A Wild Card Kiss

by Lauren Blakely

  But tonight isn’t about me.

  It’s about her.

  “So, you are flirting with me?” she asks, like she needs and wants the confirmation.

  I smile. “Seems I am.”

  She takes a beat, eying me up and down. “Good. Keep it up.”

  5

  Harlan

  “So, you swear this is the place to go?” Katie asks.

  “Don’t just take it from me. Take it from Best of San Francisco Blog. They rate it as the top costume shop in the entire city. Let’s get you a costume,” I say, as we turn into Daisy’s Duds.

  Judy Garland’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” plays softly on the sound system. A statuesque Black drag queen, decked out in a tight, purple-sequin dress with an emerald-green feather boa tossed around her neck, waves to us from behind the counter. “Welcome to Daisy’s Duds. I’m Daisy. Let me know what I can help you with in my palace of costumes,” she says, sweeping out a muscled arm to indicate the plethora of options.

  My eyes scan the colorful arrays of finery—glitter and boas, faux fur and leather, spangles and pasties, as well as all sorts of uniforms for cops, doctors, nurses, firemen, and soldiers.

  “Daisy, my lovely lady friend here has a hankering for an Indiana Jones hat and a whip. Any chance you can deliver?”

  Daisy cracks up, rolling her big brown eyes. “You say that as if I couldn’t. Of course I have every Harrison Ford costume under the sun. I just love that man something fierce.” She sashays through the store, taking us to a rack next to a mirror with dressing room lights flickering over it. Her hand glides over a Princess Leia bikini from her Jabba the Hut days, then a Ron Burgundy maroon suit.

  “You really do have everything,” Katie says, wide-eyed as she fingers a Charlie’s Angels get-up.

  Daisy clucks her tongue. “What did you take me for? A costumer you can stump? Darling, my job and my pleasure is to have everything your heart desires.”

  Katie laughs, and I am so damn glad she’s smiling again and having a good time. “I like your style, Daisy,” she says.

  “And I like your dress. Let’s get you a hat to go with that fabulous A-line on your gorgeous body.”

  Katie juts out a hip. “Why, thank you very much.”

  The drag queen doesn’t question why Katie’s wearing a wedding dress, and I have a hunch the not-a-bride appreciates that.

  The owner roams her hand along a shelf, snags a hat, then grabs a whip. “It’s a Saturday night. Who doesn’t need some light bondage?” she says, with a wink then a snap of her wrist. “Giddy-up.”

  “Ooh, would we call that light?” Katie asks.

  Daisy tuts. “Darling, we’ll discuss heavy bondage another time. This whip is definitely light.” She hands her the coiled leather just as the door slings open, and Daisy excuses herself to help the new customer.

  Katie takes the whip, sets the hat on her head, and tosses me a saucy smirk. “How do I look? Like an adventurer escaping from doom in the nick of time?”

  More like Indiana Jones’s very naughty sister. “It looks like maybe you’re a little bit kinky,” I say, my voice dropping to a rumble. I’m not a kinky fucker, but I am a game-for-anything guy, so if kink is Katie’s thing, I’m up for it.

  Katie gives a light snap of the whip, her eyes twinkling with possibilities. “Maybe I am.”

  Her coy tone lights up my skin.

  I just wish we didn’t seem to have the worst timing in the world. Reconnecting with her on her foiled wedding night seems like Fate’s way of saying we’re all wrong for each other.

  And yet, I’m not going to end this night any sooner than I have to. She’s still the best company I’ve ever had, even when she’s suffered the worst day ever.

  Daisy finishes with her customer and returns to us, parking her hands on her hips and staring at me. “And what about you, handsome? You’re not going to let Ms. Indiana Jones in a white dress be the only one looking fabulous, are you?”

  Katie shoots me a challenging stare. “Yeah. C’mon, Taylor. What are you going to wear? How about a letterman jacket? You could be a football star.”

  She sounds so happy again, so sassy. It’s a great sound, and I feel like a million bucks for restoring her faith in, well, in fun for a night.

