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I’ll let Ariel dress me, and I’ll go to PJ’s stupid club tonight, but I’ll do it for me. Because I need a change. Because I need a reminder that I am a strong, independent woman who can make anything happen. With a little confidence and my new friends by my side, I can do anything.
“Operation Get Cindy Laid is now in full effect,” Ariel announces, tossing the red dress at me.
“That is not the purpose of this evening, and I’m not wearing this,” I tell her, throwing the dress right back at her.
“I just found out you like porn. I feel closer to you than ever before. Don’t ruin this for me. Get your ass in the bathroom and put on the slutty red dress,” she orders, grabbing my hand and smacking the dress into it.
“Fine. But this night is strictly about business and nothing else,” I tell her as I turn and make my way to the bathroom.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Small-business license, website design, filing tax paperwork, blah, blah, blah, Cindy’s getting a frickle shoved in her frackle,” Ariel shouts after me.
Chapter 12: Does Your Wife Know Where You Are Tonight?
“This is fascinating. I already interviewed twenty men and I have so much information it will blow your minds. I should make flashcards when I get home,” Belle muses as she scribbles notes in a small notebook she’s been carrying around with her since we got to Charming’s.
I attempt to tug down the hem of the shorts Ariel forced me to wear to stop my rear end from popping out each time I walk, but it’s no use. These miniscule black-leather things feel like they’ve been painted on me, and they won’t budge.
“Excuse me, sir?” Belle speaks loudly above the music thumping through the sound system as she grabs the arm of a gentleman walking by us. “Do you have a few minutes to speak with me? I’d just like to know how many singles you currently carry in your wallet. And did you stop at a bank on the way here to make change? I notice you’re wearing a wedding ring. Does your wife know where you are tonight, and if so—”
“Stop.”
We both turn when we hear a menacing voice speak from behind us, our heads tipping back to look up at the angry, hulking man standing with his feet planted apart and his arms crossed in front of him.
“I’m almost finished with my questions. Just a few more and then—”
“No.” Beast cuts Belle off again.
“Stop interrupting her. It’s rude.”
But I give up scolding him for his manners because I’m busy trying to tug the hem of my shorts down with one hand, while attempting to hold the deep V of my low-cut, white silk shirt closed, so my breasts don’t fall out of the stupid thing.
Each pull and tug I perform makes the spaghetti straps of my dressy tank top fall down my arms until there’s nothing holding up my shirt but my hand holding it against my chest.
This is ridiculous.
“Marching around this club asking the customers if their wives know where they are is rude,” Beast grumbles, stringing together more words than I’ve ever heard him utter.
“I’m compiling facts and doing research. You can’t tell me what to do,” Belle states, narrowing her eyes and taking a step toward him, not even a little bit afraid of the glare he’s giving her.
“Stop. Talking. To customers,” Beast growls in a low voice.
“Fine. Then I’ll ask you. Does your wife know where you are tonight? How many singles do you currently have in your back pocket?” Belle asks, her pen poised above the notebook, ready and waiting for any knowledge he might give her, oblivious to the dark look that passes over his eyes at her questions.
“Go home.”
With those final words, Beast turns and stalks away, his giant body swallowed up by the crowd of people milling about with drinks in their hands, waiting for the first performer to get on stage.
“How am I supposed to conduct research when no one is cooperating?” Belle complains, pushing her glasses up on her nose as Ariel walks up between us, tipping back a tumbler and finishing off the contents, the ice cubes clinking against the glass when she pulls it away from her mouth.
“You’re supposed to conduct research by partaking in the festivities, not killing everyone’s buzz with a hundred questions like you’re a reporter on the beat. Do some shots. Mingle. Give a few lap dances. Embrace the beauty of the American strip-club experience,” Ariel tells us. “And for God’s sake, stop covering up the goods.”
She smacks my hand away from the plunging neckline of my blouse.
“Yes, please stop covering up the goods.”
Ariel lets out a long, suffering sigh when Eric joins our group, his eyes zeroed in on the ample amount of cleavage she doesn’t bother to try to hide in the skintight red dress I refused to wear.
