by Sandra Hill
“Hah! Like you’d have any trouble lining up a bootie call!” Remy said.
These guys were nuts, and not just them. They’d enlisted the help of a New Orleans Saints football player in a helmet, carrying a football, wearing tight, white scrimmage pants, sans underwear and jersey. Then there was The Swamp Cowboy . . . Charmaine’s scowling husband, Rusty, who was no more happy to be in this nutcase show than he was. There was also a carpenter with tool belt. And a Richard Simmons lookalike; that was Lance’s contribution, to please Tante Lulu. The real Richard told Lance’s agent that he would have come, but he had a prior engagement with a half-ton lady in crisis.
Anyhow, this was the LeDeux’s crazy, half-assed idea of the Village People. It was a show they put on periodically, which was very popular if the crowd outside, five hundred people strong, paying a hundred dollars a pop, was any indication.
The LeDeux women were no better, dressed in bright colored, thigh-high spandex dresses and stiletto heels, even Tante Lulu.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said.
“Don’t go too far. We’ll be on in a half hour . . . or forty-five minutes,” John told him.
“You sure yer comin’ back?” Luc inquired.
Good question. He sure didn’t feel like it, but then he decided he had to. This was his last shot, and he had to give it his all. “I’ll be here,” he promised.
Unfortunately, John got the last shot in when he asked him, “Hey, Lance, I sure hope you know how to shimmy.”
Sucking it in, physically and mentally . . .
Brenda stood near the entrance of the Cajun Christmas event, sipping at her second glass of white wine.
She could barely breathe, but she wasn’t sure if it was because she’d eaten so much food after practically starving herself this past week or if she was afraid to relax for fear of succumbing to Lance’s formidable charms. Not that she’d seen the charmer today. Nope, she was avoiding him like a Krispy Kreme donut.
But really, she was having a good time. The company was great. All of the LeDeux family had shown up. In fact, there were at least five hundred people here, who had paid one hundred dollars for the charitable cause, just to honor Lance. And to see the LeDeuxs perform, an event not to be missed here on the bayou, she’d been told.
And the food . . . oh, my goodness, the food! On the buffet tables arrayed around the huge banquet room there were Gumbo Ya Ya, red beans and rice, Tipsy Chicken, Jambalaya, gator stew, Crawfish Etouffée, Redfish Court Bouillon, blackened catfish fingers, and Limping Susan, an okra and rice dish, not to mention beaten biscuits dripping with butter. And that was just the entrees. For dessert there were sinfully sweet pralines, bread pudding with whiskey sauce, King Cake, and Tante Lulu’s famous Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake. Dieter’s heaven, to be sure.
“Sugar, you look hot,” Charmaine said, coming up to her.
“Thanks,” Brenda said. And she did look hot, as well she should after having spent three hundred dollars on this little red silk slip dress that left her black hose encased legs exposed up to mid-thigh, and her shoulders and chest risking exposure if not for the two thin rhinestone straps. On her feet were red high heels, also with rhinestone straps. Red shoes! A first for Brenda. Her blonde curls had been tamed and upswept, except for a few escaping tendrils. She wore no jewelry except for cheap rhinestone chandelier earrings and the small diamond heart on a gold chain that Lance had given her for a wedding gift eons ago. It was worth practically nothing compared to the more expensive jewelry he’d gifted her over the years, mostly due to guilt. She’d been determined to shine here tonight at her first Lance event in years. “I’m afraid to breathe, or my stomach will pop out.”
“I know what you mean.” Charmaine laughed. “We’ve been wearing these spandex dresses for the past five years, and the fabric has to stretch just a little bit more over my hips and butt these days.”
Brenda couldn’t see where, even with Charmaine being about five months pregnant. All the LeDeux women were going to perform some kind of Motown song and dance number soon, and they were dressed in identical spandex dresses and high heels of different colors. Charmaine filled hers very nicely, thank you very much. She was built like a tall slim beauty queen, which she had been at one time. Miss Louisiana.
Tante Lulu walked up to them then. And, Lordy, Lordy, she was wearing a spandex dress, too. Neon pink with matching pink high heels, though not as high as Charmaine’s. And her short curly hair was dyed pink today, too. She looked like a ball of cotton candy. “Didja finish that wine already, Brenda. Lemme go get ya another glass.”
“No, no, no,” she said, setting her empty wine glass on a nearby empty table. “I’m not much of a drinker, and I’m already feeling a little woozy. I want to be alert for your program.”
“Ooooh, I have a good idea,” Charmaine cooed. “What we all need is an oyster shooter . . . except mine will have to be minus the booze.”
“Charmaine, yer a genius,” Tante Lulu concurred. A remarkable statement. “Does ya like oysters, Brenda?”
“Yes, but I’ve had enough to eat.”
“Sweetie, oyster shooters have nothing to do with food.”