  I shake my head. “That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe I think you’d look cute in it,” she says.

  Is she putting me on? “Cute?” I echo with a raised brow. “I’d look cute?”

  Daisy sets a hand on my shoulder. “Take the compliment and tuck it away. Enjoy it.”

  “Fine. I’ll be cute,” I say, faking indignation.

  Katie gives me a so there look. “Yes. You’re cute. But . . .” She studies me seriously, tapping her chin. “I’m thinking you could be a fireman.”

  Interesting choice. “Does someone have a thing for firemen?”

  “Who doesn’t?” Katie asks.

  Daisy points two thumbs at her ample bosom. “I’d love a man to rescue me.” She spins on her silver shoes, and props to her for pulling off those heels at work. “And, handsome, now you have no choice but to be a fireman. I hope you have a good hose.”

  Katie’s lips part into an O as she catches my gaze. “I hope you do too.”

  I crack up, loving that she’s ventured so far into the flirty zone. My good-time superhero would do this for a damsel in distress—make her laugh. Help her flirt.

  “I’ll take a fireman helmet,” I tell the shop owner.

  “And what about turnouts and suspenders? I hope you’re going to take that polo off and run around shirtless for the rest of the night,” Daisy suggests.

  Mischief sparks in Katie’s eyes. “You have to do what Daisy says.”

  Five minutes later, my jeans and shirt are tucked in a plastic bag, and I’m decked out like a fireman about to do a striptease. I emerge from the dressing room, shirtless, as if I’m ready to work the pole, and I don’t mean the kind you’d find in a firehouse.

  I spin in a circle for Katie, and she wolf whistles. “You look fabulous, Harlan. This is celebrating being left at the altar in style.”

  Daisy’s eyes widen, and she sets a hand on Katie’s arm. “You were, sweetheart?”

  “I was,” Katie says, even and cool, then points to me, nibbling on the corner of her lips. “But he found me at the bowling alley bar. And now here I am, playing dress-up.”

  Daisy smiles, shaking her head, then beckons for Katie to come closer. “Girl, you know the best way to get over a man?” the drag queen asks.

  “Tell me,” Katie says, her tone dripping with interest.

  Daisy points at me, circles her finger in my direction. “Get under another one. Like this handsome piece over here.”

  6

  Katie

  What’s the protocol for jilted brides on what to do or say on their should-have-been wedding night?

  Someone should write that manners guidebook.

  Is it okay for me to feel a little flirty, a little dirty when my heart’s been so recently stomped on?

  Daisy certainly seems to think so, and who am I to argue with her?

  Heck, if I were developing a yoga class for this situation, I’d call it How to Shavasana when you’ve been Dumped on Your Asana.

  And pose number one would be . . . on your back.

  Just like Daisy suggested.

  With her confidence and tell-it-like-it-is-ness, she seems to be exactly the type of woman you’d bank on.

  Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever received better advice.

  As soon as she voices those wicked words, I’m positive that’s exactly what I need. A hot, toe-curling, no-strings-attached roll in the hay.

  A good old-fashioned screw can reset me to human again.

  But I don’t want a scorching one-night stand to be someone else’s idea. I want it to come from that hunk of a man. I want it to be his idea to Calgon take me away! from this hellacious day.

  So,
I say to the gorgeous beauty at the costume counter, “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  As soon as we leave, I point to a bar at the end of the street. Pink neon flashes on a marquee—It’s 80s night, oh what a night—luring patrons with a retro playlist of Wham!, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper and a-ha.

  That’s where I need to be. Dancing my dumped ass off. I nearly bounce in my boots. “That’s got to be even better than axe-throwing.”

  “Was axe-throwing an option?”

  “Oh, that’s where my girlfriends and my dad took me earlier tonight.”

  “That makes perfect sense. And now you’re thinking you want to shake it out?”

  I’m giddy with the prospect of shimmying to classics from many decades ago. “I do. I really, really do.”

  Harlan flicks his suspenders against his hard, firm bare skin, then arches a cocky brow. “I’m always up for a dance,” he says, and I’m up for staring at his pecs.

