Cream of the Crop
Page 53
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Leo’s family was very old New York, blood bluer than blue, banking dynasty. His family had a large estate on the outskirts of town that went back generations, including a huge old mansion that Leo referred to as the “big house.”
“And we’ve got our own thing going on this weekend, if you know what I mean.” Roxie leaned against Leo and tugged at the top button on his shirt.
“Yeah, we know what you mean. The entire bar is about to go up in flames from the sexual tension between you two.” Chad sighed, fanning himself.
It was true; the amount of sexual energy being generated on that side of the table could have powered a small town.
Just then another pitcher of beer arrived at our table, along with another bowl of peanuts, and the next thing I knew I was standing on the stage (plywood set on cinder blocks) singing the only song I knew in their twenty-song karaoke lineup.
There are songs that are meant to be sung loudly and accompanied by a PBR and peanut buzz. Songs that make you think you can sing, and that you alone understand the lyrics the way no one else possibly can, and that the only way to do them justice is to leave all self-awareness and good judgment behind.
Which is why when Oscar showed up at Pat’s Nightmare on Elm Street, he found me singing at the top of my lungs, finger-pointing and fist-pumping, giving my all to my performance of “Don’t Stop Believin’.”
To be clear, if this song is on, you turn it up. You stop what you’re doing, you roll down every window within reach, you throw every care away, and you give yourself over to the genius that is Journey.
And that’s what was happening when I saw Oscar from across the cheering, clapping crowd. You have a choice when you get caught doing something like this—especially in front of someone who’s currently blowing your socks off. You can run and hide, or you can sing louder.
I chose the latter. And as I straddled the mike and gave it my eighties all, he grinned wide and wolf-whistled loud, clapping his hands right along with every other fool in that bar. When the song was over, and my voice was still ringing (shrieking) through the air, I dropped the mike, gave a little bow, and strutted offstage to the screams of the twenty or so applauding locals who happened to be there.
“Glad I didn’t miss that,” he said as I made my way over to where he was standing by the bar. “That was some song.”
“Journey brings out the best, what can I say?” I replied, my eyes appreciatively taking him in. He was easily the biggest guy in the place, but somehow he didn’t look intimidating to me anymore. Sure, he wasn’t quick to smile, and the scar over his right eyebrow made him look perma-dangerous. I wanted to lick that scar. “How was the farmers’ market? Did you sell out?”
“We did.” He nodded, his eyes running over the length of my body. “What the hell are you wearing, Pinup?”
“Like it?” I asked, giving him a little twirl. I was feeling a fifties retro vibe when I was getting ready tonight. Off-white skirt with large black polka dots, black turtleneck, wide red belt. The best part? Red stiletto platforms, with an ankle strap and a four-inch heel. When I twirled, the skirt did, too, and revealed one more retro accent.
Garters holding up my thin silk stockings, clipped to a pair of high-waisted black silk panties. The garters he might have seen; the panties were for later.
Based on how wide his eyes grew, and how he gripped the bar until white-knuckled, I’m guessing he saw the garters.
“I just threw on a little something for a night out on the town.”
“Out on the town, huh?” He shook his head a little, as though to clear it. “Not really sure that a night at Pat’s really counts as such.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I replied, leaning across the bar and snatching an olive. “Some drinks, some friends, some killer music”—I lifted my chin toward the stage, where someone’s terrible version of “Son of a Preacher Man” was screeching out of the speakers. “I’d say it’s a great night out on the town.”
“How about a great night out in my barn? Maybe even out on the hood of my truck?” Oscar whispered, running his fingers right where the garters were on my thighs.
I choked a bit on my drink, and my heart leapt into my throat. He pressed on the garter, a small, infinitesimal amount of pressure that to anyone else would look innocent.
But we knew better. His thumb was right over the clip that held the stocking up.
He leaned over again, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I bet I could roll them down with my teeth. Lemme try, Natalie.”
My knees buckled. Thankfully, his big hands were there to catch me.
“Nat, you okay?” Roxie asked, laughing when my drink sloshed over the side of the glass.
“Cheap date!” Leo hollered, waving over the waitress to order another round.
“It’s uh . . . the shoes,” I lied, holding Oscar’s considerable biceps tightly. You know, for support.
Never in my life had a pair of high heels made me wobble. But add the Oscar factor, and the fingers on garters, and I was lying through my teeth.
I had a plan for tonight. I’d decided that if I saw him, I’d be in charge. Before the sex, after the sex, during the sex, I’d drive him wild with need—not the other way around. Yet with just a few words, he managed to make me weak in the knees and flushed in the cheeks. This guy did things to me.
