Wanna Get Lucky?

by Deborah Coonts

  “You think?” About ten inches long with a fork at the end, the thing looked more like something a shaman would use to divine the location of water than a pleasure device. The forks, one longer and thicker than the other and strategically curved, ended in bristled rubber nubs.

  “Watch,” the lady said as she flipped a switch. “This will hit all of your pleasure points. You can do yourself.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” I groused as I grudgingly watched. The rubber nubs twirled and the whole thing vibrated. All it lacked was a pulsing red light and a siren.

  Dane appeared at my elbow. “Did you know there’s a whole army of women wandering around who make that tee-shirt girl seem dressed for the prom? This place is amazing.” He glanced down at the table. “What’re you doing?”

  “Here.” The lady thrust the device at Dane. “It’s great for fore-play.”

  “What am I supposed to do to it?” Dane asked, a twinkle in his eye.

  I laughed and pushed him on down the aisle. One booth halfway down on the other side caught my attention. “Oh, I like this one,” I said as I got a good look. “It’s just like the water guns at the fair when I was a kid.”

  Only the guns were shaped like erect penises, the testicles forming the grip. When you squeezed hard, water shot out of the end, inflating the balloon end of the condom attached over the penis-gun. The harder you squeezed, the larger the volume of water squirting and inflating the condom—the person holding the first one to break won.

  “New game’s starting,” announced the hawker—a woman who looked to be barely legal—clad only in a thong.

  “Want to play?” I asked Dane as I grabbed one of the two open guns.

  “I can’t,” he said as he shook his head. “There’s something about squeezing that thing’s balls . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s fun.” I grinned, then turned to focus on the battle.

  A bell rang, and we were off. Two guys on the end were ahead early, their condoms expanding at an alarming rate. The blonde to my right and the redhead to my left and I grinned at each other and squeezed as hard as we could. We caught the guys and left them in the dust.

  I braced myself for the inevitable explosion, but it didn’t come—the balloon on the end of my gun growing to the size of a basketball. Who knew a condom could stretch that far?

  And who would need it to?

  When I thought it wasn’t possible for the thin rubber to expand farther, mine burst—seconds ahead of the redhead’s. Everyone put down their guns and congratulated me. Ever gracious in victory, I raised my arms and did a Rocky-esque dance.

  The young lady, wearing little more than a big smile, awarded me my prize—a box of thirty-six Always Ready glow-in-the-dark condoms, size large—for the “big guy.”

  I clutched them to my chest and turned to Dane. “I won!”

  “So I see.” He grinned at me.

  “I have no idea what I’m going to do with these.” I looked at the picture on the cover of the box. “Seriously, glow in the dark?” I fought back the image of a dark room, a glowing, disembodied penis . . .

  Dane laughed and started to say something, but I cut him off.

  “Not a word out of you.” I looked around. “Have you seen a bar? I could use a drink.”

  We found the bar along the back wall, bracketed by huge, freestanding edifices erected by the film companies, complete with giant screens showing trailers for upcoming releases. Young, buxom women and well-muscled men, all of them shirtless, signed autographs for their adoring fans.

  Dane dove into the crowd at the bar and reappeared with two glasses of wine, one of which he handed to me. “This looks interesting,” he said as he motioned to one of the overhead screens. “God, there isn’t enough pubic hair there to cover a mouse.”

  “Miranda told me wax jobs like that are all the rage.” I watched the pile of writhing flesh. Four bodies, and I counted two penises, two choochilalas, and three sets of boobs. “Aw, same old stuff—I’ve seen it all before,” I said as I took a sip of my wine. “Come on, we haven’t tried the Emporium.”

  “What do think we’ll find in here?” Dane asked as we ducked inside.

  “Lotions and potions.”

  A mirror image of the Midway, the Emporium also consisted of rows of booths. However, unlike the sex-toy folks, who let their devices sell themselves, the lotion and potion purveyors usually hired stars to hawk their products. Needless to say, the crowd had packed in pretty tight.

