “happy trail” below his navel and a fine layer of hair on his bare legs. Thankfully, he wasn’t decked out in sequins; he’d opted for a pair of black satin briefs that left…something to the imagination.

“Honey, hush,” Anna breathed. “He’s…beautiful.”

“Damn skippy,” Allison agreed. Then she peered askance at Anna, noting the look of rapture on her face. “What’s with you?”

“Nuthin’,” she chafed, waving her away. “Don’t bother me while Ah’m tryin’ t’enjoy mahself.” She wanted to savor the sight of him, guard that vision jealously and revisit it in her mind again throughout the night. She imagined it was her being pulled onto the floor. “Oh, Gawd, tell me he ain’t gonna do that!” Remy flipped the hem of Jean’s flirty nothing of a dress just high enough to spy the garter, and the five-dollar bill tucked underneath it. He undulated and edged his body up Jean’s legs, and skillfully captured the money in his teeth. His teeth barely even grazed her trembling flesh. He was good. Jean was collapsed in a helpless heap of giggles.

“You guys are supposed to be helping me, here!”

“I’m ready to help myself,” Lorna corrected her. “Bring on the body shots!” Betsy pulled out two cans of whipped cream from the refrigerator. Remy groaned inwardly, masking it with a smile. Great. They couldn’t have warmed it to room temperature. Tiny red heart-shaped tickets were purchased and snatched up as the chaperone explained the rules of body shots, “races” and other games in a grumbled monotone.

“Ya can take a shot off Remy, or ya can offer him one off you, it don’t matter. Just keep it clean, ladies,” he warned. Two of Jean’s friends, clearly hairdressers if their wildly teased hair with eye-catching highlights were any indication, opted for a race, nudging Remy onto his back. He smothered a sigh, reaching for the proffered can of whipped cream, and proceeded to draw a road map of froth running up each thigh, detouring up his happy trail to his navel, finally leading up over his nipples.

“Whoa.” Lorna was struck speechless.

“Dang.” Anna leaned forward and watched. It was surreal. Grown, educated, working women licking whipped cream off a stripper like they hadn’t eaten in days. Amazing. But if you had to lick cream off of somebody, why not Remy? She fanned herself with a Styrofoam plate to cool the flush of heat in her cheeks. Stray blobs of whipped cream were tissued off of the women’s clothes as they straightened up. Ororo didn’t envy Remy the task of showering off all that sticky stuff when he got home. Ten years ago, she wouldn’t have given a damn. The songs revolved on a constant rotation of exotic dance standards; “777-9311” by the Time was next. Ororo found herself singing along to it as Allison approached Remy with the whipped cream, handed him a favor, then sprayed a stream of it down the side of her throat. Remy smiled, then obliged her by licking it off. She shivered and fanned herself, skipping off when he was done. She appraised Anna with mischief dancing across her face.

“C’mon, Anna, your turn!”

“Aw, hell no! Don’t ya dare, ya hear me?” Her protest was halfhearted. Allison bought a ticket from the chaperone who looked like he couldn’t care less. Remy winked at Anna, then handed her the whipped cream can when Allison dragged her out to the middle of the floor, practically shoving her at him. Anna licked her lips. “Uh…hi, shoog.”

“Hey, petite.” He nodded to the spray can. “Need any help wi’ dat?” She swallowed thickly.

“Naw. Think Ah kin manage.” Her green eyes gleamed at him and her hand tightened around the spray can. Ororo heard the swishing gurgle of the can as Anna shook it up, to charge the release of air. Uh-oh. “Ya betta lie down, kiddo. Yer gonna be here fer a while.” She knelt between his legs, looking at the can, then back at him. The funny thing about Anna was, she fancied herself an artist. Remy actually flinched and quivered as she dragged the spray of cream in curlicues leading from one nipple to the other, spiraling it in a neat figure eight. She drew a smiley face on his abdomen, using his navel for a nose. His eyes twinkled back up at her.

“Not too shabby, petite.”

“Thanks. Ah try.” She set down the can, and he played the gentleman, holding back her thick fall of auburn hair as she lapped up the product of her labors. She fought back the mad urge to linger at his nipple, uncovering the pert brown bud and watching it pebble from the rush of cool air once it was exposed. She felt him shudder in that moment of insanity, doubting that was his breath she heard catch in his throat as she followed the path she’d drawn with her tongue. He’s just working, girl; get on with it.

His skin tasted male and inviting beneath the sweet coating. She sucked off the last vestige of the smiling mouth she painted on him, delicately wiping off the corner of her lips. The rush of blood through her veins filled her ears, drowning out the music and making the noise of the room come to her in a dull roar. She pulled away from him, almost mourning the loss of his heat.

“Thanks, shoog,” she croaked.

