I reach for a pair of jeans.
Pussycat Club, here I come . . .
Rebecca
THE LARGE, FLAT-SCREEN TV above the bar in the Pussycat Club is silent, but it’s set to KHOT. I cringe knowing the pageant story will rebroadcast in less than an hour.
“Was it really that bad?” I take a long gulp of my gin and tonic (with cucumber, of course—nods to Christian Grey).
“You were un-powdered in a mob of infants, and the lighting was horrifyingly bad. What do you think?” Chas holds a fresh Cosmo and levels her brown eyes on me. “You know what would take your mind off it? A big O.”
I snort into my drink and cut my eyes up. My roommate towers over me in full drag, and I suppose at that height, she can be a little intimidating. I know her too well to care.
I smirk. “When you wave your arm like that, everybody looks at us.”
“Let them look!” Chas punctuates each word with jazz hands. “You’re too young to be working your life away. When’s the last time you got laid?”
“James.”
“Oh my God!” More hand waving. “Don’t even say his name. I hate him.”
I agree, smoothing down the front of the beige sequined micro-mini dress Chas insisted I wear. If I reach too high, I’ll flash the world, since I’m only wearing a nude thong under it. Still, with my taupe sling-backs accentuating my toned legs (my one body part still holding onto muscle memory), my ego is somewhat bolstered. Every now and then I get an appreciative glance, which in a room full of queens is saying something. At least someone values my new curves.
The bar is filling faster as word gets out my roommate is performing. Chas has been making the rounds on the drag circuit since we graduated college, and her RuPaul impersonation is legendary. The Pussycat is actually a very upscale club, complete with a mirrored dance floor, laser lights, a disco ball, and retro dance music blasting. Polishing off my drink, I signal for a refill as Chas continues her tirade on James. She has never liked him.
“It’s no wonder he left me.” I take a long pull from my fresh G&T. “We never saw each other. My schedule was ridiculous. I was never home.”
“So that’s what it was?” Chas’s tone is pure skepticism. “I always assumed it was his lack of ambition and cheating with the chippy at the coffee shop that drove you apart.”
“I guess we didn’t have much in common,” I sigh. “He didn’t give a shit about my schedule as long as I fucked him regularly.”
“Girl.” Chas shakes her head. “That’s all he wanted.”
I take a bite of fresh cucumber. It’s possible I’m a little tipsy. “You’re right,” I say, nodding. “It was all pot and porking.”
“You did not just say porking.”
Our eyes meet, and we both explode with laughter. My eyes water, and I sniff a few times, calming down, growing serious. “I had the dream again.”
My roommate sits on a barstool, putting us closer to the same height. At the mention of my dream, all mirth is gone. “The one about the tall, dark, and handsome man?”
Nodding, I drink more. “That’s the one.”
“The stranger who shows up at your door in a hot as hell suit and takes your hand in his so passionately?”
“Yes.”
“The one who says he’s never seen anyone as gorgeous as you, but he’s waiting to hear back from an exclusive, top-secret NASA program?”
More gin, more nodding.
“Then after he gives you the greatest orgasm of your life, he finds out he was accepted into the program, and he’s leaving immediately to go to Mars for five years?”
My forehead wrinkles. “Do I tell this one a lot?”
Thick false lashes bat at me for several seconds. “Honey, that dream is your problem right there. You’re a commitment-phobe!”
“That’s not how I see it at all,” I sniff, taking another sip. “It means my dream guy—my perfect man, who is handsome and intelligent and ambitious and great in bed—is an impossible dream. He doesn’t exist.”
“Commitment-phobe!” Jazz hands. “Does this impossible dream-man even have a name?”
“Chris.”
A loud group of guys bursts through the door, and we glance in their direction. It’s mostly young, fashionably dressed hipster types, but one taller than the rest sticks out in the crowd. I have to do a double take. Cade Hill? GAY? With a dick like that? Figures.
“Chris?” Chas is still ranting about Dream Man. “As in Pratt? Chris Pratt? Star-Lord?”