  His carved, yummy pecs.

  I wonder what they taste like . . . “And you look like you’re ready for a striptease.”

  “If memory serves, I offered you a lap dance once upon a time. The offer still stands,” he says, leaving that enticing possibility hanging in the night air.

  And yes, I do believe I’m getting closer to my goal. For him to suggest taking me home.

  C’mon, Harlan. Reel me in. I’m an easy catch tonight.

  “Maybe I’ll take you up on it,” I say playfully.

  He gestures to the club. “Let’s go have some tequila, some Go-Gos, and me.”

  Oh yes. That sure sounds like he’s game. Harlan can be the official antidote to my horrible day.

  He feels that way already.

  Somehow, running into him feels like the universe’s way of saying I’m so sorry for that shit sandwich I served you earlier. Here’s an ice cream sundae to finish off your night.

  We go inside and after he drops his bag at the check-in, we head to the dance floor. Belinda Carlisle croons about having the beat.

  Under the smoky purple lights, I shimmy, shake, and move my body to the old-school beat. Harlan swivels his hips, and we find a groove.

  “You make a fine fireman,” I say above the music.

  “Have you got a fire for me to put out?”

  I move closer, tugging my hat down so it doesn’t fall off. “Maybe I do.”

  “I bet I can take care of it,” he says, looping an arm around my waist and yanking me close to him.

  Hello, reversal of fortune. It is nice to see you. And to feel this football god’s body.

  With him, I’ve nearly forgotten what sent me out tonight. The need to get away. But now isn’t the time to remember this afternoon. I want the events of this day to fade far, far away into the past.

  As we dance, swaying closer, I imagine the betrayal slinking out the door and vanishing into thin air.

  It has no room in my night.

  I’m too busy dancing to Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again,” Van Halen’s “Jump,” and “Bizarre Love Triangle” by New Order.

  In my wedding dress and his fireman costume, we dance it out. With every swish of my hips, I imagine leaving behind this afternoon’s hallway encounter at the Legion of Honor. I picture saying see you never again to the two people who upended my plans.

  And I see moving on in my near future.

  It’s as if I shed more of the pain with every single song. Did I even love Silvio? Were we too different all along? Did it happen too fast? Is this a blessing in disguise?

  Maybe I was hoping he was the one when we truly didn’t even have that much in common.

  He didn’t like bowling, or foosball, or Halloween.

  Or fun.

  Perhaps he was wrong for me.

  I’ll move on, I’ll move forward, and I’ll move away.

  When Madonna’s “Crazy for You” comes on, the ultimate 80s tune, Harlan’s eyes darken. “This is a damn good song,” he says. “And you’re going to need to slide even closer to me for this one.”

  I don’t want to say no. Not at all. I want to sing all the yeses. Daisy was right. So damn right. “Let’s do it, handsome,” I say, and Harlan brings me up against him, looping his hands around my waist.

  “Wrap your hands around my neck, darling,” he says, that little hint of Southern drawl coming back.

  My lips curve into a grin. “I hear your accent.”

  He leans in close, nuzzles my neck, whispers in my ear, “Maybe I save it for dancing too.”

  “I wonder if you save it for other things,” I whisper, enjoying the feel of his chest against mine, his body pressed tight.

  “I just might,” he says, then murmurs softly against my hair, “This is a better dance for tonight, isn’t it?”

  I smile against his warm skin, getting his meaning right away. This dance with him is worlds’ better than a wedding spin. He’s right. He’s so right. “It sure is,” I say.

  “I like our celebration, Katie.”

  “I like our celebration so much better,” I echo.

  And I truly do.

  It’s crazy, in some ways.

  How can I have shivers sliding down my spine after what happened today? How can I have flutters in my chest?

  But they’re here and they’re real.

  I was going to wait for Harlan, but screw waiting. It’s time for me to take the reins.

  I draw on those wild new sensations as I reach for the antidote. “I think Daisy had a great idea about tonight, Harlan. What about you?”

  His lips crook into a naughty grin. “Are you asking me to engage in some red-hot rebound nookie?”