“Any time, petite,” he murmured thoughtfully before Anna hurried away, handing the can to Emma. She recovered slowly, draining half her cup of jungle juice. Ororo took one look at her and reached over with another Styrofoam plate, fanning more air on her.

“Save some for later,” she advised. “That good, huh?”

“Phooooo…”

“Yup. That good.” She continued to flat the plate at her, wondering if it was futile. Anna took the short road instead, crossing to the freezer and grabbing a handful of loose ice, dragging it along her throat. Ororo chuckled, fanning her some more, then paused when she felt a pair of eyes on her, gobbling her up…

It was Mr. Drill Sergeant Chaperone, staring at her. What gives? She ran her tongue over her teeth. Have I got hunk of spinach there? Sushi? Fruit chunk from the jungle juice? She fought with herself, wondering whether to muster a smile. He looked away before she could make up her mind. That spared her a minute to look him over. This time, she had to decide if she liked what she saw. She knew she shouldn’t care.

But still…wow.

Startling, thick black brows framed deep-set, coffee brown eyes that flitted around the room and radiated disdain for the night’s activities. He showed none of the amusement she’d noted on most chaperones at parties like these, nor did he show that being one of only two men in a room full of women, most single, was any novelty to him. This guy was by the book. Beefy arms cross themselves over a chest that was broad and deep. Unruly waves of glossy black hair just dusted the back of his collar and fell carelessly over his brow. His ruddy olive skin was flushed with good health and surprisingly smooth, except for faint laugh lines around the corners of his eyes and mouth. She wouldn’t have guessed that he even knew how to laugh. His nose was long and straight, bordering on aquiline; it definitely didn’t belong on the face of a pretty boy. His square jaw and firm cheekbones were thrown into stark relief by a fine layer of five o’clock shadow, and Ororo could almost make out a wicked little cleft in his chin.

She didn’t dare look at his mouth. Not if she was smart.

Ororo distracted herself by taking a turn with Remy, shaking her money maker when a song by Mystikal drifted out from the speakers, begging her to burn off the wine she drank not too long ago. Her friends cheered her on with whoops and shrieks as she leaned back against his chest, flipping her hair over his shoulder and letting it sweep over his flesh. Yup. If Pietro were a fly on the wall…she suppressed another sigh. Oh, heck. You only lived once. She grinned at his whispered “Thanks for the dance, cher,” warming the crest of her ear before she moved away.

Only to bump smack dab into his grumpy partner two seconds later as she headed toward the hall to use the bathroom.

“OOOMPH!”

“Easy on the sauce, Legs. Watch where yer goin’, eh?”

“Please!” she snapped, brushing him away and stiffening beneath the grip of his hand around her upper arm. His hand was big enough to span it. Damn. Her mind was playing tricks on her; there was no way he smelled as delectable as her nose was telling her he did. No way.

She made use of the facilities and ran a cold, damp washrag over the nape of her neck, forgetting about her hair for a moment as soothed away the heat prickling her flesh. Strippers never affected her that way. Dancing, occasionally.

“Get it together, Munroe,” she muttered at her reflection. She touched up her lipstick and fluffed her hair before she headed back out.

The night wouldn’t have been complete without at least one more awkward moment to top it off. This time, she collided with the nearly naked, sticky dancer as she made a beeline around the corner.

“ACK!”

“Merde! Y’alright, cher?” She planted her hands flat against his chest, not meaning to…but he was there, hello? She opened her eyes and managed a smile, backing away. He wasn’t so quick to let her go. “Y’tryin’ t’knock me off m’feet, petite?”

“Nope. I’m all out of singles,” she admitted, drawing her hands away from him and smoothing her palms over her legs self-consciously beneath his gaze.

“Take it easy t’night, eh? Headin’ out for a ladies night?”

“Yep.”

“Call a cab, petite. Yer listin’ a l’il t’the left already,” he observed. His eyes were dark and wicked, but she heard good will in his voice.

“I will,” she promised, her tone almost girlish. “Night-night!” she beamed.

“G’night, petite.” Dimly he wondered why she looked so familiar, but shook it off.

Grumpy Butt had already packed up the light and sound gear and loaded it into their car by the time Ororo made her way back into the kitchen. She felt slightly forlorn to see him missing until he came back in to make sure Remy left the house in the same condition he was in when he came in. A chorus of goodnight’s followed them out the door. The burly chaperone looked relieved as he pulled the door shut after him, but not before he swept the room with one final glance, as though he were checking to see if he forgot something. He didn’t pat his pockets or peer back at the table.

His eyes zeroed in on Ororo, stopping her mid-bite as she sampled one of the naughty cookies. His lips quirked up in a smile before the door clicked shut.

Ororo wanted to die.





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