Night club, downtown San Francisco:
They’d gotten in; the Party Gods smiled down on them again.
Their feet were already killing them by the time they’d reached the crest of the hill, due in part to the buy one, get one half off sale on platform heels they both couldn’t resist. They’d pay for it tomorrow in spades.
They weren’t thinking about tomorrow.
The line was wrapped around the corner, and they boldly edged their way past the patrons despite noisy protests behind them. They teetered on those impractical Lucite heels, nearly falling off the edge of the curb. They approached the wine red velvet rope; their gatekeeper was six and a half feet, two hundred fifty pounds of “I don’t think so” waiting with his clipboard and flashlight.
‘Back of the line,” he barked, even as his eyes traveled the length of legs that looked like they went all the way to their waists. He let his gaze stop short at cleavage precariously perched in bustiers that allowed only scant amounts of oxygen; one deep breath and it was all over.
“We’re on the list.”
“Everyone’s on the list,” he huffed.
“Wouldn’t hurt to look.” Her voice was impertinent.
“I’ve only got six VIPs on my list.” He looked scornfully at their attire and smirked. “You aren’t them.”
“Wanna bet?”
“I’ve got a table booked for a Len, a Chris, an Ed, a Neal, an Art, and a Mark,” he informed them. “Try again.”
“We’re with the DJ.”
“Like hell you are!”
“We’re waitresses. Just started last week.” He yawned and patted his mouth for emphasis. The shorter one of the two, still tall at five-eight, reached into her purse, presumably to call a cab. He considered his job done when she dialed. The tall one wasn’t backing down while her partner sauntered away a few feet.
“We’ve got to use the ladies’.”
“Guess you’ll be dancing out here.” Shrill whistles and cat calls greeted her ears from farther down the line; feminine voices reached her, asking who they thought they were in those hoochie get-ups.
Her partner clicked her phone shut and crammed it into her tiny, red patent leather purse. “We’re ready to go in, now.”
“Not the last time I checked, Cinderella.” She snorted, screwing up piquant features and staring toward the door.
He wasn’t expecting the tap on his shoulder, or the faint rush of throbbing music and stale liquor emanating from the club when the door opened behind him.
“Yo.”
“Hey.” The girls grinned when the newcomer nodded to them and waved them forward, reaching down to unfasten the rope from the post. “About time!”
“Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, handsome.” Sharp, cerulean eyes glanced at the bouncer scornfully, “I told you so” written plainly in them, making him grit his teeth. He held out a thick, beefy palm.
“ID’s,” he reminded them. She tugged it from the depths of her bustier, making him wonder where the hell she managed to fit it. He was almost impressed. The one that looked like a punked-out Tinkerbell gleefully presented hers for his scrutiny, smiling saucily and vamping for him when he shone his flashlight in her face. She felt no pity for him as they left him to the mercy of the line, leaving a chorus of fuck-off’s in their wake.
“That was easy,” Yukio remarked.
“Eh.” She elbowed their savior. “Thanks. Where’s Emma?”
“The blonde, or the purple-haired chick?”
“Blonde. About this tall, out to here,” she offered, gesturing with cupped hands toward her chest, “and probably about three sheets to the wind on lemon drops.” He nodded and grinned, smacking his forehead for emphasis.
“Bathroom,” he informed them. “Wanna drink?”
“Why not?”Yukio answered for them both.
“One question?” Ororo called over the din. Her face was illuminated by a rainbow of flashing strobe lights. “Who the heck are you?”
“The new DJ. Your friends are a kick. Call me Scott.” His mouth twisted. “Shit, just call me, anyway!” He was tall and lean, his body a perfect ‘V’ of broad shoulders and narrow hips. His light brown hair was stylishly cut, long enough to dust his collar. Ororo was impressed; no wonder Emma gave him the treatment.
“Nice,” Ororo muttered. “Look1 like you didn’t lie,” she chided Yukio, elbowing her in the ri s. She watched Scott place a drink order for a pitcher of sangria before they even mentioned what they wanted. “We could’ve bee anybody. Why’d you let us in?”
