by Katy Munger
“Oh no,” I said. “Please do not tell me.”
Man, that Roxy was a little bitch. She actually threw a shoe at me. It bounced off the top of my head.
“What was that for?” I complained, rubbing my scalp. No blood, at least.
“We ride the pony on stage. That’s all. Got it?” She glared at me.
“Did I imply anything else?” I asked indignantly.
“You were thinking it,” she accused me.
Well, well, well—they had some pride after all.
I smiled at Roxy with the sincerity of a ventriloquist’s dummy. She started to throw another shoe at me as I squeezed past the pony and fled.
●
Though Rats had raised the already-inflated drink prices by two bucks just for the occasion, that wasn’t stopping the well-oiled crowd from ordering round after round from underdressed waitresses. After surveying the room for any wild-eyed maniacs carrying axes and body bags—which was the least I could do for the sisters, given that they were paying me to keep them safe—I stood to the side of the chaos and surveyed my choices, ignoring the deafening heavy metal music setting the mood for even more chaos. I wanted to be close to the stage, but my choices were limited. I could sit with several groups of professional men who would no doubt be deeply embarrassed to be caught ogling strippers by a woman and so would resent my presence. I could sit with the plowed frat boys and get beer spilled in my lap. I could risk my honor and park my butt down with the Fort Bragg boys—which was tempting—but there was someone in every military crowd who got out of control very quickly and it had been a long time since my basic training days. I could hunker down among the farm boys and remind myself not to moo. Or, I could sit with the sweet grandfatherly types taking up the two front tables. I was heading their way when closer inspection of the name tags they wore revealed they were likely the entire membership of the Newberry, NC Rotary Club and, judging by their behavior, had probably imbibed the entire contents of the Newberry, NC liquor store before arriving. Since every woman on the planet knows that the single demographic group most prone to ass-squeezing consists of drunken men over sixty five, I threw in the towel and headed to the back bar where Rats was basking in the sweet music of his cash registers ringing up drink after drink after drink.
“Raking in it, aren’t you, buddy?” I remarked as I bumped him with my hip to make room for me and a double Jack. On the rocks.
“Ouch, Casey,” he said, rubbing one of his scrawny hip bones. “You ought to register that ass of yours. It’s a deadly weapon.”
“Don’t make me sit on you,” I warned him. “By the way, do the Tinajero sisters always draw this big a crowd?” I asked.
“They did last time they were here. Biggest night of the decade for me. I’m hoping to top it tonight.” He rubbed his hands together like a rat contemplating a particularly ripe piece of cheese.
“What’s the story on them anyway?” I asked.
“Who? Candy and Roxy?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The good witch and the bad witch.”
“That’s pretty much the story.” Rats adjusted his tie and smiled. “Candy is the good witch, even prays and shit. She’s sweet, like her name. Roxy is the bad witch or, more accurately, the bitch. Hope the gin holds out. If she sobers up, she turns mean on the customers. If they cheap out on their tips, she’s got a look that’ll freeze their nuts off and she ain’t shy about using it, either.”
“You know them well?”
He shrugged. “Well enough.”
“It’s going to be tough guarding those two,” I said.
“Guarding them?” Rats laughed. “I’d never do that to you, darlin’. The two of them would eat you alive for breakfast. They didn’t hire you to keep them safe. They hired you to find out who was sending them the letters. Believe me, they can take care of themselves.”
“Seriously?” Suddenly, their big fat fee seemed even sweeter. “That’s a plum job, Rats. Thanks for the referral.”
“Do I take good care of my girl or what?” he asked, smiling. I smiled back at him. That Rats. He was always looking out for me, so much so that sometimes I felt unworthy of his devotion.
“So tell me, just how big of a bitch is Roxy?” I asked. “Maybe she pissed someone off and that triggered the death threats.”
“She’s a hothead,” Rats admitted. “Real spitfire. Likes to throw things.”
“I noticed. I got a shoe upside of my noggin.”
