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I go back to the stage area and finish off the song, giving the crowd a pose with my arm up, my fingers spread wide. I’m out of breath and I hope I never have to see video evidence of this, but I did it. And I’m getting big cheers from the crowd. Perhaps even a little more than Graham. Probably not, but I’ll keep telling myself that. Anyway, the crowd doesn’t matter—Morgan does, and she has a big grin on her face when I get back to the table.
“Lucy, that was amazing!” she yells.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling jittery as the adrenaline from the last few minutes starts leaving my body. I grab my jean jacket from Morgan and put it on. “Who won?”
Graham is sitting with his arms folded, smiling at me while he shakes his head. “You can’t even give Morgan a second to breathe?”
“What?” I say, looking at him and then at Morgan. “It shouldn’t take that long.”
“Actually, I need to think about it,” she says.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “I freaking sat in some rando’s lap. It’s clear who the winner is.”
“That was pretty impressive,” she says. “Very unlike you.”
“It was gross,” Ryan says.
“I’m going to have to agree with Ryan,” Graham adds.
I give Graham my best smug expression. “Wishing you tried that one, Shackwell?”
“No,” he says. “I don’t need manipulation tactics like that to get the crowd going.”
“Oh right, so that half-striptease you did wasn’t manipulation?”
“It was one button,” he says.
I turn to Morgan. “I need to use the bathroom, so make up your mind already.”
“Lucy, just go to the bathroom and I’ll let you know when you get back.” She gives me an exasperated look.
“Okay, but don’t let him schmooze you,” I say, pointing to Graham.
Graham holds up his hands, the picture of innocence. “I would never. By the way, Morgan, would you like something to drink?” He gives her his most charming smile.
I roll my eyes before leaving them, walking around the corner toward the back of the bar where the bathrooms are located. I make quick work of using the facilities and then wash my hands before wetting the edge of a paper towel and running it under my eyes where my eyeliner had run a bit from all my efforts.
As I head back to my friends, the man whose lap I threw myself on stops me.
“Hey,” he says, his mouth pulled up into a smile. It’s a captivating one—big with straight white teeth. He’s tall, with broad shoulders. The T-shirt he’s wearing hugs him just right. Under his hat I can see tufts of dark-brown hair peeking out.
“Hi,” I say, grinning back.
“Great work up there,” he says.
“Thanks for the ... uh, use of your lap?” I don’t know why that comes out as a question, and also what am I even saying? Thank goodness I didn’t say lap dance, because it was on the tip of my tongue.
He chuckles. “Not a problem. Anytime.” His smile morphs into something more playful. “You’ve got some great dancing skills.”
“Oh”—I wave his words away with my hand—“I’m rusty.”
“You could have fooled me. I’m Brett, by the way,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Lucy,” I say, placing my hand in his. His hand is warm, and it practically engulfs mine.
“Lucy. I like that name.”
“Thanks, it’s been my name all my life,” I say, as I let go of his hand.