“When two hot-looking women come up to my booth and tell me their friends are outside waiting to get in, what else was I supposed to do?”
“Emma practically flashed you, didn’t she?”
Yup.” He looked like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar. Ororo saluted him with her first glass of sangria. He reached for the dish of drink garnishes on the bar and dropped a maraschino cherry into the fizzy red liquid Uith a flourish. His hands felt !ool on their backs as he said g-odbye. “Behave yourselves. And don’t give Buttercup too hard a time. He’s not a bad guy.”
“Buttercup?” Yukio arched a plucked brow.
“Tony. Out front. Whatever you do, don’t call him that.” He weaved through the crowd, peering back to wink at them when he reached the booth.
“No ay I’m not gonna call him that when we go back out there,” Yukio snickered.
“Guess we better find Emma,” Ororo suggeted with a sigh.
“Or not,” Yukio countered as she took a lon pull from her glass. “I’ll keep your seat warm.” She patted the bar stool fondly. Ororo tsked in disgust.
“Don’t bogart the pitcher.”
“Who, me?” She was the picture of innocence as Oroo stomped her way through the cowd. Several sets of eyes bore into her back, drinking in the sight she made in ridiculously snug, tiny shorts.
Betsy was aleady inside, standing protectively by Emma and re-tying her dress strap while she held up her fine blonde hair.
“What’s goin on?”
“Oh, Ororo, you look cute!” Emma gushed. Emma never guhed unless liquor was involved; that’s why she was nicknamed the Ice Princess at the office whee they worked.
“We had a wardrobe malfunction,” Betsy sighed. She busied herself with freein a few strands of hair from the laces at Emma’s neck. “All set. By the way, where’s Yukio?”
“Pretending to watch our drinks at the bar.” Ororo sidled up to the sinks and gave her hair a brief fluff with her fingers. She and Emma were a study in contrasts. Where Emma had chosen a short white dress from the Frederick’s catalog, Ororo was dressed to dance, radiant in black leather and satin. A black crocheted shrug that was never meant to keep her warm completed her look and created a striking back drop for platinum white hair that waved down to her waist. Betsy was almost demure in a blue halter top that showed off a lean back; her hair was pulled back from her face in an artfully messy chignon, and her plum-tinted locks gleamed beneath the dim, powder room lights. She refreshed deep raisin lipstick that ripened sensuous lips, rolling down the tube and tucking it into her pocket. Emma, a little less mindful of the usual niceties, leaned forward into mirror and dug between her front teeth with her French manicured index nail; it looked like she was checking for spinach. Ororo suppressed a laugh when she sucked her teeth before she straightened out her dress. She brightened at the sight of Alison’s sudden appearance in the mirror behind her as she swept inside.
“Nice of you guys to show up! I saw Yukio at the bar,” she complained. “Told you that you should have come with us earlier!”
“I had some business to take care of.” Ororo smoothed the front of her bustier, admiring the way the satin shone in the lights. “Let’s get out there. I’ve got sangria calling my name.”
“Bullshit. You’re coming out to dance with me,” Alison declared. She swiftly looped her arm through Ororo’s and practically yanked her off her feet, making it appear surprisingly easy since she only stood a mere five-foot-four inches.
“Let me wet my whistle,” Ororo insisted, obstinately steering them toward the bar and grinning at Alison’s grunt of disgust. Yukio was already handing her a red plastic cup before she even touched the bar. Sangria almost slopped over the rim, making Ororo yelp and back up before any could spill on her new shoes. She took a grateful gulp, and her eyes widened before she took another. It was delicious and packed a hearty punch.
“Man, I’m in trouble now.”
“No shit. Let’s see if Prince Charming’ll spring for another,” Yukio told her.
“Who’s he?” Alison inquired.
“That one. The new DJ.” Alison squinted as she focused on the booth, and then spun on them with shocked recognition.
“I totally work with him! He’s so cool! He’s in the marketing department and he handles new business. He bought you that?”
“Yup.” Yukio tossed back the rest of her drink before beckoning to the bartender for another red cup.