“You were lucky. She threw an ashtray at my lighting man last time and almost put his eye out. Then, during the show, some drunk got carried away and started to unzip his pants. She picked up a highball glass from another table and dropped him on the first try. From a good twenty-five yards away. Girl should be pitching for the Braves.”
“Ouch. Sounds like it hurt.”
Rats shrugged. “Dude was so drunk he probably didn’t remember a thing. We kept telling him he’d hit his head on the urinal. Plus, we bought his friends free drinks all night and they never said a word about what really happened. Thank god.”
“Quick thinking there,” I said in admiration.
“I heard she threw a toaster at her sister once.”
“Yeah?” That interested me. “Anyone know why?”
Rats shrugged. “Those two are like Vegas. What goes on between them stays between them. The point is that Candy is sweet and Roxy is...”
“... the spawn of Satan?” I finished.
Rats nodded.
“Interesting,” I said. “Does she walk on the wild side?”
Rats snorted. “Doubt it. Half the girls who come through here say they do, but they’re just trying to keep the guys off them. Like it slows any of this crowd down.” He waved a hand toward the audience and his diamond pinky ring glittered in the revolving lights from the disco ball above.
“When are you planning to get rid of that thing?” I asked, pointing to the disco ball. “It’s gonna trigger a seizure in someone one night if you’re not careful.”
“Call me sentimental. It means a lot to me. I asked my first wife to marry me beneath it and my third wife to divorce me under it.” The house lights blinked off and then came back on again. “Okay, that’s the signal. Here we go: show time.” He stood up proudly, a master of his world.
The lights in the room dimmed, except for the stage area, and the crowd grew still. All eyes turned to the T-shaped runway that protruded into the room. To the strains of The Old Chisholm Trail, a classic cowboy melody that didn’t deserve this indignity, the spotlight illuminated a figure balanced on the sturdy back of a Shetland pony standing placidly at the far end of the stage: Roxy Tinajero twirling a lasso above her head. She wore a ten-gallon hat about as tall as she was. I could hear Will Rogers rolling over in his grave, clawing to get out and stop this travesty. Still, I had to admit, Roxy had perfect balance as that damn beast plodded forward before it ran out of steam about halfway down the runway. The music stopped and Roxy looped the lasso perfectly around some beam above her, then hopped up on the rope and swung forward just as the speakers exploded with a blazing hot hillbilly punk guitar solo courtesy of Jason and the Scorchers. She landed straight in the center of the stage’s T-section before taking off her hat and flinging it into the crowd, igniting a melee that ended when a octogenarian Rotarian emerged victorious with the prize. She then ripped her top off with one quick tug, threw it to a waiting stage hand behind her, and began to shimmy. By then, she was wearing nothing more than a fringed cowgirl skirt and a pair of pasties shaped like stars. The crowd went wild. You could hardly hear the music over the cheering—and all because some shorter-than-normal woman was shaking her larger-than-normal breasts.
The music took on a heavy drum beat just as the lights dimmed and a second spotlight blazed on, highlighting a fake boulder that had been rolled onto the stage while the yahoos were ogling Roxy’s breasts. Candy stood on top of the boulder, dancing in her buckskin outfit, shaking every inch of her flesh and then some. The fringe on
her clothing bounced wildly as the music swelled into a frantic tom-tom beat.
Ladies and gentlemen, an Indian was in the house. Or, at least, a very small stripper dressed as one.
Roxy froze as she feigned catching sight of her buckskin-clad sister. She stomped her feet angrily, pulled two little pistols out of her holsters, twirled them perfectly, and aimed for the ceiling. Eat that, Pecos Pete. She pulled the trigger and the guns went off—one, two, three shots that made my heart stop. The crowd just about crapped in their pants. I think I saw two tables worth of the Fort Bragg soldiers hit the ground, but Roxy’s gunslinging was just part of the act: the cowgirl was challenging the Indian princess to a topless dancing duel.
Good god. It was about the dumbest interpretation of the American West I had seen since Dances with Wolves. Although, perhaps I was being too harsh. For all I know, the wild frontier was crawling with cowgirls who wandered the prairie in push-up bras in search of Indian women they could challenge to a strip-a-thon.
