by Lynn Shurr
“Probably.”
“Good. Com’on, Ilsa. We’ll bust that thing wide open and have a good time.” Dean made his way around Tom and slung an arm over his brother’s date. She wore that red dress with slits up the sides, the one that hadn’t tempted him before but looked mighty tasty tonight. Her boobs pushed out of the top like two scoops of vanilla ice cream. Bet they had big red cherries on the top. He’d find out later tonight.
Ilsa transferred her bare arm easily from Tom’s and wrapped it around Dean’s waist. “I will give you another chance to amuse me.”
Halfway across the floor, he called back to Tom, “You comin’?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then party on!” Dean addressed the entire club and watched the varied reactions of his teammates from astounded to concerned. See, he could surprise people. He didn’t need to be hard-working, reliable Dean all the time.
Before he and Ilsa reached the door, Tom moved up behind them. “How did you get here, Dean?”
“Drove the old truck.”
Tom patted him down and took the keys. “Use a cab tonight. Have lots of fun, Ilsa.”
“Oh, I think we will!”
Tom stood on the curb until they got into a taxi, and he turned away to reenter the club. Ilsa cozied up to Dean and did nothing to stop him from running his hand under her skirt. Stacy would have stopped that PDA in a backseat instantly because she was a party pooper, but not him. In a pretty deep clutch when they arrived at Paco’s under the sign of the tipsy margarita, he had to scrape Ilsa off his body long enough to pay the driver.
The dance club on a Monday night held a light population of regulars at the bar and merely a DJ in the courtyard playing music for the few who wanted to dance. “Hey, Paco, you still got that football piñata I sent over?” Dean shouted over the music as he scanned the ceiling searching for the one he’d purchased among so many choices, burros and a chicken, even an octopus, but no football. “Which one of you is Paco anyhow?”
“Actually, there ain’t no Paco. I am Jose, the manager. The piñata is right over your head.” The thin brown man with a worried brow almost blended with the stucco walls. He gestured to the arch leading to the courtyard. A papier-mâché football with red and black streamers hanging from the ends swayed in a light breeze.
“Jose, we’re gonna bust that sucker open tonight. But first, a couple of Dos Equis and some dancing!” The beers arrived quickly. Dean chugged his. “You ready to learn salsa dancing, Ilsa?”
“Oh yes, so ready.” She gulped the rest of her drink and put out her arms.
Dean led her to the floor and put his hands on her hips while she held onto his shoulders. He felt loose-limbed and light-footed. The song playing was light and poppy, almost country-western, good enough to start, he supposed. “It’s about a chica muy bonita, a pretty woman,” he told Ilsa.
“Yes, this I know. I have some Spanish.”
“You are muy bonita.”
“Yes, I know this also. You are muy guapo.” She flicked that stupid curl that always fell across his forehead.
“Thank you.” He found a Cajun two-step suited the song better. No sweat, he’d been doing that at weddings and parties since he was a kid, his first dance partner being his Mawmaw Nadine. Still, he couldn’t get Ilsa to unbend very much. He did a simple spin out and return. Ilsa executed it awkwardly on her very high heels. When the song ended, he suggested another round to grease their joints. Two more beers down the hatch.
A sultry song began to spin. This time he tried to mold Ilsa to his body, but she simply didn’t fit. A leg lift, and Ilsa did have the gams to do it, almost sent them both to the ground. She laughed, having fun, she said. Her only talent appeared to be whipping her head around and flailing his face with her hair, which kept getting in his eyes. He found himself dancing around her as Angel did with Stacy. Now Stacy would have… No Stacy here tonight. She should see all this, see how little he cared, how much fun he could be.
When the music stopped, the place seemed to have filled up considerably. Using both Spanish and English, people talked into cell phones and popped pictures. “We need more to drink—tequila shots!” he proclaimed.
“Off Angelita’s belly,” someone suggested.
Dean vaguely remembered the chubby waitress from his last trip to Paco’s. She rolled up her loose white blouse and stretched herself over one of the little tables. Somehow, the bartender managed to balance four shot glasses on her wobbly flesh. Dean started to pick one up, but that same voice, also a little familiar, shouted, “No, hands behind your back.”
