by Tawna Fenske
As soon as they’d ordered their drinks, Drew walked over to their table. Violet looked up at him, those odd-colored eyes luminescent beneath the black lights.
“You made it,” he said, smiling down at her. “I didn’t think you would.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve actually never been to a show like this before.” She looked around in obvious wonderment. “I wasn’t too sure about it, but we had kind of a rough day at the hospital with Mom, and Butterfly thought we could use a distraction. Oh, I’m sorry. Drew, this is Butterfly, my mom’s best friend. Butterfly, this is Drew… er…”
“Watson. Drew Watson,” he said, extending his hand for Butterfly to shake. Instead, she grabbed it, flipped it over, and began to study his palm. Drew stared at her for a minute, then looked to Violet for help.
She just shrugged. “Right. Drew owns the place, Butterfly.”
“Really?” Butterfly asked, glancing away from his palm momentarily to look up at him with renewed interest. Her eyes were as globe-like as the butt cheeks of the dancer on stage behind them.
“So you must, um, really like the nude male figure?” Butterfly asked.
Drew laughed. “Not nearly as much as I like the nude female figure.”
The two women exchanged a look, and Drew got ready to offer up the usual defense. He wasn’t gay. He didn’t have a thing for naked men. It was just that from a marketing standpoint, exotic male dancers were—
“Sir, Mr. Watson, sir.” A bouncer came running up to the table, his brow furrowed in concern. “We’ve got a situation again.”
“A fight?”
“No. It’s Jamie. He’s refusing to go on.”
Drew sighed, trying hard not to grit his teeth. He looked back at Violet and Butterfly, both of whom wore the identical female expression that said, The second you leave, we’ll be talking about you.
“Will you ladies excuse me for a minute?” Drew said. “I’ve got a crisis to avert.”
“No problem,” said Violet, reaching up to take her drink from the waiter. A strong drink, from the look of things. “Thanks again for inviting us.”
“No problem. Really. Make yourselves at home.”
“Of course. Because my home is filled with half-naked men writhing on the floor.”
Drew let that one pass and hurried off down the hall toward the dressing room. Jamie. God. What now?
Rounding the corner into the dressing room, Drew followed the sounds of muffled sniffling to a sofa in the back corner. There sat his ex-brother-in-law, looking forlorn and a bit drunk in his fireman costume—lined with Velcro for easy removal, of course.
“What seems to be the problem, Jamie?” Drew said, coming to sit beside him.
Jamie looked up at him, his eyes red-rimmed and goopy. Jesus, Drew thought. And women throw their panties at this guy?
“It’s Sid,” Jamie sniffled. “He called me a wuss.”
“Right. Remember what we talked about with the sticks and stones…?”
“But it really hurt my feelings, boss,” Jamie said, his expression so wounded that Drew couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Well, as sorry as he could feel for a man who’d been named Mr. Oregon Bodybuilder for three out of the last five years.
“You have to get through this, Jamie,” Drew soothed. “Those guys just tease you to get a rise out of you. If you don’t let them get to you, they’ll stop.”
“But dancing is my art,” he sniffed. “They don’t understand how it wounds me when they make a mockery of something that’s so emotionally valuable to me.”
“Hey,” Drew said. “Remember those pretty girls in the front row last week? They could have tucked that hundred in anyone’s shorts, but whose did they choose?”
Jamie smiled a little at that. “Mine.”
“Exactly. And who did we pick out of all the dancers to perform at that movie star’s bachelorette party next month?”
Jamie’s smile got wider. “Me.”
“And who’s going to fund his college education entirely off tips from his job here?”
By now, Jamie was glowing. “Won’t that be great? Maybe I’ll even keep going and get my master’s in social anthropology.”
“I’m sure that will serve you well,” Drew agreed. “So are you almost ready to go on? The Men of Texas are relying on you to get the crowd warmed up for them.”
“I’ve got it covered, boss,” Jamie said, standing up and putting on his fireman’s hat that said Red Hot. “You can count on me.”
Then he trotted away, leaving Drew to stand there staring after him.
“I should have been a preschool teacher,” he muttered.
***
By the time Drew got Jamie pumped up and settled a dispute between the Men of Texas over whose costume had the most sequins, a full hour had gone by. The bar was packed with two bachelorette parties and an assortment of tipsy women taking advantage of the late-night drink specials, so Drew hadn’t had a chance to check on Violet. Was she enjoying herself, or had she gotten offended and left by now?
As he rounded the corner next to the main stage, Drew got the answer to that question.
“Hey, big boy! Take it off! Woooooohooooooo!”
Violet was standing on the table—which, thank God, he’d had the foresight to bolt into the floor—wobbling in her stilettos as she called out to one of the Men of Texas.
Somehow the tie on her wraparound top had come loose, displaying a flash of black bra Drew tried hard not to notice. Violet shrieked again, and the dancer on stage lobbed his T-shirt at her. She leaned out to catch it—a tough move even if her balance hadn’t been compromised by the contents of the four empty cocktail glasses on her table.