  The largest gathering arced around a booth hawking “Wonder Woodie Crème.” Pushing through the throng, we found Subway Jones holding court.

  Brandishing a small tub of crème, he addressed the throng. “Men, do you want to be ready in a hurry?” Subway put his hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you! Want to be ready in a hurry?”

  A chorus of male voices shouted, “Yes!”

  “Ladies, does your man have the stamina you crave?” Again he put his hand to his ear and waited.

  The ladies shouted, “No!”

  “I guarantee you both can have what you want!” He thrust the tub of goo in the air. “Wonder Woodie Crème is the answer! Male enhancement in three seconds, guaranteed! This stuff works! I should know.” He winked and rocked his hips suggestively. “Buy three for the price of two and get a photograph of good old me and Wonder Woodie Crème in action. I’ll personalize it for you.”

  The crowd went wild and almost all of them bellied up to the table, money in hand. Subway stepped aside, letting them pass, then he moved our way.

  “I thought they outlawed snake oil salesmen years ago,” Dane whispered as Subway approached.

  “Lucky!” Subway grabbed me, twirling me around. “How ya doin’? Don’t you want an autograph?”

  “Only if you sign my panties.”

  “You know I don’t do underwear.” Subway gave me a devilish grin.

  “Bummer.”

  “Where’s Theodore? I thought he’d be with you,” Subway asked as he gave Dane the once-over.

  “He said he might see me here.” I resisted the temptation to explain Dane’s presence. “You haven’t seen him?”

  “I saw him earlier. He was looking for you.”

  Dane nodded to the product Subway still clutched. “Does that stuff really work?”

  “Sex happens between the ears,” Subway answered with a shrug. “If you think it works, then it usually does.”

  “What works?” Miranda asked as she materialized at Subway’s shoulder. “Hi, handsome,” she cooed to Dane.

  He actually blushed. “I was asking your husband about his product.”

  Sidling up to Dane, she put her hand on his arm and leaned against him. “Did you know Wonder Woodie comes in flavors? I really like the passion fruit.”

  “Knock it off, Miranda,” I said.

  “Why?” She gave me a wicked grin. “Have you already laid claim to him?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her—a feeble attempt at delay while I struggled to formulate a pithy reply.

  Pointing to the box I held, she asked, “What’s that?”

  “I won a prize.”

  “How lucky.”

  “No, how Miranda? I thought of you when they gave it to me.” I held it out to her. “My gift to you. It’s not much—you’ll probably go through the whole box in under an hour.”

  She looked at it then purred, “Honey, even I’m not that good.”

  “Strangely, I’m comforted by that.” Hooking my arm through Dane’s, I said to him, “Come on. Let’s leave these two to their . . . business.”

  “You are going to stay for my dance?” Miranda asked, a subtle pleading in her voice.

  “We’ll be there.” I pulled Dane into the crowd.

  And came face to face with the cat-pee lady.

  I managed a stiff smile. “Oh, Ms. Hetherington. Nice to see you.”

  She wore the same stretched expression, but the outfit looked different. The faint aroma of cat urine still clung to her—or maybe I imagin
ed it.

  “I know you.” She gave me the eye. “You’re the lady who wouldn’t let me keep my cats.”

  “Guilty as charged.” I motioned to Dane standing at my side. “This is Mr. Dane, one of our Security team. He helped search for your cats. Dane, this is Ms. Hetherington.”

  “Ma’am.” Dane nodded, but didn’t extend his hand.

  “Are you enjoying the party?” I asked her. If she didn’t know she now owned two cats instead of three, I sure wasn’t going to break the news to her—at least not here and not now.

  “My husband and I are working it.” She grabbed Dane’s hand. “You, come with me.”

  Dane threw a “rescue me” look my direction as he allowed himself to be dragged down the aisle.

  He was a big boy—I had no doubt he could handle the Ms. Hetheringtons of the world by himself. The crowd had almost swallowed them when I reluctantly followed.

  Shoulder to shoulder they stood in front of a booth, which, according to the banner above it, sold Klimaxx—a pleasure enhancer for both sexes.