I’m sneaking another glance at Cade when suddenly his steel blue eyes hit mine. Heat floods my core, and I snap my head back to my roommate. She doesn’t miss a thing.
“What was that?” Her voice is too loud.
“What?” I try to act clueless, but Chas isn’t buying it.
“That right there. Who is he?”
“Proof I’ll end up marrying a gay man if I’m not careful,” I grumble, taking a longer drink. I’m almost ready for number three.
“That’s why I’m here to guide you. That sexy straight man is staring a hole through you.”
“What?” I chance another look, and Cade is staring, only now that cocky grin is curling his lips, creating those dimples. It’s like a lightning strike.
Asshole, I remind myself—only, now I’m not so sure. He was actually really nice in the bathroom earlier after the whole Marv thing . . . after I saw his heavenly package. I have to squeeze my thighs together.
“Stop looking at him!” I hiss. “That’s Cade Hill, the sports director at KHOT. I walked in on him in the bathroom.”
“Wait . . . What? You did what?” Chas finishes her Cosmo and sets it down quickly.
“Tell Mama what you saw.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I know what’s about to happen. “I saw his penis.”
“WHAT!” Chas shouts.
I cringe. “And it is gorgeous . . . and enormous.”
We both burst out laughing. “Girl . . .” My roommate sighs, catching her breath. “Now I just want to rub his beard. Do you think he’ll let me rub his beard?”
“I’m not talking to you anymore.”
“That’s right you’re not. I have to do my set.” Chas is off the stool and rising to her full height. “Remember the O.”
We air-kiss both cheeks. “Break a stiletto!” I call.
“I wouldn’t dare!” She scampers away, and I’m left feeling very alone and exposed.
Turning to the bar, I try to make myself small. Of course, at that very moment, the television starts running my Planetary Princess story. My face fills the screen, and I shrink. I really do look like I’d just run four blocks before filing that story.
“Oh, God,” I sigh, polishing off my third gin and tonic. I signal to the bartender for another just as a deep voice rolls through my insides.
“It’s not that bad,” Cade is at my side radiating heat.
Fuck a duck. The man is so close to me I can smell his citrusy aftershave and my traitorous body leans in for a better whiff. He props an elbow on the bar, and I give him a brief glance coupled with a nervous smile. After I’d left him standing in the restroom, I’d practically run to my car to put some distance between us. Comforting, concerned, protective Cade is dangerous.
“So you don’t agree with the insultants?”
“To put you behind the camera?” His tone draws my eyes to his. His brow is lowered and he actually seems angry. “Marv is a nitwit if he agrees with them. You’re one of the best reporters we’ve got.”
Oh. I blink. He’s being kind . . . again. For a minute, I only smile. His suit is long gone, and he’s dressed in jeans. The light blue dress shirt remains, sleeves still rolled up, muscular forearms still on display. Dark hair curls around his ears and ugh! I bemoan the fact that he is impossibly hot.
“Unexpected praise coming from you,” I tease . . . not flirt.
Cade is my coworker. I do not want to bone him.
Oh, yes I do!
“Of course, i
t’s nothing like the sports desk,” he says, and my eyes roll. There it is. The swagger.
“What are you having?” He nods to my drink.
“Gin and tonic with cucumber.”
“So you’re a Hendrick’s girl?”
“He is the most influential rock guitarist of all time.” I try to joke.
“First, Jimi Hendrix is psychedelic, second, Stevie Ray Vaughan is the most influential rock guitarist of all time, and third, he’s a Texas man.”
“Is that so?”
“It is so. His contribution to Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’ modernized the sound of a legend and gave Bowie his first Top 40 hit in a decade.”
My jaw drops, and I can’t help but laugh.
“What? No comeback?”
“I-I was only teasing,” I confess. “I don’t really know that much about rock guitarists.”
The gloat on Cade’s face dissolves. “Oh.” He turns to the bartender and gives him a wave. “Now I’m just embarrassed.”
At that I really do laugh. “I never knew you were such a music nerd. What would the boys in the sports den say?”
“You can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, Stone.”
I cover my mouth with my hand, but more laughter snorts out.