Leading her to the bar, the two Cajun women asked the bartenders to line up some Oyster shooters. There were Tabasco covered raw oysters in one shot glass and one hundred proof bourbon in the next.
Charmaine leaned her head back, tossed back the oyster, immediately followed by the booze, except hers was non-alcoholic. “Whoo-ee, that’s good.”
Tante Lulu did the same. No non-alcoholic chaser for her, though. “Thass what I’m talkin’ about.”
They both turned to her. Brenda was game. She followed suit, and felt the potent drink all the way to her toes. The oyster was spicy. The bourbon was wicked.
Charmaine looked at her, then she and Tante Lulu looked at each other, and grinned.
The two ladies downed another shot and looked at Brenda.
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“Thass yer trouble, girlie. Ya think too much.” Tante Lulu shoved the two glasses into her hand.
What could she do, except to drink them down.
“How come my lips are numb?” she slurred out then.
“Thass the way it’s ’sposed ta be, honey.” Tante Lulu patted her shoulder.
Charmaine and Tante Lulu sashayed away then, butts swaying from side to side, leaving Brenda to wonder if she’d just been conned.
Honey, will you blow me . . . dry? . . .
Lance was still walking off his nervousness.
He stopped in a side room in the back hall where a babysitter was watching over some of the kids, including Patti who was playing Barbie dolls with Luc and Remy’s little girls. When she saw him, she jumped up and ran over, leaping into his arms. He gave her a hug, twirling her around. “How’s it goin’, sweetcakes? Havin’ fun?”
She leaned her head back. Blonde curls, just like her mother’s, were bouncing. “How are you, Daddy?”
“Nervous.”
Giving him another hug, she said, “Don’t be. Tante Lulu showed me how to pray to St. Jude. And he whispered in my ear this morning that everything is gonna be all right.”
“St. Jude, huh?” Now I’m turning my daughter into a fruitcake.
Hey, I resent that, he thought he heard a voice in his head say. St. Jude? That is just great. Now, I’m joining the fruitcake club.
“Have you seen Mom?”
“Nope.” He’d been avoiding that confrontation. He didn’t want to risk having their usual argument before he even made his grand performance.
“She looks so hot.” Patti rolled her eyes meaningfully. “She even bought a new dress. Make sure you tell her how nice it looks, but whatever you do, don’t mention diets, fat, weight, or butts.”
“Bu . . . butts?” he sputtered.
“Yeah, Mom is really sensitive about the size of her butt these days.”
Great! Not only am I taking advice from a woman older than God, but now I’m getting advice fro
m little squirts, too.
That blasted voice in his head said, Whatever works.
“See you later, honey.”
When he stepped out into the hall, he almost ran into Tante Lulu who was wobbling along on pink high heels that matched her pink stretchy dress. Her hair was dyed pink tonight, too. She looked like an ad for Pepto Bismol.
“Gotta hurry,” the old lady told him. “Us girls has gotta decide which Diana Ross songs ta sing. Then mebbe we’ll do `Redneck Woman’. Thass by Gretchen Wilson. Hope I remember the words.”
“Good luck,” he said.
Tante Lulu was already on her way, but she turned and told him, “No, cher, good luck to you, but not to worry. Everythin’s gonna be okay.”
“Is St. Jude talking to you, too?”
“St. Jude allus talks to me. No, I meant that I jist got Brenda ta drink two glasses of wine, and now she’s startin’ on Oyster Shooters.”
“You’re getting her drunk? You think her being drunk will help me win her over?” That’s all I need. Brenda too plastered to notice me making a fool out of myself.
“Not drunk. Jist primin’ the pump.”
Priming the pump! Good Lord! That’s something one of my pit crew would say.
He must have looked dubious because she continued, “You know what they say. `Wine makes good women wenches.’ Well, here in the south we say, `Oyster Shooters make wild women wilder’.”
“Brenda . . . a wild wench?” he muttered to Tante Lulu’s back. “I am in deep shit.” He went into a side corridor, used by employees, and leaned against the wall, putting both hands to his face. Of course, it was just his luck that Brenda walked out of the ladies room just then. Rather, she staggered out of the ladies room.
“I had ta pee, and the other line was too long,” she explained, as if he needed an explanation for her coming out of an employees’ bathroom. “My tongue is so thick. Look at it. Does it look thick ta you.”
To his amazement, Brenda came right up to him—within touching distance, for the love of Dale Earnhardt!—and stuck her tongue out real far. He could practically see her tonsils.
“Looks fine to me,” he said, but what he really wanted to say was, “I don’t know, darling, maybe you better stick it in my mouth so I can make sure.”
“Whatja doin’ out here? Shouldn’t the guest of honor be . . . guest of honoring?” She giggled at her own lame joke.
“I came down this corridor ’cause I’m a little nervous.”
She cocked her head to the side . . . and almost fell over. “You never get nervous in public. Never, ever, never.”
“I am now.”