Dean peered into the crowd. “That you Angel, old buddy. No hard feelings, huh?”
The slim and almost pretty Hispanic man gave him a movie star’s grin, snapped a picture, and put his phone to his ear again.
“I can do this!” Dean declared. “I am very coordinated.” He bent down, gripped the first glass in his teeth, and slowly tipped the contents down his throat. A cheer went up followed by the chant “Drink, Drink, Drink! Chug it!” and Spanish variations of the same. He did, all the rest right in a row. At the end of Angelita’s belly where it descended into her short black shirt, he raised his arms in triumph.
“Not a drop schpilled!”
His audience laughed, and he looked down to see wet streaks plastering his red shirt to his chest. “Doesn’t matter. I got another great idea. Up, up Angelita, mi chica muy bonita.”
“You blind, man,” a guy called out. Angelita gave him the finger.
Dean climbed on the small table that wobbled under his weight and pointed to the football piñata. “Let’s bust that sucka! Give me a baseball bat.”
“No bats in Paco’s,” the nervous manager said. “We use a stick. See, we blindfold the pretty women and let them have first try.”
Ilsa was given the first go and although tall never came near the thing. A few other women lined up, got spun around, made some feeble attempts. Mostly the men enjoyed seeing the breasts bunch and jiggle as the girls took wild swings. He liked that, too, until Xochi showed up and stood in the queue. No one got to leer at his sister’s boobies, though she wasn’t very dressed up tonight and not much showed.
“Enough!” He seized the stick and beat the hell out of the papier-mâché until the streamers flew off, the crepe paper shredded, and the piñata released its cache of Sinners’ souvenirs: little stuffed red devils, key chains displaying the same, foam footballs, and a couple of tightly wrapped T-shirts with his number seven on it. The crowd scrambled. Tables overturned. Bottles broke. Trays of nachos spilled making a greasy slip and slide surface on the floor that sent people falling to their backsides.
“No, no! Now you bust up my place,” the manager cried.
“Sorry. Here you go, Jose.” Dean opened his wallet and threw a wad of cash into the mix. Chaos increased threefold with fights breaking out as hundred-dollar bills floated toward the floor and cheap souvenirs crushed underfoot.
A small but firm hand took his elbow. “Time to go home, big brother.” Xochi towed Ilsa with a tight grip. “Got a cab waiting. Sorry, Jose. We’ll pay for damages. Angel, thanks for calling us.”
“Well, if some German be-yotch was fooling with my man, I’d want to know, honey.” Angel snapped another picture of the three of them leaving.
“What is be-yotch?” Ilsa asked. “We had good fun tonight, nein?”
“Nein,” answered Xochi. “Duck your heads. Into the cab you go. I’ll ride up front.”
In the backseat, Ilsa taught Dean a German drinking song. He might be able to dance, but he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket of beer. Xochi covered her ears until they arrived at the cul-de-sac where the crime scene tape had come down and only two pots of flowers remained on the fire escape.
“You’d better go upstairs and let us take care of you tonight, Dean. You can sleep on the sofa.”
“Nope, nope. Gotta see Ilsa safely home because I am a gentleman.”
“Suit yourself.” Xochi took a notepa
d from her purse and wrote down Ilsa’s address and Dean’s residence. She prepaid the cabbie enough to get them to Ilsa’s and back again to Dean’s. “Make sure they arrive there.”
The cab pulled onto Canal Street, but Dean had another idea. “Say, I want to get tattoo. You know a good place?”
“The lady said to take you home.”
Dean dug out his wallet again. “Would you look here? I still got a hundred, and it’s all yours, fella. Best place you know.”
The cab made a U-turn and headed back into the Quarter. The passengers stumbled out in front of No Regrets Tattoos that offered a fine display of choices in its window as well as photos of completed projects on bulging biceps, broad backs, sexy smalls, and shapely ankles. Dean squinted at the sign. “I think Prince Dobbs uses this place.”