  Those tingles turn into full-on sparks, igniting in the center of my body, pulsing between my legs. “I absolutely am, Harlan.”

  “Then the answer is . . . I’m at your service.”

  7

  Katie

  “Ouch!” I hop on my left foot in the entrance to Harlan’s home, holding my right one as a sharp pain radiates through my arch. “Did a tarantula eat my foot?”

  Harlan rolls his eyes. “Dramatic much, sweetheart?” He bends, scoops up a pink plastic death device, and waggles it at me.

  “Seriously. Stepping on a Lego is on a pain level right up there with childbirth,” I say, then shrug sheepishly. “Or so I’m told.”

  He laughs as he sets the block on the entryway table. “Can’t answer that one either. But I will corroborate your concerns. Last season, I was steamrolled by a three-hundred-pound lineman on a short pass and it hurt less than the time I stepped on one of these.”

  “So, I’m not dramatic then,” I say, chin lifted haughtily as I head into his home, having left my boots by the front door. My hat too. Also, my whip.

  Harlan chuckles, shakes his head. “You’re still dramatic, Katie,” he says.

  He flicks on the light for the living room, and I stop in my tracks.

  Early-reader books and kid-size blankets cover the couch. Cartoon dogs dance down the fleece on one blanket, dinosaurs roam another, and astronauts fly through space on one more.

  “Ah, sorry, I didn’t clean up yet. We were playing library fort this morning before we baked a cherry pie.”

  My heart flies out of my chest, cheering in utter delight. I fling my hand to my sternum. “Shut up. Just shut up. You must stop talking now.”

  He furrows his brow. “Um, why are you telling me to shut it?”

  Settle down, stupid heart. You’re here for rebound banging. Not swooning over his dad skills.

  But apparently, I don’t listen to myself. “That’s too cute. Too sweet. Too freaking adorable,” I say, flapping my hand at the evidence on the furniture. “Library fort.”

  It’s on the same level as a six-pack.

  As dreamy eyes.

  “Damn, you really do think I’m just cute,” he says, with a faux-heavy sigh.

  I park my hands on my hips. “Hey, why do you think cute is bad, Mister?”

  The tall, strapping fireman—he’s still shirtless
, lucky me—reaches for a hand, tugs me close. “I would think smoldering, sexy beast would be better. Try that, Katie.”

  I slide my hands up his bare chest, thrilling at the feel of his hard, smooth skin. I shiver as I trace his flesh. “Fine, fine. You’re a very sexy beast. That work for you?”

  His eyes glint with satisfaction. “Why yes, it does. Now, can I interest you in my bedroom? I think it might work better for my plans for you.”

  An idea pops into my dirty brain as I pluck at the suspenders. “You can definitely interest me in your bedroom. But do you think you could fling me over your shoulder and—”

  In a flash, he hoists me up, tosses me over his shoulder.

  “Oh, hello fireman carry,” I say, a little giddy and a lot turned on as he heads up the steps, two at a time.

  Hello, stud.

  “Is it wrong of me to like this so much?” I ask, giggling as Harlan effortlessly eats up the stairs with his stride, his big arms wrapped around the back of my chiffon-covered legs. “You’ve got the whole big-and-strong thing down pat.”

  “It’s absolutely terrible of you to objectify me for my body. The same one that earns me a damn fine living to support my family,” he says as he hits the second-floor landing.

  My family.

  The way he says those words—with masculine pride—sends sparks across my skin.

  What is with me tonight? I’m turned on by his ability to take care of a kid I don’t even know? Why is this getting to me?

  Oh, right.

  My emotions are a merry-go-round today.

  But all I want now is to ride on the carousel of desire with him.

  “I’m sooo sorry for objectifying your strength,” I tease as he turns through the doorway to his bedroom, then sets me down on my bare feet.

  The man stares at me, smolder in his irises. “Actually, you should objectify me all night long,” he rumbles as his eyes roam up and down my frame.

  I feel naked under his gaze, and I like it a lot.

  Need licks at my skin.

  Harlan peers at my dress. “Got a zipper on that?”