It was then he took in her outfit. “Holy crap, Brendie! You are one freakin’ hottie tonight. Wow!” She was wearing this short, red, hardly-there dress, which couldn’t possibly have a bra under it. Her long legs were covered with sheer black stockings. Man, he loved her legs. He especially loved her legs in black stockings. She wore red stiletto heels to match her dress, thus raising her up to his height, which was kind of nice. And her lips were covered with red, screw-me-quick lip gloss.
“Wow! back at you,” she said before he could test the screw-me-quick lip gloss.
“You think I look good?” Compliments from Brenda were a rarity. In fact, they’d been non-existent for the past five years.
“You always look good.”
She stood swaying before him.
He stood biting his bottom lip with nervousness.
“Are you all right?” they both said at the same time.
Deciding that he didn’t want to risk some employee—or worse yet a member of the press sneaking in through the kitchen—finding Brenda in this condition, he steered her toward what turned out to be an employees lounge. Once inside, he locked the door, and hoped there would be a vending machine here . . . with black coffee. There wasn’t.
But Brenda solved her own problem. She laid down on the chaise, then stretched her arms over her head.
Which caused her short dress to become even shorter.
Which caused the half-hard-on he always had around her to go full tilt boogie.
He now knew that she wore only panty hose, no panties.
“Why don’t you stay there, honey, and I’ll go get you some coffee.”
“Doan want no coffee.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
Oh. My. God. The answer to all my dreams, and she has to be drunk. This is not funny, St. Jude. Not funny at all.
I think it is, that blasted voice in his head said. We call it celestial humor.
“You don’t mean that, Brendie. You’ve been drinking?” That was a dumb thing to say. As if she didn’t already know she’d been drinking.
“No, I’ve been eating,” she disagreed. “Oysters. Oyster Shooters.”
“Don’t they have straight bourbon in them?”
“Whass yer point? Oysters are an affer . . . apro . . . aphro-dis-iac, ya know? Whoo-boy, are they ever! I feel like I’ve swallowed a bucketload of Viagra.”
Information I do not need in my condition. Maybe later, but not now. Not now when I have to go on a stage pretty damn soon and make a fool out of myself. She scooted herself over toward the wall, making a little bit of room on the chaise. She crooked her finger at him and said, “Wanna make out?”
He smiled.
“I hate it when you do that?” She licked her lips, a slow sexy procedure that made him wonder, if only for a blip of a second, if it would really be morally wrong to make love to Brenda when she was crocked. “My lips are numb. Mebbe . . . maybe there was sugarcane, I mean, Novocain in those drinks.”
“You hate it when I do what, honey?”
“Smile. It makes me get butterflies here.” She placed both hands over her tummy.
Lance noticed something then. A small diamond heart on a chain. He’d given it to Brenda on their wedding night. Was her wearing it a sign of something important . . . a change in her attitude toward him? Was the liquor just bringing out in the open her real feelings? Had she finally, finally, forgiven him? Please, God, he prayed. Please, St. Jude.
I’m here, I’m here, the voice in his head said.
Was it God or St. Jude or his subconscious? Hell, maybe it was bleepin’ Santa Claus. Whatever!
His better judgment told him to be a good boy, that if he lay down with Brenda, she would hate him later.
But his not-so-good judgment just laughed.
So, he eased himself down onto the foot or so of space she’d made for him, pulled her into his embrace, then kissed the top of her curly head. An indication of her inebriation was the fact that she didn’t shove him off the couch, onto his ass. Instead, she cuddled up against him. It was the closest they’d been in such a long time that Lance’s heart constricted in his chest walls.
“I feel like havin’ sex,” she said all of a sudden.
His you-know-what lurched. He was afraid to breathe.
Lance was stunned.
“But maybe we could just kiss a little,” she added.
Not a good idea. Definitely not! he thought even as he lowered his head and pressed his mouth against hers.
They both moaned.
It had been so long, and he and Brenda knew how to kiss each other. They’d been doing it for almost thirty years, since they were both five years old and worried that she might get preggers from kissing. In fact, he and Brenda could bring each other to climax, just by kissing. And if she kept it up . . . licking the roof of his mouth . . . that’s just what was going to happen.
They were both panting when he forcibly took Brenda’s face in both his hands and held her away from him. Her lips were kiss swollen and minus the sexy red lipstick, which he assumed he wore now.
Brenda stared at him, her blue eyes dazed.
He was in a daze, too. Otherwise, he would have been prepared for her leg being thrown over his, and her sitting up, all in one move, which was remarkable considering her condition. But, whoa, she was straddling him
now, her dress hiked up to her waist.
He had a hard-on that could drill concrete, and it was planted smack dab inside her cleft, just where she liked to be touched. The fabric of her panty hose, and the fabric of his pants didn’t buffer the sensation much at all. She rocked against him, just to let him know she was there . . . in case he hadn’t noticed. Hah!
“My nipples are hard,” she said.
“I noticed,” he choked out.
“They ache.”
He leaned upward.