Violet yelped. Drew ran.
He reached out and caught her just in time, feeling her tumble into his arms in a cloud of bourbon and warm flesh.
He looked down at her in his arms and felt his libido surge. “You really have to stop falling like this.”
“But it’s so fun to have you catch me!” She looked blearily into his eyes and smiled. “Why aren’t you naked?”
“Why aren’t you under the care of a good therapist?”
“I am!” she shrieked with delight. “Does that mean you’ll take off your clothes?”
Drew tried not to smile as he glanced around the room. “Where did Butterfly go?”
“She went next door to clean the mouse cage. Apparently bourbon makes her want to tidy.”
“And it makes you want to stand on tables and scream at naked men.”
“Doesn’t it do the same for you?”
Drew sighed. “No.”
Violet nodded knowingly. “Tequila then. Hey, can you take me home?”
“What?”
“I was going to take a cab, but since you’re standing here holding me, I thought maybe…”
“Right,” Drew said, and set her on her feet. He looked up at the stage, where one of the Men of Texas seemed to be winding down. “Let me go find Sam.”
Violet sighed looked strangely sad for a moment. “Sam. Right. Good old Sam. I might hate Sam.”
“What?”
“I’ve never met Sam, so I guess that’s not fair, is it?”
Drew took a step back, not really sure what to say. “Okay. I need someone to look after things while I run you home, so we need Sam. Are you staying at Moonbeam’s house?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
“Do you think you can tell me how to get there?”
“Pretty sure.” She signaled a passing server with a drink tray, her mind already on something besides the Men of Texas or her evident distaste for his business partner.
“Okay. Well then, I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself here.”
Drew went to get his keys, shaking his head a little as he rounded the bar. He was willing to bet his next mortgage payment this was not a woman who got drunk and screamed at scantily clad men in bars. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure drunk or screaming were even part of her repertoire. He wasn’t sur
e about the scantily clad men, but he preferred not to dwell on that.
“Hey, Sam,” he called to the busty, middle-aged blonde woman behind the bar. “Can you cover things for a few minutes?”
“My sitter’s with the kids for another three hours, so I’m good. What’s up?”
“I need to run Moonbeam’s daughter home.”
Sam glanced up from the beer taps and squinted toward the table where Violet sat swaying to the music. “That the girl who’s been trying to spank the dancers all night?”
“Probably.”
“Good luck. You’ll have your hands full with that one.”
Drew felt his mind veer into dangerous territory with the thought of having his hands full of anything to do with Violet, so he turned and headed back toward her table.
He found her perched on the lap of one of his dancers, a drunken smile on her lips.
“So then I found out that my date had bet his best friend ten dollars that I had breast implants,” she was hollering into the dancer’s ear. “Can you believe the nerve?”
The dancer shook his head in wonderment, looking down her shirt in awe of the gift that had dropped into his lap.
“Come on, Violet,” Drew said, hauling her up out of Joey’s arms. Joey looked glum for a minute, but perked up at the sight of her pert little butt walking away from him. Drew scowled at Joey and ushered Violet in front of him, steering her toward the door.
As soon as Drew got her into the car and extracted some driving directions from her, Violet began to chatter at warp speed.
“It was so nice of you to invite me out like this,” she gushed. “Moonbeam would have a stroke if she knew. Is that bad to say about my mom when she’s in the hospital? It really is too bad you’re gay. You’re awfully cute. Sort of like John Cusack.”
“I’m not—”
“I know you and Moonbeam haven’t always gotten along and she told me you’re exploiting the human body, but those guys seemed pretty happy and with all those tips they’re being fairly compensated and the temperature was good so they have nice working conditions so I don’t think you’re so horrible.”
“Well—”
“I was just telling Butterfly how nice you were to feed the mice like that. Do you come over to Moonbeam’s shop a lot? Because I’ll probably need a lot of help over there. Do you want to know a secret?”
“I—”
She leaned close—as close as she could with the seat belt yanking her backward—and whispered against his cheek.
“I’m not a psychic. I’m an accountant with Barton and Withrow in Portland, Maine.”
“Yeah, you mentioned the accountant thing already,” Drew said, not sure if it was the liquor on her breath or something else making him mildly dizzy. “It’s nice you’ve got a few different career skills to fall back on. I mean, besides the psychic thing.”
“No, no, you don’t understand,” she slurred. “Psychics don’t exist.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, then, you’re a pleasant figment of my imagination.”
She smiled at him… a little sadly, it seemed. Then she lost her train of thought as she became distracted by the buttons on the radio. Drew studied her. What an odd woman. They drove in silence for a few minutes until Drew pulled into the driveway of Moonbeam’s house. He jerked the parking brake, but kept the car running, not ready yet to walk her to the front door.
“So who won the bet?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“Your date bet his friend you had breast implants. Just curious who won.”
“Pig.”
He grinned. “Yup.”
She smiled at him. “It’s okay, I guess, since you’re gay.”
Before he could react, she’d grabbed his hand and shoved it into the front of her shirt.
“See?”