“Emma’s already set her sights on him,” Ororo quipped.
“Poor guy,” Alison symphatized. “He’s a goner.”
“Yum yum, eat ‘em up,” Yukio snorted. Whenever Emma embarked on a new relationship, she wasn’t known for being the giver, and she wrung as much high-dollar, high profile entertainment and benefits out of each conquest before she stopped returning calls. Yukio didn’t make any secret of how she felt about her friend’s flagrant gluttony. But sometimes, she was fun to watch.
“C’mon,” Ali nagged. Ororo’s mostly empty cup was pried out of her hands and chucked it onto the bar, where Yukio gratefully finished it before pouring herself another.
“Don’t yank my arm off,” Ororo hissed as they plunged into the crowd that nearly spilled from the hardwood floor. Myriad perfumes, sweat and alcohol assaulted her nose while strobe lights flickered and shimmered overhead. Prisms thrown from the enormous mirrored disco ball spun over the crowd and landed in her hair. Ali and Ororo exchanged delighted smiles as a Donna Summer standard worked its way through their hips. They weren’t leaving the floor until it glistened with their sweat.
Yukio joined them shortly, and they peered back to see Betsy and Emma relieving them of the last of the pitcher. Betsy beckoned to the bartender, waving a ten-spot from her slender fingers.
It felt good to just get out.
Random, unwelcome memories slipped through her buzz and made her smile slip. Her half of the rent was paid for the month; the utilities were coming out of her next check.
Vic was in for a nasty surprise. She didn’t pity him one bit. More accurately, Ororo didn’t pity anyone who dropped that last straw on her back.
No more late dinners gone cold. No more nonsense of hanging out with his boys on her couch, feet on her coffee table and not a coaster in sight. No more excuses or watching him get mad just because she was mad first.
She pictured him stumbling over his boxes of junk that she left at the front door of his brother’s apartment after work. Yukio had just tsked and shot her worried glances the entire drive over, hoping like heck that Vic wouldn’t show up before they could beat feet out of there. She wasn’t afraid of Vic, but she was afraid of watching them go at it again and the likelihood of Vic’s neighbors calling the boys in blue.
Her closet had more room than it had in months; she joked with Ali that it nearly echoed, prompting her friend to suggest a jaunt to Wet Seal to top it off. She hadn’t stopped at bundling up Vic’s stuff. With the exception of a picture of them taken at one of Ali’s parties that had her friends in the background, she emptied her photo albums. Next came the lower drawer of her jewelry and her makeup cabinet as she rooted for bottles of perfume, earrings, lingerie she’s seldom worn and never would have chosen for herself, and a skin-tight New York Jets tee that he’d bought at an overpriced sportswear store. He’d dissed her Eagles long enough, giving her nonsense of “My teams are your teams, baby, suck it up.” Suck this…
Hello, eBay.
So there she was, begging her way back into the hen house and her friends’ good graces after unspeakable neglect. They welcomed her back into the fold, providing life support in the form of chocolate ice cream, excursions for shoes and chick flick B.S. sessions.
The worst part was at night after she turned off her bedside lamp. She missed his solid bulk at her back. No matter how high she pulled the covers, she still felt a chill. Then she reminded herself of how often he’d come tippin’ in late, and she exchanged her cami sets for dowdy flannel PJ’s. It was gonna hafta be good enough…
The next time anyone was making a dent in the other pillow, it had to be for real.
They stayed on the floor for the next ten sets; Ororo gradually stopped feeling the balls of her feet throb, thanks to fresh drinks and more old school songs than she could count. They came up for air and felt the cool rush of air against sweat-soaked skin as they hit the bar. Emma was already working it, leaning against the DJ booth, cleavage strategically placed at eye level as she threw her blonde head back in laughter. Strategic giggles. She could almost hear her hungover, post-party rantings already. When she peered over at Ali and Yukio, they wore similar knowing looks. They tapped shot glasses in a salute bef
re they rescued Betsy from a ma, sporting a wedding ring and trying to offer her a cell number.
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