“Then, is good. You get Ilsa printed on your arm, ja?”
“Nein. It’s a secret tattoo in a secret place. Shush now.” Dean put a single finger to his lips.
“You want I should wait,” the cabbie asked.
“Sure, won’t take long.”
It didn’t, at least it seemed that way as he dozed through part of the process once they got started. Not much business on a Monday. They were the only customers in the place. Dean made Ilsa wait out of view. He told the artist, a lean man with an impressive spread eagle engraved on his bald head, exactly what he wanted. “A heart, a red one with the Sinners devil tail on it.”
“Got it. We call that the Joe Billodeaux Special.”
“Well, I’m his son so it fits. Inside it I want—guess what? It begins with an S.”
“I can’t guess, but let me say it is an honor to give Dean Billodeaux his first tat. I’m Cyril, and I guarantee your satisfaction.” Cyril offered him a smile defined by many painful piercings and began swabbing the bared backside with alcohol.
“Damn right it is. Come close. Let me whisper in your ear.”
“Easy,” said the guy whose wife beater bared two full sleeves on his arms filled with red parrots and spotted jaguars staring from a dense jungle for the world to see. He inked and swabbed and finished up with a coat of petroleum jelly and a bandage.
Paying up, Dean said as if it were an entirely good idea, “Next time, maybe a parrot. I rock parrots.”
“So do I. Be sure to come here if you decide on that. Here’s instructions for aftercare.”
“Yes, I will take good care of him,” Ilsa assured him. “Maybe someday I get one, too.”
The cabbie got off the stoop where he waited while smoking a few butts. “Where to next?”
“Fraulein Ilsa’s abode.”
“Already got the address.” The driver stowed his two tipsy passengers in the backseat and belted them in. “No way am I going to be responsible for getting Dean Billodeaux killed in an accident,” he explained, but since the couple was making out with lots of tongue, neither answered. He brought them to their destination unscathed, and Dean handed over his last hundred.
“Don’t wait. I plan to spend the night.”
“More power to ya.” The cabbie steered off into the night with a great story to tell.
“This is your place?”
“Ja, third floor. We walk. Keeps us in good shape. Ilsa walks everywhere.”
He nodded his agreement, but for some reason, he kept tripping on his way up. Ilsa laughed at him and pointed a long, mocking finger. “So much fun.”
She roomed in a small apartment with a cranky, rattling window air conditioner and a bathroom possessing stained fixtures he really needed to use at once no matter how unappealing. On his way to the cramped bedroom, Dean stumbled over stray shoes and a pile of discarded clothes while he maneuvered around her modern pale wood furniture. No plants, puppies, or purple in the place.
Ilsa waited already naked and spread out on a bed filling most of the space. Her spectacular breasts were crowned with peaked nipples so red he thought they might be rouged. Maybe she’d pinched them while he took a leak. He fumbled with his shirt buttons until she sat up and helped, deftly discarding his trousers as well. He’d worn low cut red briefs to prove he could be fun, and she dealt with them efficiently. With his ready erection poking him in the belly, he bent and discarded his shoes and socks.
Ilsa pointed to his backside. “You going let me have a look under the bandage?”
“Nope. It’s shecret. Gotta be on top tonight. Stacy, she likes being up there. Sometimes we fight over it. Fun.”
“Come, come. Ilsa is ready for you. We have more fun.” She beckoned with her long nails painted the same scarlet as her discarded gown and ruby nipples.
Her perfume filled his nostrils with a heavy, dangerous scent. My Sin. Which reminded him. Dean bent again and searched his pockets for the condoms he always carried. He found one but couldn’t seem to get it open even when using his teeth. “Stacy is on the pill. Didn’t need one with her. Best sex ever.”
“I practice birth control also. Throw it away.”
Dean tossed the condom unopened onto a tiny night table bearing a reading lamp that provided the only light in the windowless room and held a stack of erotic novels. “You should have a nicer place.”
“I am not so sure I like New Orleans. Is expensive to live here and so hot to me. Stacy does not pay me enough. Maybe later you get me a better flat. Right now, I rent the furniture, but I buy the bed. A good bed is important. Come try it.” She patted the mattress covered in ivory satin sheets.