  Great, not only could I buy a gizmo to “do myself” as the lady had so delicately put it; if that didn’t work, I could buy an orgasm in a bottle. I wondered what they’d come up with next—actually, after a moment’s thought, I didn’t think I really wanted to know.

  Ms. Hetherington held tightly to Dane’s arm as she addressed the man behind the counter. “Honey, this is Mr. Dane. He’s interested in our product.”

  So the bigwig Ms. Hetherington had threatened me with wasn’t a bigwig at all—he was nothing more than a man who sold what looked like dried grass clippings to the sexually frustrated.

  There was a god.

  I shouldered in next to Dane.

  “Here.” Ms. Hetherington thrust two tubes of gel at me. “This is our other product—sexual lubricant, one for him, one for her.”

  I held one tube in one hand, one in the other. “You need two?”

  She gave me a wink and a conspiratorial nudge with her elbow. “When these two gels mix, there’s a chemical reaction—instant heat that really lights your fire.”

  “Like peeling jalapeños then touching your eyes?” I asked as I handed the tubes back to her.

  Dane grabbed my elbow, dragging me away before she went for my throat.

  “That stuff reminds me too much of epoxy,” I said as we wandered down the aisle, dodging nearly naked young women and men and those more fully clothed who followed them. “Don’t you remember as a kid watching your parents mix that stuff—two tubes of goo that when mixed formed a glue so strong it could hold the space shuttle together?”

  “Probably not the image they are looking for, but I know what you mean. My brother glued himself to Sally Wiler when they were both ten. She wasn’t pleased.”

  “Really? I think I’d like your brother. Did young Sally ever forgive him?”

  “She married him.”

  “A guy who likes you so much he glues himself to you would be hard to resist.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” Dane said as he took hold of my elbow, steering me through the crowd.

  We wandered a while longer. The products were interesting, but the people were the real show. Around each corner, I looked for Teddie, but I never found him. Where could he be?

  At the stroke of eleven, a voice over the loudspeakers encouraged us to assemble in front of the stage for Miranda’s show. She didn’t perform often—she no longer had to—so tonight was a special treat, eagerly anticipated by aficionados of this sort of thing.

  I wasn’t one of them.

  However, I’d told Miranda I would be there, so Dane and I joined the throng as they chanted, “Miranda! Miranda!”

  The lights went dark. The music started—the volume so loud, each note shot right through me, turning my innards to jelly. A single spotlight flashed on, its beam capturing Miranda dressed in the top part of a nurse’s uniform. Trapped in the beam of light, Miranda wiggled and writhed—presenting various body parts for the crowd—which roared its approval. Periodically, she shed an article of clothing, whipping the throng to a fevered pitch.

  She really did have something special.

  Dane stared, transfixed by the show.

  Me? I just wanted to go home. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m going home,” I shouted at him, my voice competing with the seductive beat.

  His mouth half open, he glanced at me and nodded, then turned back to the show.

  WHERE was Teddie?

  I ducked out through the curtains and past the leather-clad guy with the clipboard, then flipped open my cell and pushed number two on the speed dial. My call immediately rolled to Teddie’s voice mail. Even his recorded voice made me go all melty inside.

  I had it bad.

  Slowly, I closed the phone without leaving a message.

  He wasn’t at the party. He wasn’t answering his phone. I glanced at my watch—eleven thirty—early yet.

  Maybe he’d left me a note at the office.

  That idea propelled me through the casino—I barely registered the crowds at the tables, the quiet throngs in the poker room concentrating on the game as if it wasn’t a game of chance, the bubbling of happy voices at the bar, the choking cigarette smoke.

  I had almost made it to the other side when I heard my name shouted above the noise. Turning, I scanned the crowd.

  Mr. Pascarelli emerged from a row of slot machines, a hand raised trying to flag me down. “Glad I caught you,” he said as he arrived, huffing and puffing, by my side. “Velma has something she wants to tell you. Is this a good time? You looked like you were in a big hurry.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Good, Velma’ll be right along. She was money ahead and had to cash out.” A sparkle in his eye, a grin on his face, the man looked like he had a new lease on life

  “You haven’t been asking me for a good luck hug recently,” I teased. “Have you thrown me over for somebody else?”