“You can’t talk to me like that here,” I whispered, brushing my hip against the front of his jeans. I had to regain the upper hand or I’d be naked in a bar in five seconds flat, with Oscar behind me.
“And we’ve got our own thing going on this weekend, if you know what I mean.” Roxie leaned against Leo and tugged at the top button on his shirt.
“Yeah, we know what you mean. The entire bar is about to go up in flames from the sexual tension between you two.” Chad sighed, fanning himself.
It was true; the amount of sexual energy being generated on that side of the table could have powered a small town.
Just then another pitcher of beer arrived at our table, along with another bowl of peanuts, and the next thing I knew I was standing on the stage (plywood set on cinder blocks) singing the only song I knew in their twenty-song karaoke lineup.
There are songs that are meant to be sung loudly and accompanied by a PBR and peanut buzz. Songs that make you think you can sing, and that you alone understand the lyrics the way no one else possibly can, and that the only way to do them justice is to leave all self-awareness and good judgment behind.
Which is why when Oscar showed up at Pat’s Nightmare on Elm Street, he found me singing at the top of my lungs, finger-pointing and fist-pumping, giving my all to my performance of “Don’t Stop Believin’.”
To be clear, if this song is on, you turn it up. You stop what you’re doing, you roll down every window within reach, you throw every care away, and you give yourself over to the genius that is Journey.
And that’s what was happening when I saw Oscar from across the cheering, clapping crowd. You have a choice when you get caught doing something like this—especially in front of someone who’s currently blowing your socks off. You can run and hide, or you can sing louder.
I chose the latter. And as I straddled the mike and gave it my eighties all, he grinned wide and wolf-whistled loud, clapping his hands right along with every other fool in that bar. When the song was over, and my voice was still ringing (shrieking) through the air, I dropped the mike, gave a little bow, and strutted offstage to the screams of the twenty or so applauding locals who happened to be there.
“Glad I didn’t miss that,” he said as I made my way over to where he was standing by the bar. “That was some song.”
“Journey brings out the best, what can I say?” I replied, my eyes appreciatively taking him in. He was easily the biggest guy in the place, but somehow he didn’t look intimidating to me anymore. Sure, he wasn’t quick to smile, and the scar over his right eyebrow made him look perma-dangerous. I wanted to lick that scar. “How was the farmers’ market? Did you sell out?”
“We did.” He nodded, his eyes running over the length of my body. “What the hell are you wearing, Pinup?”
“Like it?” I asked, giving him a little twirl. I was feeling a fifties retro vibe when I was getting ready tonight. Off-white skirt with large black polka dots, black turtleneck, wide red belt. The best part? Red stiletto platforms, with an ankle strap and a four-inch heel. When I twirled, the skirt did, too, and revealed one more retro accent.
Garters holding up my thin silk stockings, clipped to a pair of high-waisted black silk panties. The garters he might have seen; the panties were for later.
Based on how wide his eyes grew, and how he gripped the bar until white-knuckled, I’m guessing he saw the garters.
“I just threw on a little something for a night out on the town.”
“Out on the town, huh?” He shook his head a little, as though to clear it. “Not really sure that a night at Pat’s really counts as such.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I replied, leaning across the bar and snatching an olive. “Some drinks, some friends, some killer music”—I lifted my chin toward the stage, where someone’s terrible version of “Son of a Preacher Man” was screeching out of the speakers. “I’d say it’s a great night out on the town.”
“How about a great night out in my barn? Maybe even out on the hood of my truck?” Oscar whispered, running his fingers right where the garters were on my thighs.
I choked a bit on my drink, and my heart leapt into my throat. He pressed on the garter, a small, infinitesimal amount of pressure that to anyone else would look innocent.
But we knew better. His thumb was right over the clip that held the stocking up.
He leaned over again, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I bet I could roll them down with my teeth. Lemme try, Natalie.”
My knees buckled. Thankfully, his big hands were there to catch me.
“Nat, you okay?” Roxie asked, laughing when my drink sloshed over the side of the glass.
“Cheap date!” Leo hollered, waving over the waitress to order another round.
“It’s uh . . . the shoes,” I lied, holding Oscar’s considerable biceps tightly. You know, for support.
Never in my life had a pair of high heels made me wobble. But add the Oscar factor, and the fingers on garters, and I was lying through my teeth.
I had a plan for tonight. I’d decided that if I saw him, I’d be in charge. Before the sex, after the sex, during the sex, I’d drive him wild with need—not the other way around. Yet with just a few words, he managed to make me weak in the knees and flushed in the cheeks. This guy did things to me.
“You can’t talk to me like that here,” I whispered, brushing my hip against the front of his jeans. I had to regain the upper hand or I’d be naked in a bar in five seconds flat, with Oscar behind me.
