Accounting for Cole (Natural Beauty) (2 page)

I rolled my eyes, thinking
Here we go again.
“It was the last suit of its kind on the rack, so obviously
someone
.”

Gretchen sighed and lifted her auburn ponytail from her breast, studying the ends. “Suckers. All of you. The suit doesn’t matter anyway. Everyone’s going to look at me, because I’m pretty, and Beth because she has big tits. I don’t think anyone is going to pay you any attention, Macy.”

“Why don’t you just kick me in the head?” I put my shoulder to the outer door and pushed.

Beth followed on my heels and emitted a dry chuckle. “A-heh. Don’t mind Gretchen, sweetie. You know she’s never had a well-functioning filter.”

The door clicked shut behind us, and I turned my head to find that Gretchen had followed us out into the sunshine, too.

“Come on,” Gretchen said. “Do you want us to beg? We asked Nikki to drive us but she broke her accelerator foot.”

Lucky Nikki.

We were at the corner now, and I pulled the mailbox flap down and tossed my pile of envelopes into the maw. “Nice to know I’m not even your first choice third wheel,” I grumbled.

They didn’t have a response to that. They just followed me in silence back to my office, then stood a respectful distance away as I retook my seat at the computer. I had some e-mails to respond to.

After about three minutes of typing, I’d gotten into a groove and almost forgot the ladies were there.

Beth cleared her throat. “Look, Macy. Truth is, if you don’t take us, we can’t go. Marko said Gretchen can’t go out unsupervised anymore after that last stunt, and I don’t count as an adult influence. We even asked Nikki’s assistant Trinity, but she was supposed to go to the beach this weekend.”

Lucky Trinity.

Fortunately for my immaculate criminal record, I hadn’t been present for the stunt that got Gretchen put on spousal probation. I hadn’t wanted to know all the gruesome details, but the snatches I caught anyway seemed to indicate Gretchen had committed a little act of public nudity in a sacred place.

I forced out a ragged breath and closed my e-mail software, eyeing both women in turn. Beth looked hopeful, Gretchen expectant.

“Hey, I know we annoy the shit out of you, and have since elementary school,” Beth said with a cringe. “But there’s only a few people we trust to keep us on the straight and narrow, and one of you dropped a bowling ball on her own foot last week.”

Raking my bangs back from my eyes, I stared at Gretchen, who chewed on one of her immaculate cuticles, then Beth, who finally had the good sense to look apologetic. They were like helpless puppies in a way. I felt sorry for them.

“Dammit.” I snatched my keys from the corner of my desk, and stood. If anyone deserved pity at the moment, it was me. I would have rather been shredding seven years of tax returns than spending an evening babysitting the two most unpredictable women in Chowan County.

CHAPTER TWO

As I’d feared, Club Sapphire was hot, loud, and crowded.

We managed to wrangle ourselves a table near the stage only because Beth had an eagle eye and absolutely no qualms about squatting. The table we nabbed was obviously occupied by a group whose anchor wasn’t smart enough to hold her pee until her absent companions returned from the bar and dance floor. We had been seated an entire three minutes when the obvious leader of our competition returned with an unopened bottle of champagne tucked under her arm, and a little digital camera gripped in her right hand.

Even being dressed in a soft yellow shift with a silk scarf tied jauntily at her neck, she had a certain quality about her that whispered, “Hulk Smash.” She was
big
, and with the way her thin lips flattened and eyes narrowed at spotting us, I suspected she was no virgin to throwing her weight around. Hell, she could have played offensive tackle for the Panthers with as broad as her shoulders were.

“Jesus,” Beth hissed through clenched teeth.

Too late for prayer, I figured. I should have done that before we left Edenton.

“This table is
ours
,” the lady slurred. She tucked the champagne bottle under the arm with the camera and pointed to the charming pile of trash she and her cohorts had left behind. “We were here
first
.” She wrapped the fingers of her free hand around the top of my chair back and tried to tip me out of it.

“Yikes!” I gripped the table and scrambled to my feet just before my ass slapped the polished cement floor.

“What is your
problem
?” Beth asked the woman, with an accompanying poke to her shoulder.