“Uh—”
“Now you have your answer!”
“Um, Violet?”
“My date never did get to find that out.”
“Right. Violet?”
“Pretty impressive, huh?”
“Absolutely, but Violet?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not gay.”
“You’re not?”
“No.”
She stared at him. She looked down at his hand, not in any hurry to remove it. She looked back up at him, seemingly bewildered.
“You’re sure you aren’t gay?”
“Positive. I’ve even been married before.”
“Married?”
“To a woman,” he added. “A woman even more high-strung than you are.”
“But I was so sure you liked men, and then there’s your partner, Sam, and—”
“Sam is my business partner. And a woman.”
“So you’re not—”
“No.”
“But—”
“Violet, I’m as gay as these are silicone and you’re a psychic.”
“Oh.”
“So I think the gentlemanly thing to do would be to remove my hand from your very nice, very real, very unpsychic breast.”
She smiled, looking startlingly sober all of a sudden. Then she put her hand on his, holding it there. “And what if I don’t want you to?”
Chapter 3
There was a distant voice in the back of Violet’s head telling her to remove the stranger’s hand from her breast and bid him a polite good-night.
Of course, the fact that she was hearing voices was not a good sign. It wasn’t surprising, considering how much time she’d been spending with Moonbeam and how much bourbon she’d consumed, but still.
“Not gay?” Violet repeated, looking down at his hand. It was still on her breast, which was probably because she’d locked his wrist in a death grip and held it in place at the opening of her top.
“Not gay,” he confirmed. “And as much as I’m enjoying this, I’m not looking forward to dealing with you when you sober up and accuse me of molesting you. So I’m going to pull my hand back nice and slow, and you’re going to let go of my wrist on the count of one, two, three…”
Violet took a deep breath and released his wrist. She waited one heartbeat. Two.
“Okay, removing my hand now,” Drew said, his voice a little strained.
Three heartbeats, four. Violet shifted in her seat. Just a tiny movement, but enough to feel her flesh press harder against his palm.
She made a small whimper in the back of her throat.
Drew closed his eyes and cursed under his breath.
“Okay,” Drew said, and pulled his hand back. He took another breath, this one shakier than the last. “Right, so I’ll be going now.”
“Yes, of course,” Violet said, trying hard to sound sober. “Thank you for the ride. Good night, Drew Watson.”
“Good night, Violet.”
Violet sat there, trying to regain her composure. She folded her hands in her lap and took a breath, her head still spinning a little from the bourbon and all the heat in the car.
She flipped the visor down and looked at her reflection, wondering how her lipstick had gotten smeared across her face. Had she really left the house with that much eyeliner? She had a vague memory of Butterfly urging her to get sexy before they set out for the evening, but she couldn’t recall intentionally trying to look like a hooker.
She felt her brain start to spin, so she flipped the visor back up and folded her hands on her lap again.
Beside her, Drew cleared his throat. “So, this is where you’d get out of the car.”
“What?”
“This is my car, not your bedroom. I can see how you might be confused.”
“Oh. Right. No, I was just leaving.” Violet fumbled the door open, her fingers shaking and a little sticky. “Good night, Drew.”
“Here, let me help you inside,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt.
“Oh, no,” Violet said, thrusting her hand out to push against his chest. She’d only meant to force him back against his seat, but here she was, groping his pecs. Very nice
pecs. Violet drew her hand back. “Stay here. I’ll be fine, really.”
He gave her a skeptical look. Violet turned away and swung her leg out of the car, wobbling a little as she found her footing on the rain-soaked pavement. “So, thanks again,” she said brightly, swinging the other leg out of the car as she turned back to look at him.
Drew’s eyes held hers for several beats, not even blinking. Violet resisted the urge to lunge back into the seat and grab him by his shirt collar and—
“No problem,” Drew said, blinking at last. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you to the door?”
Violet shook her head and stood up, gripping the side-view mirror for balance. She stood there for a moment, looking out over the street, then down at the droplets of rain smeared across the roof of his car. “I’m fine,” she called down to him, straining to keep her voice nonchalant. “The door is ten yards away.”
There was a long pause. Inside the car, Drew cleared his throat. “Violet?”
She bent back down and peered through the door of the car. “Yes?”
His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. She could see his chest rising and falling.
“Fix your shirt,” he said at last.
Violet’s hand flew to her chest. Her fingers touched the lacy edge of her bra. “Oh. Right. Yes, of course.”
Drew shook his head and closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath. Was he mad? Annoyed? Violet wasn’t sure. Judging human emotion was Moonbeam’s strong suit, not hers.
She fumbled with the tie on her wrap top, covering her bra. Then she stepped back from the car. “Well, thanks again,” she said.
Drew opened his eyes, looking more composed than he had a few seconds ago. “Good night, Violet.”
Violet took another step back and pushed the car door shut. Drew put the car in gear and backed out of the driveway, then stopped, his brake lights flickering. Violet stood still for a moment, watching his windshield wipers swishing back and forth. Watching the beam of his headlights flickering in the rain. Watching him.
