by Kylie Adams
horny losers . Hmm. Maybe a subject worthy of tackling in her book.
A thick bouncer with biceps for brains blocked the entrance and shook down Kiki for a thirty-dollar cover charge. "Hey, baby, what's up with the face? Is it Halloween? Nobody told me."
"Nobody told you it was 2005, either," Kiki shot back. "Acid wash went out in the eighties."
The already drunk Wall Street types filing in behind her cackled like high school boys who had just heard a good your-mama's-so-ugly joke.
Camisole marketed itself with illusions of grandeur, using "The Manhattan man's first choice in upscale adult entertainment" as a positioning line. But at the end of the day, the parlance meant nothing.
A strip club was a strip club. Music thrashed. Strobe lights flashed. Lasers scanned. Mirrors amplified. Smoke billowed. And herds of young executive maleshighly successful and highly stressedwere in great moods because hot girls were naked.
Prince's hard-charging "D.M.S.R." exploded from the speakers. "Never mind your friends/Girl it ain't no sin/To strip right down to your underwear." Rock's diminutive royalty rasped the lyrics over a beat that tested the mettle of the state-of-the-art sound system.
On the stage, two dancers walked slowly back and forth, looking bored. Basically, they were doing noth-ing. But the girls were nude. So in the great American pecking order of amazing routines, this ranked right up there with the best of David Copperfield at least with the crowd gathered here tonight.
A fast-moving barmaid with an empty drink tray stopped to give Kiki a strange look. "Nice makeup. Very She-Hulk. Can I get you anything?"
Kiki smiled, shaking her head. "I'm just looking for Tiffany Lynn."
"She's up there," the waitress said, pointing at the stage. "The blond one."
Kiki maneuvered her way to the lip of the performance platform. Up close, Tiffany Lynn was more than a dime-a-dozen exotic dancer. The girl was truly beautiful. Funny that the mention of Charlize Theron had only hours ago tripped off Fab's lips, because this woman could easily be her twin.
Tiffany Lynn arched her back and popped a hip to one side in time with the Prince beat, sending impressive muscle ripples down her stomach. Then she pushed her perfect breasts forward, as if to prick the eyes of the men who wanted her.
This move provoked a macho chorus of whoops and whistles from the crowd. But if Tiffany Lynn appreciated the reaction, it didn't show on her vacant face. She just paced the area until the song ended, hypnotizing the regulars with the mechanical rhythm of her wild-side walk.
Kiki stood waiting as Fab's ex stepped down from the stage. "Tiffany Lynn!" she called out.
The girl with the porn star name turned to Kiki and did a double take. "Do I know you?" Her voice was soft, kind, and almost sang with a musical intonation.
"I'm a friend of Danni's," Kiki said.
Tiffany Lynn's piercing baby blues widened with authentic concern. "Oh, I've been so worried about her. How is she?"
"Nothing too serious. A damaged rotator cuff and a swollen knee."
Tiffany Lynn shook her head. "I've told her to go easy on those pole moves. She's not a gymnast." One beat. "What's that stuff all over your face?"
"A treatment mask. It's a long story. Listen, there's something I want to talk with you about. Can I buy you a drink?"
Tiffany Lynn shrugged easily. "Sure, why not? But just coffee for me. I've got an essay due tomorrow."
Kiki tried not to stereotype, but certainly the phrase I've got an essay due tomorrow belonged under the heading "Things You Don't Expect a Stripper to Say."
"You're in school?"
Tiffany Lynn nodded. "Yeah. I go to NYU. I have a class with one of the Olsen sisters. I don't know if it's Mary-Kate or Ashley. But she's very sweet. I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."
"Kiki."
"Nice. You don't hear that one very often. Guys will remember that. Are you thinking about dancing, too? Camisole's a great club. The manager's a pretty decent guy. Be warned, though. He does hit on all the new girls, but just lie and tell him you're a lesbian. That's what I did. He left me alone. Plus, he's great at working around your schedule. I only show up one week a month. With private dance money and tips, I make enough to play full-time college girl the rest of the time."
"I don't want to work at the club," Kiki said.
Embarrassed, Tiffany Lynn covered her mouth and giggled. "I'm sorry. I just assumed. Most girls who approach me want the 411 on dancing here."