Naturally, the brick house didn’t budge.

Beth swallowed, but straightened her back and let her smooth forehead furrow. “You abandoned your table, Bessie. We
took
it. Sorry for your loss. Buck up and put on your big girl panties.”

“Who are you calling
big
?” the mountain of a woman asked. Her voice had deepened half an octave, and I could have sworn I saw an Adam’s apple bob.

I gave Beth’s side a discreet pinch. “Um…Beth?”

Beth swatted my hand away.

The “lady” set her champagne bottle on the edge of the table, and stuffed her camera into her bra. She straightened her breast padding, and I took a step back, trying to pull Beth along with me.

Red splotches bloomed on the woman’s face, and with each passing second her anvil of a jaw jutted out a bit more. The breathing through her slightly crooked Roman nose became loud and labored, the likes of which I’d only ever heard before from a cartoon bull about to charge a matador. I took another step back, but Beth remained oblivious.

“You know what?” I said, finding my courage and putting my body between the woman and Beth. “It’s all right. We can find somewhere else to sit. I saw some tall cocktail tables near the entrance.”

“I don’t
think
so,” Beth said with a scoff. “If she’s got a problem she can take it out on her friend who can’t hold her piss, or maybe the ones over there at the bar who are too stupid to flag the waitress down. There’s no reserved sign on this table.” She leaned in closer to the vexed behemoth and plucked a bit of lint off her linen dress with a sneer.

I turned to Gretchen, pleading for aid with my expression, but she didn’t see it. She was busy sipping her wine and staring at the empty stage, bobbing her head offbeat to the house music.

I blew a raspberry and silently itemized the contents of my purse, just in case I needed a weapon of some sort. I might have had a fountain pen that could inflict considerable aggravation.

“
Move
!” the woman bellowed, right as a lavender-shirted bouncer made his way to the stage. About freaking time.

“Ladies, is there a problem here?” he asked. He crossed his arms over his burly chest and gave us each a chastising look.

I rolled my eyes.

“The show is about to start, so you need to take your seats.”

“That’s the problem! These heifers took our table!” the brick house said, jabbing a finger in my specific direction.

Awkward.

“Heifers? Are you freakin’ kidding me? You’re like the lovechild of Goliath and Godzilla.”

The bouncer turned his head to the side and coughed in an effort to disguise his obvious chuckle.

Beth sidled up to him and touched his arm, forcing him to turn his attention to her face via her décolletage.

He grinned, smarmy bastard.

“That’s not quite true,” she purred, rubbing his massive bicep in a manner I thought was far too familiar for a stranger, but that was just Beth. Beth was grabby. Always had been, even back in high school. I remember one field trip when she disappeared for half an hour in a history museum. The teacher sent me off in search of her, and I finally found her huddled in a corner of the deserted Lost Colony exhibit with a college intern. He had a similar grabby-hands problem, judging by the placement of his palms on her caboose.

“The table was empty. True, it hadn’t been cleared off, but we’re patient. We know the waitstaff is very, very busy tonight with all these out-of-towners here. Now, if the table has a true reservation on it, we’ll be more than happy to move.” She batted her false eyelashes at him and cocked her blonde head to the side coyly.

The bouncer sized her up, giving her a head-to-toe assessment that ended with a wink, and then turned to the Goliath in a sundress. “Sorry, Freda. You’re a regular. You know club policy. If you leave your table unattended for any period of time it’s considered open.”

“Are you fucking
kidding
me?” she bellowed, voice deepening again. She slammed her bottle onto the table, and I heard a splintering sound.

I cringed.

“I paid good money for my ticket.”

The bouncer nodded. “So did everyone. I just enforce the rules, and they don’t change for different shows. I hate to say it since you’re a good customer, but move along now or we’ll have to ask your party to leave.”

She stared at him agape and agog, screamed loudly and wordlessly, grabbed her bottle by the neck, snatched the arm of the wayward table-mate who’d finally returned, and shoved her way through the crowd.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” the bouncer said. He bobbed his head at Beth and turned on his heel toward the backstage area.

Beth gave him a swat on the rear as he passed.

“Oh yeah, I like it rough,” he called back.