  His face turned bright pink.

  “Good for you!” I said as Mrs. Paisley appeared at his side.

  “Lucky!” she cried as she grabbed my arm. “The best thing has happened!”

  “You hit the megamillions again?”

  “Even better.” Her eyes were bright with delight. “My grandson got a call today from the director of admissions at Harvard. It seems there had been a mix-up with his application records.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Not only was he admitted, they awarded him a partial scholarship as well! He’s over the moon!”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “I give you his name and three days later he gets a call? Sure is a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Life’s full of funny coincidences.”

  AS I knew it would be, my office was dark when I arrived, but Miss Patterson had left it unlocked. A good thing, since my keys were in my Birkin, which was in my office.

  There was a note taped to the inner door. My heart skipped a beat as I opened it.

  It wasn’t from Teddie.

  In what I assumed was Brandy’s handwriting, the note consisted of a list of phone calls I had received, beginning with Detective Romeo and ending with Flash Gordon.

  Teddie’s name wasn’t listed.

  Since it was too late to start returning the calls, I opted to head home. Grabbing my phone, I highlighted Jerry’s number and pushed-to-talk. “Jer?”

  “Hey, Lucky. You heading home?”

  “If everything’s under control.”

  “So far.” Jerry’s voice sounded tired. “We’ve got a couple of rowdies in the holding cell, but that’s about it.”

  “Night’s still young. You know how to find me.”

  I tried Teddie’s number again as I rode down in the elevator after locking up the office. Again it rolled directly to voice mail.

  Pocketing the damn phone, I pushed through the front doors into the eternal twilight created by the lights of the Str
ip. My head low as I hurried down the entranceway, I sought the anonymity of darkness.

  Had it only been last night when Teddie met me coming the other direction? Hopeful, I glanced up—no Teddie.

  I was alone.

  Like the hug of a dear friend, I welcomed the embrace of darkness as the lights of the Strip faded behind me. If I wasn’t careful, the comfort of darkness would be the only comfort I would have. Thinking back on my relationship with Teddie, I saw now he had been angling for more than a platonic friendship for some time. I hadn’t seen it . . . no, that wasn’t true—I had seen it. I hadn’t acknowledged it—because I was afraid.

  Pushing people away was a bad habit of mine.

  Had I managed to push Teddie away as well? The thought of losing him hit me like a sucker punch to the stomach, making it hard to breathe. Lost in thought, I stopped. Somehow, thinking and walking at the same time seemed impossible.

  Standing there, in the quiet solitude, fighting the growing ache inside me, I was hit by a blinding flash of truth—somewhere along the way, despite my best efforts not to, I had fallen in love with Ted Kowalski.

  And that scared the hell out of me.

  I didn’t want to be in love—I wanted to be in control.

  FAITHFUL Forrest manned his post as I strode through the lobby toward the elevators. “Hey, Ms. Lucky. How was your day?”

  How was my day? Good question. I paused to answer him. “Interesting. And yours?”

  “Good. Me and my son took the boat out on Lake Mead. Did some skiing, drank some beer. We don’t get to do that too often, just the two of us.”

  “He starts law school in the fall, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You must be so proud.” I made a mental note to ask the homeowner’s association if there was something we could do to help with the boy’s tuition. “Is Teddie home?”

  “No, ma’am. He went out some time ago and hasn’t come back.”

  “I see.” I pulled my key card out of a pocket in my purse. “Thanks.”

  The elevator ride seemed interminable—Teddie’s absence left a black hole that had sucked all the joy and energy out of the day.

  Apparently happy to see me, Newton ran through his whole repertoire of foul epithets as I deposited my purse on the couch and kicked off my shoes. Some of the words I’d never heard before—I could only imagine what they meant. I arrived in front of his cage as he wound down. Face to beak, we stared at each other.