No matter. What it lacked in historical accuracy, it damn sure gained in crowd appeal. The place erupted in cheers and catcalls. Grown men leapt to their feet, pumping their hips, until the guys behind them pushed the gyrators back down into their chairs with testosterone-fueled urgency.
Was it too late for me to change species?
I gestured for another double on the rocks and watched, mesmerized, as Roxy and Candy took turns ripping off articles of clothing, imitating each other’s undulations, swinging their body parts and, finally, coming together in a perfectly synchronized rendition of the Pony, combined with the Jerk, and maybe just a little of the Mashed Potato. I gave them credit for the retro touch. And whatever the hell it was they were supposed to be representing, the crowd was on its feet by the time they were done.
I had to admit it, they really were dancers. They were damn near naked dancers, mind you, and the premise was pure buffalo bullocks, but they sure could shake it.
“I’m speechless,” I mumbled as the action slowed to allow Roxy and Candy to collect handfuls of cash from the men nearest them. The glum-looking Mexican guy reappeared at the rear of the stage, silently leading the bored Shetland pony forward.
The pony wandered up behind the girls and Roxy helped Candy on board, then she hopped up behind her sister and they made a complete circle of the stage, wearing nothing but G-strings, to collect more cash from the men surrounding the runway. I could only hope they sprayed the pony down each night. The Shetland had no saddle, only a blanket thrown over its back, but it had a pair of leather postal bags slung over its haunches. The girls were stuffing those bags with cash like squirrels stuffing tree holes with acorns in November. I watched the men shove each other to be the first to give over their money. What could I do but shake my head in admiration at the opportunistic genius of it all?
And that was when I saw him.
It was as if the heavens had opened up, casting down a golden glow as angels sang a glorious choir. The spotlight had illuminated the face of the bastard I once loved—maybe the only man I had ever truly loved. Burly. There he sat, at the front of the far right stage, his wheelchair pulled up close to a table crowded with bikers, probably the ones he’d ridden with before his accident.
I gripped the bar for balance. What the hell was Burly doing at the show?
That man had stomped on my heart without warning—even if he’d had good reason—and I had spent a long time, more than two years, trying to get over him. No matter how hard I tried, it seemed impossible to get him out of my life. He always reappeared in one form or another and I often wondered if I was doomed to go through the rest of my years feeling as if fate was filleting my heart every time I saw him. I sighed.
“What’s up, Casey?” Rats said. “You look a little green around the gills.”
I gulped down a watery slug of what was left of my drink. “What’s on next?” I asked weakly.
“Oh, their next act is a doozie,” Rats promised. “It involves mud and a wading pool.”
“How long before they come out again?”
“Oh, it’ll be at least half an hour. I need to sell another round and they need to catch their breath after that show. Wild, huh?”
I did not really hear him. I was drifting toward the beautiful man with the jet black hair sitting ramrod straight in his wheelchair, surrounded by his biker buddies.
He saw me coming and met my eyes. Burly had an innate sense of dignity undimmed by being caught gawking at a pair of topless dancing dwarfs. Through the smoke and the shadows, his wide grin parted and he beamed at me. His smile had the ability to pulverize my heart into a thousand, bleeding pieces. Such is the power of blowing it, and knowing it, every damn day of your life.
“Casey,” he said, pulling me to him. I landed in his lap, and I figured that the one bright spot of this meeting was that my hips still fit in between the arms of his wheelchair. “You’re looking good.”
“You’ve been drinking,” I said, astonished. “Since when do you drink?”
It wasn’t that Burly couldn’t drink, or wouldn’t drink, or didn’t need to drink. He just preferred not to drink and had ever since one too many cocktails had caused him to wrap his motorcycle around a tree, nearly killing a woman in the process, and landing him in a wheelchair for life.
“Since I got together with these guys for old times sake.” He gestured at the men surrounding him. “I don’t think you’ve ever met the guys in my old club. Guys, this is Casey Jones. She used to be my girlfriend.”
