by Liz Talley
“I don’t want to find something hot with a penis,” Nick joked.
“Nah, trust me,” John David said, amusement filling his voice.
“That’s what you said when we broke into the football stadium. We ended up in the slammer.”
John David laughed. “You should have run faster. I’ll come to your house and we can take Uber. It will be awesome. This place is life-changing. Tr—”
“I know. Trust you.”
What a difference one week made.
Eden felt like she had been at Gatsby’s for much longer. Something about being back on stage and in the spotlight was like slipping into a pair of favorite jeans. Just right. For the past week she’d balanced taking care of Sophie, performing as Lola’s little sister, and trying to get the paperwork done that Sunny needed to list the house back in Morning Glory. She was still on the fence about selling the house. Her sister had already invested in paint and new countertops, but the old house had too much wrong with it to be attractive in the current market. Not to mention the yard was little more than a dirt patch, something Eden had always been somewhat thankful for because it was less for her to mow. Of course, Henry Todd Delmar often came over to mow, trim, and whack, saving Eden from dying of heat stroke each summer. Still, something inside wriggled uncomfortably at the thought of the only place she’d known as home being signed away.
Lisa jerked Eden’s chin and began painting her lips a bright vermillion. Each time Eden spun around and looked in the mirror when Lisa finished, she was amazed. Lisa could transform Eden into a vampy Jessica Rabbit in five minutes.
“You are such a good performer, doll,” Lisa said, making an O with her lips as she lined Eden’s.
“Thank you,” Eden said, closing her eyes in prep for the long eyelash extensions Lisa would glue into place. The woman’s cool, nicotined hands somehow felt comforting on her face. Like having Wanda Treat at Hair Teasers trimming her hair. Competent fingers taking care of her.
“Sadie wasn’t nearly as good or as nice. I know the girls appreciate how professional you are. Jasmine said you never flub your stuff in rehearsals.”
Only because Eden practiced at home in her apartment until her muscles screamed and her body collapsed onto the rug she’d spent $299.99 on at Lowe’s. Being nearly perfect was what she demanded of herself, and it was a tried-and-true way to stay in Frenchie’s good graces. The woman’s eyes had glowed with appreciation when Eden had nailed all her numbers in the first rehearsal she’d done as Lulu LaRue. And Frenchie had almost smiled. Let’s just say the atmosphere had been decidedly more relaxed with the ensemble and Fatso almost jovial throughout the rehearsals.
“I try,” Eden said, blinking her eyes, adjusting to the heaviness of the lashes. Tonight she was wearing a slinky black strapless gown with long satin gloves. The gel-padded strapless bra plumped her boobs, and the faux band of diamonds at her wrist and long dangling chandelier earrings at her earlobes achieved a veneer of classiness perfect for crooning “Hey, Big Spender.” And for the first time, she’d be flying solo—no ensemble tap-dancing or swaying behind her.
She was prepared to own the stage.
Because she had to. That’s what determined, somewhat desperate women did. After all, if she envisioned herself hitting every note and bringing the audience to its knees, it had to come true, right? The power of positive visualization and all that.
Lisa leaned back and narrowed her eyes critically. “That’ll work. Now go knock ’em dead, kid.”
“I’ll try,” Eden said again, rising and nearly hitting Frenchie, who’d entered like a cat on silent paws. “Oh, Frenchie. Sorry.”
“Butch wants sexy. You understand? Sexy,” Frenchie said, her eyes piercing as if she could ensure Eden’s compliance.
“I’ve been doing sexy,” Eden said, wondering how in all that was holy she could be any sexier. She’d shimmied, plopped into laps, and rubbed her padded ta-tas up against enough bald pates to make her contemplate having a rabies shot.
“Yeah, yeah.” Frenchie brushed away her claim with a wave of a hand. “But tonight there are more investors. Butch’s grumpier than normal. That means he’s nervous. Get your sexy on like JT.”
“JT?”
“Justin Timberlake.”
“Oh, of course,” Eden said, making a face. “I’ll work on bringing sexy back.”
