On the small bench—more like an oversized ottoman—Nikki starts laying out clothes: a red halter top cut low enough my tits will be popping out by the end of the night, a black skirt which—just maybe—will cover my vagina, a pair of boots that should land just above my knees and I shall not forget the black thigh-highs. I’m not sure if the accompanying garter belt or lace will be covered by the previously mentioned skirt.
“During any part of this evening, will you have me beckoning gentlemen callers from a random street corner?” I remark sarcastically. Surely, this is a Pretty Woman remake in the works.
“As much fun and liberating I think that could be for you and your pent-up aggression, no, sadly, I will not be pimping you tonight. But we are hitting Dickson Street, and you’ll be the hottest girl in the vicinity, I’ll make damn sure of it.”
“Dickson Street? Really? We’re not exactly in our twenties anymore. Isn’t there something more appropriate for ladies our age?”
“Fuck no!” Nikki yells, obviously offended by my statement. “Twenty, thirty, or forty, you’re a gorgeous woman, and if your disgusting ex-husband can pull college ass, my dear, so can you, and I’m going to prove this theory.”
“Nik, it’s different for guys. Younger girls always want the older men. College dudes, however, would rather have pert tits instead of intelligence and experience.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, angel girl. You just wait and see.”
“If you say so, but if I end up walking out of this bar with worse self-esteem than I have now, your ass is mine, understood?”
“Clear as fucking day. Now, pull those gorgeous locks out of that hideous bun so we can get ready. Our driver will be here in twenty!”
And during these last precious minutes, I’m plucked, shaved, teased and dressed to kill … or be killed, the jury’s still out. How we’re able to pull it off, God only knows, but as the doorbell rings, letting us know our ride has arrived, we’re both slipping into our shoes and heading out the door.
The trip to the club doesn’t take long since Nikki lives on the outskirts of Fayetteville. Every second I sit in the backseat, I desperately try to make the skirt longer or find a way to get out of the stockings and garter, and every attempt’s swatted away by Nikki with reminders of how sexy I look. I’m buzzed, she’s on the verge of being trashed and I’m not sure I trust her opinion, but what’s the worst that could happen? Someone might tell me I’m not dressed for my age—something I already know—I’ll take my chances. I need this little bit of freedom, maybe just as much as Nikki. Although, John is a fun drunk. He may have made this night even more enjoyable. And they’re cute as fuck together. Then again … the mask.
John’s an amazing husband. He cares for her exactly the way I prayed he would when I stood next to her at her wedding and witnessed their marriage license. She wants for nothing and is loved beyond measure. He may be a little controlling, but Nikki isn’t exactly the easiest person to be around—okay, she’s spoiled rotten and has been her entire life—and John loves her unconditionally.
“You ready?” Nik asks as Raymond, the driver, pulls us right to the curb and she opens the door to exit.
“And if I say no?”
“We’ll go anyway, but I’ll have to drag you out, and if you choose the hard way, all of Dickson sees your crotch. So let’s keep your Britney in hiding a bit longer, shall we?”
“And friends, that’s how you get a girl outta the car,” I tease and step out.
As I start walking toward the end of the line wrapped around the corner, Nikki takes my arm and maneuvers me to the bouncer standing at the main entrance.
“Baby girl, ladies like us don’t wait in line.”
“Name,” the bouncer booms, staring at his list.
“The lady who signs your paychecks,” Nikki answers with authority, and I giggle. It’s been so long since I’ve done anything outside the house, or fun at all, I forgot Nikki’s dad left her this building when he passed away and she turned it into a dance club. She doesn’t need the money but didn’t want to let go of the memories her parents shared here when it was a Salsa club.
“Oh, hey, Mrs. Marucci. I didn’t know you were coming this evening. I don’t think there are any open booths. We sold out just after happy hour ended,” he states proudly, obviously trying to prove his worth to the boss.
“It’s totally fine. It’s a spur-of-the-moment kinda thing. Miranda, here, just signed her divorce papers today. She’s a free woman. You see any talent to match up to this lady?” She waves her arm and I blush, not liking the spotlight and all of my laundry placed on a line I didn’t approve of—the only thing saving her is knowing it’s coming from a good place.