Kiki decided to just come out with it. "I was hoping for the 411 on Fab Tomba."
Tiffany Lynn hesitated. "I'll need more than a cup of coffee for that conversation." She spun around to extend her lithe, honey brown body over the bar. "Hey, Kirby, who do I have to sleep with to get two shots of tequila around here?"
The hot bartender with the neatly trimmed goatee gave her a wink and a crooked smile. "Me, I hope." Then he showed off, wowing them with an intricate move worthy of Tom Cruise in Cocktail . As the beat of Destiny Child's "Lose My Breath" boomed inside the grown-up playground, his worked-out body moved in perfect synchronization. There were twists, turns, spins, bottles flipped midair, and at the end of the spectacular, two hits of Mexican 1800 Tequila swirling hurricane-style in side-by-side shot glasses.
Tiffany Lynn knocked one back like it was the antidote for a deadly disease. "This girl wants to know all about Fab," she told the liquor magician.
Kirby balled up a fist and smacked the business end of it into his other hand. "He broke this angel's heart. If he shows his pretty-boy mug in here again, I just might break him."
Now it was Kiki's turn to need a drink. She made the tequila disappear fast. The potent liquid burned a trail down her throat and sent a telegram to her brain: quit while you're ahead.
"Hey, Fab's not that bad," Tiffany Lynn said. The qualifier was proof that romantic feelings could still be bubbling near the surface. "Don't listen to him. Kirby's like a big brother to all the dancers. None of the guys we date are good enough."
"That's because they're all losers and assholes," Kirby said, wiping a spill off the countertop. He zeroed in on Kiki. "You must be the latest on his hit list. I guess that's why your face turned green."
Kiki wondered if the real green monster might be the bartender. Did he have a legitimate beef? Or was Kirby just envious because Fab had scored with Tiffany Lynn? After all, no man wanted to get typecast in the thankless role of platonic protector. Especially among a group of beauties who took their clothes off at the drop of a drumbeat. A diabetic would have an easier time working at Dylan's Candy Bar on Third Avenue.
"Just be careful," Kirby said. He gave her a ray-gun gaze. "Keep your eyes open and don't fall too hard too fast."
Kiki downloaded the suggestion. It sounded less like jealous talk and more like good advice.
"I don't think he's such a bad guy," Tiffany Lynn said. "The trouble with Fab is that he's so easy to fall for . Come on. He's as hot as can be, he's nice, and let's not even talk about the way that he kisses."
"Yeah, let's not," Kiki agreed.
"When I was with him, though," Tiffany Lynn went on, "I just felt like there was a part of him that I couldn't reach. You know? He was looking for some quality that I didn't have. And I wanted to change for him, but I didn't know how. That's stupid, right? To want to change for some guy. At the end of the day, you never really can." She shrugged. "What can I say? I wanted him for the long haul, but he was a great three-week boyfriend. A girl could do worse."
"I think he's sort of a sport dater," Kirby went on, now and then tossing a glance to Tiffany Lynn, who stood there offering occasional nods of confirmation. "Novelty girls are his thing." He tilted a head toward the obvious object of his desire. "She was the newest and hottest dancer at the club. Just in from California. Everybody was talking about her. Then he dumps her for that chick who made it to the final two on The Apprentice ." Kirby shrugged. "I don't know. High profile babes must do something for his ego." He halted, regarding Kiki for a moment. "
So what's your story? Besides the green face."
I'm the tabloid scandal girl of the moment . Kiki kept the words to herself. But she was definitely thinking them.
"Wait a minute!" Tiffany Lynn exclaimed, staring lasers at Kiki as she pieced together the who's-that-girl puzzle in her mind. "You're Kiki Douglas!"
She shrank from the positive ID and hoped nobody within earshot heard or gave a damn.
Kirby just stared blankly. Clearly, the name carried no meaning to him, a man who probably dealt in point spreads and batting averages, only trafficking in celebrity gossip when a story got so big that it came out of the water faucet and proved impossible to ignore.
"She's the girl from today's Post ," Tiffany Lynn informed him. "You know, the one with Tom Brock"
"Ah." Suddenly, a ripple of awareness skated across Kirby's face. He nodded, smoothing the hairs on his goatee as he said, "What can I say? My case is rested."
"Fab didn't seek me out, though," Kiki said. "We met by accident." But the words sounded lame once they reached the air.