Frenchie snorted. “This is your first solo number. Don’t fuck it up.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.” Eden tugged on her black high-heeled dancing shoes and buckled them. She attached beaded shoe clips to cover the plain buckle and snaz them up a bit. Then she rubbed her scarlet lips together. Be sexy. Remember the words. And don’t fuck it up. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
Five minutes later, she stood behind the old-fashioned microphone near the Fazioli piano. When she was introduced, the crowd erupted into rousing applause, and she wondered if word about Lola’s little sister had gotten around that fast. Or perhaps it was the special they’d run on Sazeracs during the cocktail hour. Either way the enthusiasm of the audience did its job. Eden felt the buzz.
She sucked in a deep breath as the curtains opened. The band struck the first note, and she fell into that place she loved so well, into that zone in which the world faded away and there was only her, a song, and an audience to conquer.
Grabbing the mic, she took control. This number called for her not only playing the vamp but being demanding. She wasn’t asking. She was telling. So she stalked across the stage, ringed Fatso, walked her fingers over his shoulder, then sang to him. Finally, when he shook his head and pulled his pockets out comically, she bumped him with her butt and stomped down the steps, grabbing the red feather boa hanging conveniently over a brass coat stand on her way to the floor.
Once there, she gyrated, teased, propped her hip on tables, and even half-draped herself across one table, playing the ballsy temptress who needed a sugar daddy.
The audience laughed as she looped the feather boa around the shoulders of a graying gentleman, pulling his face toward her shimmying bosom. Just before his chin hit her décolleté, she spun away. She knew Butch wanted sexy, but she had to draw the line somewhere, and snuggling a seventy-year-old man between her breasts was that line. Her version of sexy would have to do, and judging by the grins on the faces of the audience, she’d say her approach was perfectly done.
She sashayed to the middle table, then propped her foot on the white pressed tablecloth, allowing the slinky material of her dress to open at the slit, revealing the length of her leg and the garter belt holding up her silky sheer hosiery. She dipped as she sang, stroking the length of leg to the top of her thigh. Then, before her fingers reached the top, she smacked her bare flesh and sang, “Hey, big spender, spend a little time . . .”
She spun away and plopped down into the next gentleman’s lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to deliver “ . . . with me.”
But then she saw devastating gray eyes filled with amusement . . . and appreciation.
Familiar gray eyes.
Eyes she saw nearly every day.
Oh, shit.
Her mouth snapped closed as shock jarred her. What in the hell was Nick doing here? At a place like Gatsby’s? And who was taking care of Sophie? And . . .
Fatso repeated the verse. Everyone waited on her big finish.
Eden swallowed hard before reaching out and drawing back the professionalism she’d lost for a moment. Donning a teasing smile, she slid from Nick’s lap. Part of her wanted to run like hell for the dressing room and duck into a closet or something. The other part recognized the man had no clue that his child’s nanny had been undulating on his lap. Classic fight-or-flight. And when had Eden ever run from anything?
Not this side of never.
So she turned back to Nick, leaned down, and cupped his chin. Drawing him to her, she positioned her lips mere inches from his.
Whiskey and warmth came to mind at his nearness, and for a second, her little
game backfired. Because all she could think about was leaning in and taking a taste of what she’d craved for the past month. What would it hurt? Nick hadn’t recognized her as his shy nanny. And Butch wanted sexy. But to kiss a customer? That was another line she couldn’t step over no matter how much she’d dreamed of pressing her lips to her boss’s impossibly gorgeous mouth.
Decision made, she pressed a finger to his lips, praying her mic would pick up the sound of her whispering, “with me.”
His lips curved against her finger, and for some crazy reason she wanted to dip her finger into the wet heat of his mouth.
Nick lifted his hand as if to catch hold of her, but before he could, Eden turned and strutted back to the stage. Climbing the steps beside Fatso, she stopped to listen to him key in the last notes of the song, propping her chin on her hands as he expertly picked out the finale. When the last chord sounded, she moved to the center of the stage and executed a bow, sweeping her hand to both the band and Fatso.