“Lacrosse team from the college is in there, along with a whole group of guys celebrating another’s breakup. Maybe your parties could link up,” he suggests. “Then again, have you looked at her lately? She’s a fucking ten. Don’t know if anyone would be good enough for her.” My cheeks are still flush, but for a totally different reason, when he winks at me. Absolutely handsome man—most likely saying nice things to impress, as Nikki so eloquently put it, the lady who signs his paychecks—but nonetheless a solid attempt at flirting. And I don’t hate it or feel skeeved out.
“Excellent idea. Lacrosse team it is,” Nikki boasts, either missing the fake pickup line or not wanting to make a big deal out of it.
“You ladies have a good night,” he says, lifting the rope for us to walk through the doors. “Find me if you need anything.” Maybe it’s just me, but I’m pretty sure there wasn’t anything phony about that little innuendo, and Nikki’s still oblivious. “And if anyone fucks with you, they’ll deal with me.”
At a staggering twelve-foot-eighty, I don’t doubt him. The man’s a mountain, and his muscles have their own muscles. I should get his number just in case Ben doesn’t have my money deposited in the morning. Or in case I happen to need anything.
Chapter 3
Miranda
Living in a college town means rowdy co-eds everywhere you turn, and bars are the hangout of choice for many of them. Tonight’s no different. Nikki, with her good intentions, had no business bringing me to this place. What exactly is a thirty-something going to have in common with a man-child who still sends laundry home to his mom and eats on a campus meal plan?
I’m seriously contemplating my mental state at this exact moment. Barely-twenty-one-year-old babies crowd every surface of this bar. The only people anywhere near my age in here are Nikki and the staff, and even that’s pushing it.
“Beer?” Nik asks, waiting for me to answer before she places our order.
“Yep. And another shot,” I respond, ready to get whatever this is over with and get home to season three of Orange is the New Black. It’s not that I’m in a bad mood per se, just a somber one. I’ve seen some movies where the recent divorcéegets a party thrown for the deconstruction of her nuptials, so I’ll give Nikki that … this is very thoughtful and kind.
“That’s my girl.” It takes Nikki only seconds to return—my Fairy Godmother of Booze–carrying a tray with two beers and a half dozen shots. What’s she thinking? My college days are long past and my liver’s already in protest. Not to mention, I’m a grownup now … with a job. Thank the Lord I don’t have to work tomorrow.
“Good things come in threes, angel girl. Grab one and raise it up!” she screams. I do as she asks, of course. “This one’s for love.” I sigh and swallow it down, not really digging it—the sentiment or the taste. “This one’s for hate.” I smile, liking this one better than the last and relishing the sting as it burns down my throat. “Finally, my best friend in the entire world, this one’s for a night of great sex.”
Laughing along with her, our tray’s empty and back on the bar top before we head to the dance floor, beers in hand. Not too sure if I’m ready for anyone in my bed just yet, but the thought is wonderful. It’s been so long since I came, I’m not even sure my clit works anymore. It’s funny how
one day you’re ready to jump your husband the second he walks through the door and the next you may as well be asexual, not wanting any physical contact at all. I guess the fear of catching whatever the last slut gave him does that to a girl …
Surprisingly, there’s rap and R&B music of all generations playing. Still not completely comfortable in my attire, I do my best to release my inhibitions and have a little fun. Nikki’s right … it’s been far too long since I’ve been able to get out and be myself. Back in the day, you couldn’t drag us out of a club until well past closing. I was young, hot and feisty … and I fucking knew it.
I sip my beer while conservatively swaying my hips back and forth to “Candy Shop” by 50 Cent, a favorite of mine from my younger days.
“Remember this one?” I yell to Nikki over the thumping bass.
“You’re fucking right, I do,” she laughs and starts rapping 50 Cent’s first part of the song. She continues into the chorus and waits for me to do the girl part, begging 50 to hit the right spot.