“That’s attractive.” His grin is teasing, and he hands the bartender a ten. “So what the hell are you doing here?”
Clearing my throat, I take another pull from the tiny straw in my cup. “I could ask the same of you. I would never have expected KHOT’s chief jock to be hanging out at the Pussycat.”
He does a little shrug and all traces of annoyance are gone. “It’s my little brother’s birthday. He always gets a kick out of taking me to his most fabulous hangouts.”
“Your brother?” I turn back to the group of young guys. “Which one is he?”
I feel Cade gesture beside me, and an attractive guy with blond hair and similar eyes and jawline perks up and waves back. I do a little wave.
“I would think going to a drag bar would be a hard limit for someone like you.” I take another sip.
“Hard limit?” His dark brow furrows and he glares down at me.
“It’s a Fifty . . . It’s a book reference.”
His eyes drift over me. “Into that BDSM shit, Stone?”
I flush. “No.”
Silence. He’s watching me intently.
“Are you?” I ask.
His face is smooth as glass. Not one iota of an expression is there—his reporter’s mask. “For the right girl, I’d do anything.”
I swallow and pretend I don’t hear him, but I can’t deny my heart is pounding a hell of a lot harder since he sat down.
He polishes off his scotch. “Anyway, back to my bro. He had a tough time growing up gay. Our dad is not the most . . . forgiving. Hell, Texas isn’t forgiving.”
“I take it your brother isn’t into football.”
That gets me a laugh, and I’m surprised at the warmth it spreads across my stomach. Don’t forget he’s an asshole! Or is he? I’m getting mixed up.
“Our father doesn’t believe in gays.”
I pull up short. “Doesn’t believe in them? He’s a gaytheist?”
Another laugh. “Good one. Gaytheist.” He signals for another drink before returning to me. “No, he says fags—his word, trust me, not mine—are either perverts or psychopaths, and in either case, they should be institutionalized.”
“Oh my God.” The words are out before I can stop them. “That’s . . . That’s . . .”
“Pretty disgusting,” Cade says under his breath, dimples gone. “Growing up, everything at our prep school revolved around sports, and if you weren’t good, then you’d better hope you were smart and funny. At least Trent’s funny.”
He smirks. “I’m kidding. He’s also smart as a whip. He’s . . . flamboyant, always has been, and Dad, well, he never took to it. Mom, though, she’s the one who loves us unconditionally.”
“What the hell is going on over here? It looks like an undertaker’s convention!” An arm is thrown over each of our shoulders, and Cade’s brother charges between us.
“Trent, I’d like you to meet my coworker, KHOT’s very own Rebecca Fieldstone.” Cade motions to me, and his brother steps back.
“Rebecca Fieldstone!” His voice has taken on the volume of someone celebrating. “That piece you did today on the mini beauty queens was fabulous!”
“Is that so?” I say through a laugh. “You should call my director and tell him.”
“Although, girl, you need to FIRE your makeup artist. That bitch let you down—ouch!” Trent jumps back, and I can only guess Cade gave him an elbow. “Well, anyway, it’s my birthday! Shots! Shots! Shots!”
His entourage soon joins his chanting, and the bartender is quick to comply. Six shot glasses are lined up in front of us.
“Oh, no,” Cade steps back holding up both hands. “I don’t have the flexible hours you keep. I have to be in the office tomorrow.”
“Bullshit! Stop being a workaholic and live a little,” Trent shouts, and a shot of Fireball is shoved into my hand. “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!”
Trent and Co. all lift their glasses and shoot the cinnamon whiskey, leaving only Cade and me staring at each other.
“He does have a point,” I note.
“You’re a bad influence, Stone. I’ll drink, but only if you do.”
“Do it! Do it! Do it!” The group is shouting.
Cade crashes his shot glass against mine. “Skal!” We both throw it back at the same time.
“Ahh!” I squeal as the cinnamon burns my throat. I’ve barely caught my breath when another shot is put in my hand. “Oh! I don’t know—”
I’m cut off by the loud blast of trumpets. Candi Staton’s “Young Hearts, Run Free,” begins, and it’s the start of Chas’s act. I quickly toss back the shot and cheer, twisting my hips and dancing as I rush to the stage.