Eden didn’t dare look at Nick for fear she might give herself away . . . or jump off the stage and take what she so craved. Just one little kiss.
But that was stupid-ass crazy.
The curtains swished closed, drowning out the applause.
“Nice job,” Frenchie said, flipping the switch on the mic and unhooking it from behind her ear. “But no kissing the customers.”
“I didn’t. You said to bring the sexy. JT and all that.”
“We want sexy, not a lawsuit,” Frenchie snapped, jerking the mic from her ear a bit too hard.
“Ouch,” Eden said.
“What a baby,” Frenchie responded.
“Sadist.” Eden moved off the stage, giving Jasmine a high five as the girls made their way onto the stage. Her legs felt like rubber bands, her gut like a meat grinder.
Nick was at Gatsby’s.
And if she wasn’t mistaken, the man had liked what had landed in his lap. The warmth of that revelation almost edged out the panic that he’d find out she was Lulu LaRue.
But what if he did?
It wasn’t like she was doing something tawdry. Gatsby’s was more than reputable. Sure, some of the acts were irreverent, bordering on risqué. But even though what they did there every night would be deemed adult entertainment, it wasn’t “adult entertainment.” The acts were always tasteful, playful, and the epitome of New Orleans, which meant drag queens, cabaret singers, and burlesque numbers—just the sort of naughty romp that kept the city jumping. So if Nick discovered she was Lulu, what did it matter?
But something inside her balked at the thought of letting him in on her secret. It wasn’t like she was embarrassed that her part-time job relied on her donning skimpy costumes and shaking her groove thing for every Tom, Dick, and Harry. She liked assuming Lulu’s persona. Lulu didn’t take shit from anyone, and she looked everyone in the eye. Lulu wasn’t poor white trash from a Mississippi ditch. No, Lulu was a naughty debutante tired of Catholic-schoolgirl skirts and her mommy and daddy’s expectations. She had manicured nails, a big bank account, and too much time on her hands. Or at least that was the way Eden played her . . . and she did it so well that Nick hadn’t recognized her as the woman who folded his underwear.
“Good show,” Lisa said, reaching for the pins securing the wig in place. “I love the way you ended it. Always doing the unexpected. That’s why Frenchie likes you. Artistry.”
Eden opened her mouth to thank Lisa, but from the open doorway someone said, “Hope I’m not intruding.”
Oh God.
Nick.
Eden brushed Lisa’s hands away as the makeup artist said, “Who let you back here?”
His smile in the mirror made her toes curl . . . around the heart that had plunged to her dancing shoes. Yeah, a killer smile did things like that. Made you forget that your boss, the man you’d been crushing on for a month, was about to discover you had a secret life.
“Butch told me it was fine to give my regards to Ms. LaRue. We go way back. Butch and I. Not Ms. LaRue,” Nick said.
Lisa shifted her gaze to meet Eden’s. “No one’s supposed to come back here, but if Butch said it was okay . . .” She arched a brow, asking Eden’s permission. The frizzy-headed woman wasn’t going to permit Nick entry if Eden didn’t want him there.
Nick didn’t move. His gaze remained on Eden, searching her expression before dropping lower to take in the suddenly too-tight gown. “I didn’t want to intrude. Just wanted to . . . thank you.”
“For?” Eden spun around, intentionally deepening her voice. Even to her own ears it sounded husky, dripping implication.
“Making me feel like a man again.”
Her knees went wobbly at his admission, especially when his hue deepened as if he just realized what he’d said.
“That didn’t come out right,” he said, shaking his head, clearly embarrassed.
A rubber band of tight emotion broke inside Eden at the implication of those words. Here stood a man whose wife had left him, who struggled to run an empire and take care of a special-needs daughter. He didn’t date much, didn’t seem to have much of a life beyond his narrow world. And the thoughtless antics of a sassy vixen in a borrowed wig had made him feel like a man again? How did a woman respond to something like that?
Lisa nudged her, breaking her study of Nick.
Play it flirty. Be a confident Lulu. “I think it came out exactly right, Mr. . . . ?”
“Nick. Nick Zeringue.”