Between the heat of the club and warmth of the booze, I start sweating, but never once do I stop dancing. It feels too good. It’s like I’m working Ben out of my system, one ass shake at a time. Nik has something going here … maybe she should stop being a pretty little rich girl and help other’s work out their demons. She’d make a lot more money, not that she needs it.
50 Cent bleeds into “B.O.B” by OutKast and that’s it for my insecurities. Tipping my beer back, I remember exactly how to be that sexy, feisty girl I was before Ben got his hands on me. The second my drink’s gone, I smile sweetly at a group of guys at a high-top table near the dance floor and place the empty bottle in front of them. Heading back to Nikki, I let loose.
Bending over—not enough to give everyone a sneak peek of my panties, but enough so I can really get it—I seductively grind my hips in circles until Andre 3000 starts rapping about bombs over Baghdad. Having to remind myself I’ve won my fair share of drunken wet tee-shirt and booty shakin’ contests, I find the courage I’ve been needing and stop giving a fuck who sees what’s underneath this skirt.
Nikki, the great friend she is, comes up behind me, pretending to thrust toward me, but I know she’s blocking my pussy from saying hello to the entire population of The University of Arkansas, allowing me to enjoy my time.
As the song comes to an end, my hair’s plastered to my soaking wet neck, and I keep checking my chest to make sure I haven’t popped a nip during my twerk session. When the next song starts—“Fancy” by Drake—Nikki’s showing me exactly how well her nails and hair are done, and I have to excuse myself.
“I gotta pee!” I yell.
“I’ll be right here when you’re done,” she responds, continuing to dance next to a pack of girls who look like a great time and have seemed to gravitate toward us throughout the evening. Nothing like a true ladies’ night to bring up your spirits.
On my way to the bathroom, I pull my hair into a pile and hold it on top of my head, wishing Nikki hadn’t made me leave the ponytail holder at home. I could use a quick, messy bun right now. Once in the dimly-lit hallway, I dig my phone from the side of my bra to check for any missed calls, and maybe post a vaguebook status on Facebook, perhaps even check-in to my location, letting the world (Ben) know I’m not missing him whatsoever nor am I sitting home pining or mourning.
“Havin’ a good time?” a deep, sultry voice asks behind me.
“Why, yes. Yes, I am,” I giggle and turn to face him. “Well, you’re a handsome son of a bitch, aren’t you?” I nearly drop my phone when I quickly cover my mouth. Why in the entire fuck would I say something like that out loud? Nikki and her shots, I’m sure of it. I need to stop asking questions I already know the answer to.
“Thanks, you here with someone?”
I have to glance around before I answer. There’s no way this tall, dark-haired, sexy man’s talking to me. Oh, and his sly smirk lets me know he’s well aware of how good he looks.
“My friend,” I respond flatly. Noting nobody else around, he must be speaking to me.
“Well, would your friend happen to look as beautiful as you?”
“Do I look like someone who would hang out at bars with ugly people?” Dropping my head to gaze at my feet, I shake it back and forth and sigh. “Obviously, my filter’s taken a leave of absence. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m usually more reserved.”
“No, I fucking like it. It’s sexy.” He steps closer to me and uses his finger to gently nudge my chin up to look him in the eye. “Would you and your not ugly friend like to come to my booth with me and a few of my buddies?”
“Thank you, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. She’s married, and her husband might just kill you and your pals.”
“Can I be honest with you?”
Is it to tell me you saw my pussy on the dance floor and you really wanna get a better view? Luckily, I manage to stifle this thought and actually say one much more suitable.
“Sure …” I drawl.
“I really don’t give a fuck if she’s married. I do, however, care if you are … married, that is. And if you are, what kind of husband would let his gorgeous wife leave the house looking as sexy as you do without some sort of security detail? He’d have to know a million guys would be lining up to give you their number.”
“I’m sorry, what’s your name?” I ask, unsure if I want to pull him into the bathroom to kiss those full, call-it-how-he-sees-it lips or if I want to ask him what universe he lives in, and is it really a thing that if a woman’s sexy and confident, she must have protection or permission? He’s either giving me a compliment in a backhanded sort of way, or he’s just a misogynist.