A silver metallic curtain flashes open, and out prances my roommate in a white mini, white lace bustier, white opera gloves, and thigh-high white tights. Eight-inch white stilettos make her even taller, and Chas has replaced her RuPaul blonde wig with an enormous white afro. Pleated metallic fabric is attached at her shoulder blades and wrists to form silver “wings,” and her dancing consists of hip shaking, arm waving, and silver metallic glitter falling from the ceiling. It’s like an angelic Mardi Gras rave, and we’re all invited.
I scream and jump up and down, clapping as she leads the celebration, and Trent is right at my ear. “Do you know her? I saw you having drinks.”
Leaning into his ear, I shout back, “That’s my roommate!”
Trent jumps back, and his eyes are so big, I can see the whites. His mouth is equally huge, and I lean forward laughing. The whole group of Trent’s friends and Cade along with the crowd has swept in around us, and it’s as if we’re all caught up in a tsunami of joy. A third round of shots filters through the group, and we scream and dance right along.
Another round of Fireball, and I can’t feel my face. Chas is onto her next number, “Let’s Hear it for the Boy,” by Deniece Williams, when a pair of strong arms circles my torso, turning me so I’m face to face and chest to chest with the man I not so long ago thought was an arrogant prick who looked way too much like my ex.
“She’s great!” he says, leaning a little too close to my face. I’m pretty sure Cade is as drunk as I am. “How the hell did you meet?”
I feel both heavy and light. I laugh and rest my cheek against Cade’s collarbone. “Chas was my date to the prom.”
“What?” He shakes me so I lift my head and look at him again. “Why?”
With a shrug, I shake my head and let my mind wander back through the years. “I wasn’t going to go. Chas couldn’t go—at least not how she wanted—but she said we were not missing senior prom. So we went together.”
“Why weren’t you going to go?” His tone is so intense, it causes me to study his mouth. I’ve never noticed until right this s
econd how perfectly defined his lips are. I want to trace them with my fingertips.
“I thought proms were stupid.”
Those perfect lips curl into a smirky grin. “You didn’t have a date.”
Irritation heats my body. “I didn’t want a date! Proms are stupid.”
“Only people without dates say proms are stupid.” His strong arms hold me, and my fingers curl on his biceps. I notice how rock hard they are.
Chas terminates any further discussion as she launches into her grand finale, “Proud Mary” by Ike and Tina Turner. She’s full-on Tina-dancing, hip shimmy and all, and I scream with the rest of the crowd in front of the stage.
The production ends with a huge flourish, deafening applause and cheers, and my roommate blows kisses at everyone. When she spots me, I get a thumbs-up and a dramatic nod that even in my inebriated state makes me blush.
Cade’s arm is tight around my waist. My back is pressed to his chest, and I hate the idea of moving. Still, the number is over, the house music is on, and I have no reason to continue standing in such an intimate way with him.
“That was a helluva show,” Cade says, giving me a flash of his perfect teeth.
“She’ll be out in just a few minutes if you’d like to tell her yourself.”
He nods, and when Chas comes out, Trent and his group of friends scream like it’s a Beatles concert. I laugh, and again, strong arms circle over mine.
“Trent is really happy,” Cade says behind my ear in my hair. I can’t stop a shiver.
“What is this?” my roommate exclaims, eyes wide and blinking. “I have a fan club?”
Cade still has me in his arms, and I watch as my roommate dances a few measures to “Dancing Queen” by ABBA with the group. Her eyes light on me, and all six-foot-one-hundred inches of her in those platforms prances up to us.
“Well, hello!” Chas says, holding her hand toward Cade. “And you are?”
“Cade Hill,” he says in that polished, sports-director voice of his . . . although I do detect a slight slur. But what do I know? I’m a bit slurry myself.
“Chris?” Chas’s eyes roll around to me. “Did you say Chris?”
If I had better balance, I’d kick my roommate in the shins. As it is . . .
The Last Guy Page 4