Kirby knew this and shared a secret look with Tiffany Lynn, shaking his head with when-will-they-learn wisdom while he served up a second dose of the good stuff. "Hey, maybe he's changed. Maybe it's true love. The fact that you're Topic A from Trump Tower to the subway john is probably a coincidence."
In response, Kiki swallowed the tequila faster than a badass in a biker bar. Then she slammed the shot glass back onto the counter with an almighty crash. "Just shut up and pour, bartender."
* * *
Chapter Eight
"When you think about it, Fab's really not that handsome," Kiki slurred. "I mean, come on, he's practically ugly."
"This girl is hammered," Kirby said. "She's so hammered they need a new word for it."
Kiki was sandwiched between Camisole's bartender and one of the club's most popular strippers (certainly Fab's favorite) in a taxi barreling toward the Meat Packing District, and, ultimately, Affair.
Right now she was brimming with love for her two new best friends. They were marvelous. "Party in my suite!" Kiki roared, collapsing into a fit of drunken laughter.
Tiffany Lynn gave her a sisterly pat on the knee. "Honey, there's not going to be any kind of party. We're going to get you into your room, put you in bed, and let you sleep this off."
"No!" Kiki shouted. "Party in my suite!" Quite suddenly, perhaps weakened by the outburst, she slumped against the rock that was Kirby's shoulder for several long, disoriented seconds.
Then a great idea sprang to mind. Hmm. Maybe she wasn't so drunk after all. "Hey, let's find Fab so you can beat him up." She peered at Kirby as she suggested this. "I've got his mobile number. We should call right now to set up the smackdown." Frantically, she looked around. "Where's my purse? Who's got my purse?"
"It's right here," Tiffany Lynn assured her. "But the battery's low on your cell. Let's call him later."
"Okay," Kiki agreed. She held onto Kirby's Popeye arm with both hands. "Do you really think you could beat him up?"
He laughed. "Fab Tomba? I think you could."
Kiki smiled. "Okay. If you say so. I just would feel bad if you got hurt or something. That's all."
"What?" The question hit the air as he puffed out his chest. "You don't think I can wipe the floor with that guy?"
"Nobody is wiping the floor with anybody," Tiffany Lynn cut in. She reached over to pull roughly at Kirby's hair.
He winced. "Shit! What'd you do that for?"
"Because you're not helping the situation," Tiffany Lynn hissed. "You're not going to beat up Fab Tomba."
"But I could," Kirby shot back. "Trust me. He doesn't want a piece of this."
"What are youtwelve?" Tiffany Lynn asked.
"I'm just saying," Kirby went on. "I could kick that guy's ass from here to Long Island and never even break a sweat."
Tiffany Lynn let out a frustrated groan. "Why are we even having this conversation? It's stupid."
"She" Kirby began.
But Tiffany Lynn stopped him cold. " She is drunk and has no idea what she's saying."
"Oh, yes, I do," Kiki answered, even though her eyes were closed. "I know what I'm saying, I know what you're saying, and I know what he's saying. And if the cabdriver could speak English, then I'd know what he was saying, too."
But Tiffany Lynn ignored Kiki to continue fussing at Kirby. "How many shots of tequila did you give her?"
"I don't know," he mumbled. "A lot. She told me that she could handle her liquor. I guess she lied."
"Oh, you think?" Tiffany Lynn sighed.
Kiki found herself drifting in and out of sleep as she snuggled against Kirby. "I feel so bad for you," she murmured. "I really, really do."
"How come?"
Kiki yawned. "Because. None of the dancers at the club will go to bed with you. They've got you pi-geonholed in this older brother role. And then you have to stand there while they parade around naked and pretend not to want them. I saw you watching Tiffany Lynn tonight. How could you not? The music was hot. She was doing her thing. It must be torture."
An awkward silence descended inside the car.
"Tiffany Lynn, let me ask you something. What's so wrong with Kirby?" Kiki asked.
"There's noth"
"Now I realize that he's not Fab. But you just have to get over that." Kiki bulldozed on, feeling a second wind now. Somehow the alcohol clarified this unrequited thing between her new friends. Maybe she could help.
"What does that mean?" Kirby asked. " He's not Fab ." His voice mocked her.
