Rock Chick Redemption
Page 75

“We’re just here to watch Lottie’s fantabulous debut!” I announced.
The black guy stared at me.
“I know who you f**kin’ are too. Lottie’s been talkin’.
Shit, everyone in Denver knows who you are. This ain’t your f**kin’ fiancé. You’re sleepin’ with Nightingale. Fuck!” he shouted. Then he turned to Jet and pointed a finger in her face. “Somethin’ happens, I blame you.”
Then he stalked off.
Jet looked at me. “That’s Smithie. He’s real y a big softie.”
Maybe Uncle Tex was right; maybe Jet was a bit loopy.
Then Smithie came jogging back with his finger pointed at me.
“You dance?” he asked.
I stared at him. “Dance?”
He jerked a thumb to the stage.
“Holy cow,” I breathed.
“She doesn’t f**kin’ dance,” Luke answered for me.
Smithie threw up his hands and looked at Jet again.
“Another f**kin’ one of these guys. What’s wrong with strippin’? Fuck!”
Annette cal ed from the table. “I dance! Do you have amateur night or something?”
Smithie turned to her. “You don’t need f**kin’ amateur night, woman, you need to know how to f**kin’ move. You know how to move?”
Jason was looking pale.
“I know how to move,” Annette answered.
“You’l be drivin’ a Porsche in a month.”
“I don’t want a Porsche. I want a condo in Breckenridge.”
“For that you gotta do lap dances,” Smithie said.
Jason started to look sick.
“I’m not sure I want to do lap dances,” Annette said.
“Suit your-fuckin’-self. You wanna just dance, f**kin’
come in tomorrow. We’l get you set the f**k up!” I didn’t know Smithie, like at al , but even I could tel he was excited.
I tugged on Luke’s arm and he looked down at me.
“Do something,” I hissed.
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something. Jason looks like he’s going to be sick.”
“Not my problem.”
“This is cool!” Annette yel ed.
“Good God,” I muttered, momentarily forgetting myself and resting my forehead on Luke’s shoulder.
“Babe,” Luke said low.
My head jerked up.
Shit.
I stepped away from him.
“Good idea,” he mumbled.
I turned to the table and announced, “I need a drink.”
“Get over here and sit next to Shirleen, girl,” the black woman said to me and I walked over and sat down, throwing my wrap on the back of the chair and my purse on the table.
Luke fol owed and stood behind me.
“Someone get this girl a drink. What you drinkin’? I got me an appletini. You ever have an appletini? So smooth, get you f**ked up before you can blink.”
“An appletini sounds good,” I agreed. Fucked up sounded even better.
She started snapping her fingers and, as if by magic, a waitress arrived. The waitress was wearing a cute, black camisole with “Smithie’s” written across the front in fancy, red script, a tiny red mini skirt and a pair of kickass black strappy sandals. The outfit was the shit.
“Get my girl an appletini, me too.” Shirleen ordered then swung her big ‘fro back to me. Then she said, total y nosy but somehow getting away with it. “Jet’s been tel in’ me you got man trouble.”
“You could say that.”
“Tel Shirleen all about it.”
“Which man are we talking about? The scary ex-boyfriend who won’t let me go? The bad guys I don’t know who might accidental y shoot me? Or the good man I have that I’m afraid to lose?”
Shirleen stared at me. “How many men you got, girl?”
“Just those,” I said. I looked up at Luke then back to Shirleen. “So far.”
“Wel , then, we got al night, unless you’re real y here for the show.”
I shook my head. “I’m just here for Jet.”
“Start talkin’,” Shirleen demanded.
So, I did.
* * * * *
Three appletinis later, I was definitely feeling loose. Jet had talked Lottie out of her nerves. Tod had talked me into letting him try on my shoes (they fit). We al spent a lot of time talking about which song he should sing in his drag show while wearing my shoes. No one was able to talk Annette out of dancing. Uncle Tex decided he was talking to me again (but just barely). And Shirleen had sorted out al my problems by tel ing me she’d known Hank since he was a little boy (what? were there only, like, two dozen people who lived in Denver?) and if I let him go I needed to have my head examined (whatever).
The place was wired. Brody would have been beside himself. The longer we waited for Lottie to dance, the more the anticipatory vibe grew until the air was electric.
Then the lights went low.
Smithie took the stage.
“Gentlemen… fuck…” he looked at us. “And ladies. I give you Lottie Mac! ”
A roar tore through the massive crowd.
Holy cow. If I was Lottie, I’d have had cold feet too.
The lights went out, I heard Smithie mutter another “fuck” while he tried to get off the stage in the dark. Then the lights went on and Jet’s sister was there.
She was as pretty as Jet, bigger boobs, more makeup and a body to-die-for. She wore a kil er gold bikini, heavily embel ished with beading and sequins that I’d sel my firstborn child just to touch and a pair of strappy, gold sandals that she danced in like she was in bare feet.
And she could dance.
To say the girl could move was an understatement of tremendous proportions. She worked her body, she worked the stage, she worked the poles and she worked the crowd.
Not like this was her first night on the stage dancing, but like she’d invented it.
A hush came over the crowd, total, reverent silence throughout the first song.
When the first song segued into the second, the crowd came out of its stupor. They al started to cheer, to chant, to undulate.
Everyone at our tables was right along with them. My hands were over my head, I was shouting, “Woo hoo!” and
“You go girl!” After Lottie executed an upside-down pole slide with one leg up in the air and one leg wrapped around the pole, Shirleen and I turned to each other and did a high five, such was our excitement for the beauty of the overal sisterhood.
Lottie was the master; she worked it until the final notes of the song. Then, she stood stock-stil , reached behind her back and tore off her bra. You got a nanosecond of a glimpse of her magnificent br**sts then the lights went out.