“Mr. Zeringue. My job is to make you feel however you need to feel. It’s part of Gatsby’s charm.”
“Mission accomplished, Miss LaRue. Because you’re exactly what I needed tonight.”
Damn it. Eden was toast.
Nick had never met a woman who made his blood race the way Lulu LaRue had. Which was absolutely idiocy. After all, he’d fallen hard for Susan, and she’d driven him wild with desire during those early days of their romance. He distinctly remembered her failure to wear panties beneath her dresses and one steamy night in the elevator of the Superdome. But something about this woman electrified him enough to seek out Butch Mandina to find out more about his newest star. His interest in Lulu amused his friend John David who’d said, “This ain’t no strip joint. You can’t buy a lap dance, dude.”
Nick had laughed but pushed his chair back anyway. He’d never felt such an immediate desire, a sort of lust to possess someone. It frightened him as much as it excited him. He had to meet her. Maybe ask her to have a drink with him. Something.
Now she sat before him, no longer prancing and seducing. Just a gorgeous woman with a confident air taking him in with eyes the shade of bluebells. There was something so familiar about her, yet so foreign and aloof. She was a woman who knew her value and took no pleasure in the ordinary.
At his admission—one likely too honest—her eyes had deepened. Her lips had softly parted as she considered his words that she was what he needed. Finally she peered at him through those ridiculous glittery lashes. “Then, monsieur, my work is done.”
“Let me buy you a drink.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Your performance is over.”
Lulu slid a glance toward the woman he knew would toss him out with one word. “I have another engagement.”
Disappointment pooled in his stomach. “I see.”
She inclined her head as if to dismiss him, refusing to utter platitudes or appreciation for the invitation. He didn’t know what to do. Obviously he’d been out of the game for much too long. Did he ask for her number? Be brutally honest and say he wanted to take her to dinner . . . to bed?
“Perhaps another time.” There. An open door. She could give him her number, drop a crumb of encouragement or say “My place or yours?” Perfect lob to her side of the net.
“Maybe so,” she said, rising and presenting him with a lovely view of her naked shoulders. Her red tresses brushed alabaster skin. No freckles, just smooth creaminess, begging for his touch. Or his mo
uth. He curled his hand before he reached for her.
She’d essentially dismissed him. No drink. No number. He should feel like a fool, but he didn’t. It had been years since he’d felt such interest stir. “I’ll say good night. Again, I enjoyed your performance, Miss LaRue.”
She turned then, her eyes so . . . serious. It was as if she understood him better than he understood himself. “Thank you.”
For a moment a connection surged. And then the frumpy woman who’d begrudgingly let him stay flipped the door shut.
Right in his face.
Nick took a step back. Then another. Anger flooded him, and he almost reopened it and gave Lulu’s protector the evil eye. Or the finger. The witch had slammed the door right when he’d started making progress with Lulu.
Talk about humiliating.
Someone bumped him as he slunk back like a whipped pup.
It had been a long time since he’d been so utterly rejected. Not that he thought he was the cat’s meow, but a decent-looking guy of some means could often find himself cornered by a gaggle of attractive ladies in certain social situations. Like restaurant openings. Or country-club socials. Or gala benefits his mother or sister dragged him to. Maybe he’d gotten too big for his britches with all the phone numbers gained by fetching drinks at open bars or pulling out chairs at dinner. Pretty, eligible women had practically dropped at his feet.
“Strike out?” John David asked as he skirted the people departing next to their table. Another group waited on the perimeter. Butch Mandina and his investors were sitting on a gold mine. The cocktails were superb and even the appetizers were creative. Maybe Nick shouldn’t have blown off the call Butch had given him two years ago.
“Decided not to bat,” Nick said, sliding into the chair, shifting his eyes so his friend couldn’t see the truth in them.
“Bull to the shit. You were like a dog catching a scent, bro.” John David held up two fingers and then pointed at his empty glass. Immediately a blond waitress with gamine eyes and a whip-thin figure appeared. “But I get it. She was smokin’ hot. Always worth a try when one falls into your lap.”
