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“I think I know what this place is.” Rachel has her nose to her phone screen.
“Let’s see.” Demi reaches for it, but Rachel pulls it away with a grin.
“Nuh uh. Wait and see.”
The place is full of women, with at least three dressed as brides, a large group on the other side of the stage with birthday hats, and a very loud contingent near the back who keep screaming about being fifty.
Beside me, Bexley grips my wrist as the lights suddenly go off. And then six men erupt on stage and the crowd goes wild.
I’ve been to see dancers once in Toronto but they were nothing like this. It’s the football scene from the new Top Gun movie, only better. It’s Chippendales from the 1980s. It’s Magic Mike come to life.
Phones are held up, along with bills of every denomination. Women scream for more and push past our seats to get closer to the stage.
“This is wild,” Bexley cries after the first number, eyes wide and face full of laughter. “I can’t believe Mase did this.”
“Did Grayson know?” Shae demands. “Because if Emmett did, he didn’t say anything to me.”
The men dance to song after song, and I jump to my feet more than once. The excitement is contagious, if not a little frightening. Some of the women really get into it.
Pitcher after pitcher of margaritas come to the table, only to be quickly emptied.
There’s no anxiety in me tonight. My stomach is soon aching with laughter, my throat raw from screaming, and I’m having the best time. Bexley points out her favourites, shrieks in appreciation of the dance moves, and shares her happiness with the rest of us. I love seeing her having this good of a time.
If I didn’t have warm feelings toward Mase already, knowing he planned this for us would have cemented them.
I wonder what he’s doing with the guys?
Is he at a similar venue with women dancing on stage? Did they meet up with women? Are they with him? Is Emelia—?
“What’s wrong?” Bexley cries, still holding my hand.
I shake my head and push a smile. “Nothing. This is great!”
“Are you sure? You looked sad for a minute. Is everything okay?” Her worried expression deepens and I give myself a shake. There’s no way I’m spoiling her evening with my concerns.
“I’m great,” I reassure her. “No problems. Are you having fun?”
“This is the best.” She laughs. “Mase is thebest.”
Maseisthe best. “I know,” I say as my smile widens. “He really is.”
And then it happens. Three of the dancers are in the audience, expertly dodging grasping hands but still somehow collecting tips, and they meet at the front of the stage, ending up right beside my seat at the table.
Right beside me. All their attention is onme—not Bexley, not Chrissa, not beautiful Biba in another pink outfit.
“Hey, there,” one of the men says to me with a wicked grin, picking up my hand lying on the table and bringing it to his lips. He’s got hair almost as good as Mase, and a chest so wide, I feel like I could lay down for a nap.
If I wanted to nap on top of a man, which I don’t.
It’s a struggle to find my voice. “Hi,” I squeak and try not to giggle. When he releases my hand, it somehow finds the man’s bicep and gives it a squeeze.
Our table is stunned into silence but behind me, a group of fortysomething women scream, “Go for it!” in unison.
So I touch his chest, stroking his pecs like I did to Mase earlier today. With both hands.
His tattooed friend slides an arm around my shoulders. It’s like a charge to the others and Rachel turns and screams with delight.
“Fee-own-ah! Fee own-ah!” Shae and Chrissa chant, and Demi drums on the table, tipping over Biba’s empty glass.