"Oh, please," Kiki scoffed. "You know what I mean. Fab is gorgeous. Accept that and move on."
"Just a few minutes ago you said he wasn't that handsome," Kirby pointed out.
"Okay, now who's hammered?" Kiki rolled her eyes. "I never said that. In fact, my mouth couldn't even form those words. Fab Tomba is the most beautiful man I've ever seen." She patted Kirby's bulging bicep. "But you're pretty hot in your own right. And you should be proud of that. Face it, though, there's only one Fab."
"I don't care about Fab Tomba!" Kirby yelled.
"You're the one who's obsessed. You can't stop saying his name."
"That's insane," Kiki sniffed. "I've hardly mentioned him all night."
Kirby gave up.
Tiffany Lynn giggled.
"Let's get back to the two of you," Kiki said. "Why aren't you da"
The driver negotiated a sharp turn, careening his passengers to one side of the vehicle.
Kirby and Tiffany Lynn recovered quickly.
As for Kiki not so much. A terrible nausea hit, exploding like a dirty bomb in the center of her chest. She couldn't see, think, or move. It took every bit of foggy concentration not to lose the contents of her stomach. This was democracy in action. No matter how high-end the booze, it could deliver low-end results.
The car stopped moving.
Tiffany Lynn handled the fare business.
Kirby eased Kiki out of the backseat and onto the street. Her knees buckled the moment her feet hit the pavement. Standing up required an industrial strength that the liquor had atrophied somewhere back on the Upper East Side.
But Kirby was right there, his arm clinched around her waist. "That's it, party girl. Nice and easy."
Kiki slumped against him. The class was Vulnerability 101. And right now she was at the top of it.
Thank God for the nice guys of the world. She met Kirby's kind eyes and managed a loopy smile, silently apologizing for the tequila psychosis.
His look was instant forgiveness as he half walked, half carried Kiki inside the hotel, Tiffany Lynn flanking her on the other side. When they entered the luxurious lobby, Kirby whistled softly. "Swanky. Maybe we should get a room and sleep it off, too "
"Sleep what off?" Tiffany Lynn countered. "I'm not drunk, and you're not either."
Kirby shot up his eyebrows. "Forget the sleeping it off part then. Let's just get a room."
"I don't think so."
"Oh
, you should ," Kiki chimed in. "And why won't you give Kirby a chance? Is it because he's a bartender?"
"What's wrong with my job?"
"How old are you?" Kiki asked.
"Thirty-four."
"You need a grown-up job," Kiki said matter-of-factly, the worst of the nausea receding as they scooted her inside the elevator. "And I think I speak for all women when I say that nobody wants to be married to a forty-year-old bartender. That's just ridiculous."
Tiffany Lynn nodded in agreement.
Kirby glowered. "Which floor?"
"Five," Kiki answered.
He pressed the corresponding button, then spun back to finish the argument. "And who said anything about getting married?"
"Oh, I totally see the two of you married," Kiki said. Her voice rang with such absolute certainty that a casual bystander would believe that the only thing left to decide was which band should play at the reception. She reached out to clutch Tiffany Lynn's wrist. "I can be one of your bridesmaids! I'm already in five weddings this summer. I mean, what's one more?"
The stripper and the bartender exchanged uneasy glances. But hints of longing were there.
Finally, Tiffany Lynn said, "I can't marry him. We haven't even been on a date yet."
"Or slept together," Kirby put in. "And it's important that a couple be sexually compatible. I read that in Maxim ."
Kiki jabbed him in the gut with her elbow. A small price to pay for saying something so stupid. "Okay, I'm not even a lesbian, and I'm sexually compatible with her." She giggled at her own joke, then stumbled.
Kirby caught her in the nick of time. And the shy half smile on his face said that he already knew the answer to the compatibility question. Raising it was just a ploy.
The elevator doors opened.
Kirby secured his arm around Kiki's waist and ventured out for the final gauntlet to her room. With-out preamble he said, as much to the corridor as to Tiffany Lynn, "We should go out sometime."
Kiki grinned, feeling quite the matchmaker. Where would these two be without her? Not here together. That's for sure. Tiffany Lynn would probably be home sweating out an essay for an eight o'clock class she always skipped. And as for Kirby, well, his scenario would probably have something to do with Tiffany Lynn's photograph in the Camisole calendar and a very busy right hand.