“I could tell,” Beth returned brightly.

I eyed her with malice.

“
What
?” She shrugged. She sat on the chair nearest the stage, gave a little wave to a member of the floor staff, and pointed to the residual mess on the table. “People do things for me because I’m sexy,” she said.

“Me, too,” Gretchen said, finally floating back down from La-la Land to interact with us. “Macy, if you’re ever going to get a man, you need to learn how to work it.”

I groaned.

The music changed and the lights in the club dimmed even lower. Other than the lights over the bar, the only illumination in the room was the spotlight trained on the microphone.

A long, toned leg enmeshed in black fishnet hose and ending with a six-inch Lucite platform pump appeared from behind the rhinestone-spangled curtain.

Someone in the room whistled as the player behind the curtain extended a hand, dangling from a limp wrist ensconced in a long, black satin glove. Its owner wriggled long fingers, showing off a faux diamond on one finger the size of my gearshift knob.

RuPaul, on the backing track, instructed the person to
work
. He…er,
she
took the commandment to heart.

A man I
thought
for a moment was Ru herself sashayed onto the stage in a lime green organza ruffled mermaid dress.

I rubbed my eyes and blinked. No, it wasn’t RuPaul. This guy was too broad at the shoulders, and much bulkier overall. I knew this all too well from my weekend reality television marathons.

He was a RuPaul
impersonator
—got that? A female impersonator impersonating the world’s most famous drag queen. My head spun.

“Welcome ladiiiiiieeees!” he sang into his mike, prancing around the stage in his sky-high heels and waving like a beauty queen on a parade float.

The crowd cheered, and I could have sworn I heard Freda whooping it up in the back. She sounded downright jubilant.

“Thanks for coming to our revue. You better love it! We promise the show won’t be a drag.”

Rim shot.

I groaned. Cheesy.

“We’re so happy to be in your cute little town tonight, so hello, Jacksonville!”

“Greenville!” some woman in the crowd called out.

“Huh?” the MC bent his ear toward the voice and extended his mic to the crowd.

“Greenville!” she repeated.

“Oh.” He straightened his back, puffed out his prosthetic chest, and straightened his platinum wig. “Whatever, bitch,” he sang cheerfully before blowing the woman a kiss.

Giggles sounded from the peanut gallery.

I rolled my eyes.

“Well, let’s get this party started, oh-kay? Some of you hussies have to be in church in the morning, and I know how y’all are. You’re going be sitting in the pews acting like you weren’t here committing any number of sins the night before.” He narrowed his sparkly-lashed eyes and shook his head. “Shameful. I’m not one to judge, though. I just gossip and save the judging for Judy.
Anyway
.” Fake Ru walked to the side of the stage and put his mic into the stand. “Without further ado, please put your hands together for the comic stylings of Brawny Love!”

The club exploded into applause, and a heavyset black man with over-plucked eyebrows and a damned convincing lace-front curly wing approached center stage and started his monologue.

I listened for a while to his dissertation on acrylic nail designs, which was admittedly pretty funny, but when I realized his suit wasn’t much different than mine I slid my chair back and mumbled, “I’m going to get a soda.”

Beth and Gretchen didn’t acknowledge my departure at all, being so hypnotized by the fake Lonnie Love’s routine, so they certainly didn’t notice when Freda the Hulk tossed the contents of her drink cup at me. She was about five feet away when I spotted her, and by then it was too late.

She and her friends had found a new table about four rows back. I stood frozen for a minute there in the aisle with a few women looking over at me consolingly, but doing nothing. I forced a hiss through clenched teeth and closed my eyes to center myself.

My personality is encoded with a limited number of responses to stressful social situations. One: cry. Two: shriek like a banshee with the devil on her ass. Three: Cataplexy. None of those seemed appropriate at the moment, so I squeezed my eyes closed, took a deep, cleansing breath, and thought of reasonable things like oil prices and the tax code.

When I opened them, I felt a little better—a little less lightheaded, at least—and put one foot in front of the other with the ladies’ room my destination. I’ve got a memory like an elephant, but I certainly didn’t want any visual reminders of my awful evening via the soda syrup stain on my suit jacket.