Instead of sliding in beside her, Dean simply dove on top and got down to business. No finesse, no foreplay, just plain fucking, and Ilsa didn’t seem to mind. From the start, she didn’t feel right. Her sharp pelvic bones rubbed against his and her boobs, spectacular but firm, very firm, disappointed. Implants, he’d come across those before and wondered if she felt anything when he rubbed and nipped them. She made the right noises, but a guy could never really tell. Stacy—soft breasts and so nicely rounded all over, no sharp angles. He must have said some of that aloud because Ilsa slapped him on the rump, thankfully not on the sore side.
“Stacy does that, too.”
“No more talk of Stacy tonight. She is the be-yotch. Same as bitch, right?”
“Yeah, yeah she is.”
“Have some fun with Ilsa, nein?”
“Ja!” he said and pumped his hips again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He must have had fun, lots of fun, because when Dean woke on those stained ivory satin sheets, he found his back scored with scratches and his prick circled in red lipstick. Ilsa had gone to work leaving behind a note stating that fact and anchored by his cell phone which now had her number keyed into the contacts. A pot of ultra-strong coffee waited for him in the miniscule kitchen and not much else to eat or drink, not that he could have kept anything down right now. He passed on taking a shower in the tub that appeared to have a permanent ring around it, but removed the crimson streaks surrounding his lips and on his penis before climbing into the black slacks and tequila-stained shirt. What became of his briefs? No idea. He made his way down the three flights with every step making his head throb.
What Ilsa’s place lacked in charm, it made up for in convenience being right on the streetcar line. He kept his eyes closed against the morning sunshine for most of the jolting ride with his only disguise being a heavy morning stubble, an ugly glower, and a deep slouch in his seat—a male version of the walk of shame. No one bothered him. Arturo held the door for his passage into the brownstone building and wisely withheld any remarks except a for a cheery, “Good morning.”
“You think so,” Dean grumbled.
He collided with Tom coming out of their condo door and leaving on his way to practice. “Look, tell Coach I’m out sick this morning. It’s only a home game with Cincinnati. I can afford to miss a day.”
“Aren’t you the one who says there are no unimportant games?” His brother spared him no sympathy.
Tom’s words spoken loudly beat inside of Dean’s skull as if someone had locked him insid
e Ste. Jeanne’s bell tower right before Mass. Bong, bong, bong. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Then you better get your act together even if you show up late and pay the fine. The team took your order to party up seriously last night. You should have stuck around. Half of them will have big heads this morning. You’ll fit right in.”
“I told them to party up? Doesn’t sound like me.”
“That was the new, fun Dean speaking right before he walked out of Mariah’s with my date. You’re the guy who follows the rules. Whatever happened to bros before hos? You can’t handle Stacy so you take my woman?”
Tom tried to push by him, but Dean pressed a hand against his chest, then poked him with a forefinger. “Stacy is not a ho.”
“Didn’t mean to say she was. Only an expression about disloyalty. You tell me you don’t want Ilsa, then you take her. Get out of my way. I don’t make your big bucks and those fines add up.” Tom swerved to the left but Dean blocked him again.
“I thought you didn’t like Ilsa all that much.”
“No, but I enjoy what she has to offer. I bet your back is scratched all to hell.
“I admit it smarts along with my hip.”
“You injured your hip while out carousing? Great. Management isn’t going to like this.”
“My hip works just fine, but my behind is sore. Tom, my best bud and true brother, I wouldn’t ask this of any other man, but would you take a look at my butt?” Dean didn’t wait for an answer but dropped his pants right there in the small foyer.
“Classy. No briefs. Good thing we own the whole floor. You got a big bandage on your rear, asshole.” Tom bent closer and ungently tore it away. “And a red heart tattoo with the devil’s tail like the one Dad used to sign his autographs in his wilder years.”
“Does it say anything inside the heart?”
“Sure does.” Tom replaced the bandage with a slap.
“Tell me what it says.” He held his breath.
“Mom.”
“No!”