He sounded confident and breezy when he told them that I was his ex. I hated him for it. It didn’t hurt him at all to remember. But I had to put on a good show. My pride would not let me do otherwise.
I leaned over for a better look at the motley crew that Burly had once ridden with, my eyelashes batting so hard it’s a wonder the wind didn’t knock someone over.
And that was when the heavens parted again. Only this time, surely, to cast down a dark angel. The gods above had sent me a craven idol in the flesh, one that I, in all my heathen glory, could worship: all six-foot something of him. And he had “trouble” written on every inch. Just. My. Type.
“Well, hello there,” I said, bending over so that the long, cool drink of water sitting across the table could get a good look down my top. Thank god I was wearing my black lace push-up bra. Eat that, you little vixens backstage. Your 44-DDD’s have nothing on me.
I am pretty sure there were other men sitting around the table, but I only noticed one. His name turned out to be Cody Sherrill. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Thick, silvered black hair sweeping down to well-muscled shoulders that stood out beneath his black tee shirt. Oh, dear god, those shoulders. And he had a face that was almost too pretty for a macho man biker. Dark eyes and a quick smile, too. Some lovely laugh lines and high cheekbones. His hands held mine just a little too long and I could feel the electrical charge shoot all the way down to the center of my pelvis. I had the urge to reproduce right then and there, on the table top, and claim the alpha dog as my own.
“Ex-girlfriend, you said?” he asked in an incredible baritone, his eyes never leaving mine. I could feel myself swept away in a tsunami of estrogen.
“Yeah, we stuck it out for a year. That’s a long time for Casey.” Burly announced in a tone of voice I had never heard from him before. I could not see him, because I could not take my eyes off Cody Sherrill, but I could feel Burly as surely as if I was watching him. I could feel him pick up his glass, drain it, and slam it back down on the table top.
Holy shit, was Burly jealous?
Oh, the wave of satisfaction that swept through me, inspiring a sudden euphoria.
“Better eat your Wheaties before you take on that one,” Burly announced across the table. His voice had a definite edge and a couple of the other bikers glanced at each other. Fighting over an old lady was not cool.
“I love Wheaties,” Cody Sherrill said. He smiled. I smiled back. “You work here?” he asked.
Burly began to lau
gh. I resisted the temptation to whirl around and slap him into submission.
“No,” I cooed. “It’s a long story. Or maybe a short story,” I added, thinking of Roxy and Candy. Suddenly, the world was a very funny place.
Bless his heart, he roared with laughter. Oh my. He even liked bad jokes.
The rest of the table took one last look at us drooling over each other and decided it was none of their business. They called for more beer chasers and ignored us. I got the feeling Cody Sherrill always won the honey sweepstakes in this crowd. I also got the feeling that I didn’t really care. Not so long as I was the prize.
“You need a seat for the second half of the show?” he asked. “I can always make room.” He patted his lap.
I could think of a lot of places where I wanted that man to make room for me. And vice versa. His lap was a good start.
But then I thought of watching two naked women wrestling in a kiddie pool full of mud with him, and, well, the possibilities for small talk seemed painful. How in god’s name could you possibly get something good going when your relationship started with that?
“I really need to get back to the office,” I made myself say, sounding as reluctant as I could. But all the while I was simultaneously beaming him my superheated Venusian mind-ray that translates in Earth talk to “I’m in heat. Let’s mate.”
Cody Sherrill was a genius. He read my mind. “Let me walk you to the door,” he said. Not the best choice of words, given Burly was in a wheelchair. But, hey, Burly had definitely had his chance and he had dumped me. It was time for me to move on.
“That would be nice,” I told him.
“Save my seat, boys,” Cody commanded his friends. He was around the table in two steps. I got the feeling he didn’t really have to ask them to save his seat. He was definitely the undisputed leader of the pack. Woof. Woof.
“Are you having fun?” I asked as we threaded our way through the crowd. His hand rested lightly on my elbow as he expertly guided me around drunks.