“Tanner Reynolds, and you?”
“Miranda Hathaway. And to answer your question, no, I am not married.” It sounds weird, but delicious, coming out of my mouth. It’s honestly the first time I’ve said it and I wasn’t sure how I’d feel. Now I know, and I don’t want to go back. My confidence boost is evident in the rest of my answer. “And if I were, I’d be permitted to leave the house however and with whomever I wanted because, well, I’m an adult. Never asked for a man’s permission and I’m never going to. And finally, I do have a protection detail somewhere around here. He’s a big, giant guy who will rip your sexy lips right off your face if you fuck with me.” Wow, I have to catch my breath after that one.
“I cannot tell you how happy that makes me, Miranda Hathaway. Are you otherwise attached to anyone?”
Wait, is that all he took from what I said? Selective hearing? His response is completely different than anything Ben would have ever given after a speech like that.
“No,” I whisper, barely audible, but he catches it. This kind of interaction with the opposite sex isn’t something I’m used to, and I don’t quite know how to deal with it.
“That’s perfect.” He steps even closer, our bodies a mere breath apart. Tanner leans down, his mouth hovering over my ear, “Is your filter still gone?”
“Pretty sure, yeah. Why?”
“Because,” he says, his hot breath causing goose bumps to emerge over every inch of my skin, “I really wanna kiss ya, and if ya don’t want it, you’ll tell me, right?”
“Oh, I’d sure as shit let you know.” With a swift kick to the dick, leaving no doubt or any doors open for negotiation. I’m getting a little better keeping my thoughts to myself. Score one for me!
“That’s real good, Miranda. Is your bodyguard gonna come around the corner and snatch off my ‘sexy lips’ before they touch yours?”
So he did hear me. Wonderful, at least I got my point across. “Not unless I ask him to.”
“Great. I’m gonna kiss you now.”
“Okay.” The sense of ease I feel with this interaction is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. While nervous, I’m not scared, and with Tanner’s height and stature, he gives me every reason to be frightened, but I don’t. I feel … safe.
I barely get my phone tucked away in my bra befo
re he grabs my hip and pulls me closer until our bodies are flush, his other hand finding its way into my hair. Tanner grips me tightly at the base of my neck and captures my lips with his. He starts gentle, but when I don’t offer any resistance or shove him away—or even dick-kick him—he backs me against the wall, the greedy palm that was on my hip skimming across my stomach up to my breast.
“Come with me,” he breaks the kiss, panting his words.
“Where?” I ask, needing more from him. I don’t know if I’ve ever been kissed like that. There has to be a good ten years between us, but based on the way he felt against me, that gap doesn’t seem to matter one bit to him. Another win for Nikki’s grand plan and a Super Bowl ring for me.
“Over here.” Tanner takes me by the hand and leads me to the men’s room. Pushing open the door, he hollers, “Anyone in here?” When nobody responds, he looks back at me and grins devilishly as he all but yanks me inside.
Tanner drags me to the sink and stands behind me, pulling my hair away from my shoulder and placing hurried kisses across the exposed skin, the sound of his zipper being undone echoing in the tiled room. When he moves to unclasp the hook at the base of my neck—the only thing holding my shirt in place—I place my hand over his.
“Wait. What if my friend comes looking for me?” That shouldn’t be my concern. Fucking a stranger in a bathroom owned by said friend should be the problem … but it’s not … even in the least. Nikki would probably throw me another party for this shit.
Tanner reaches in my bra, grazing my nipple, and takes out my phone, placing it on the sink in front of me. “Send her a text. Tell her you’re safe and if she needs you, you’re in here.”
“Oh … okay …” So I do.
ME: In the men’s room. Don’t ask y. But I’m not kidnapped or dead.
Nikki must have her phone in hand because she quickly responds.
NIK: Usually kidnappers or murderers don’t let u text b4 slaughtering u, so that’s good. Line in the ladies long?
Quick Fix: Book 1 (Suddenly Satisfied) Page 2
