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“Shut up.” Bean uses her stemless glass to gesture to me curled up in my deep sofa. “Can you imagine what it must’ve been like to compete with you? Or to compete for attention when you’re in the room?”
“Oh, I can.”
Tally is formidable. Tally was formidable at eight years old. I tried to get attention while she was being Tally only to be calledgauchefor being so brazen. Daunting versus tacky. It’s a lovely comparison to have made about yourself. Then again, I wouldn’t want to be considered daunting at that age either.
“Just saying, you’re smart and talented and… plucky.”
“Plucky? Seriously?”
“It’s the perfect word to describe you. Now, enough stalling… Do you want the silver tinsel wig or the Pepto pink one for tonight?”
“What are we wearing?”
Sabine jumps up and grabs a bag from the guest room where her suitcase landed upon her arrival, and returns, flourishing a bag. From it, she produces a too-short skirt that looks like it’s made of silver disks, a tube top made of pastel feathers, electric-blue hot pants, and a black sequined triangle that is supposed to act as a top.
“And where are the rest of them?”
“Oh, this is the whole thing, so have another sip. Or five. You’ll need the liquid courage.”
“Well, silver will wash thepluckright out of me, so I need the pink wig.”
“Sweet! I get the tinsel one. Which means no silver skirt for me.” She tosses the seven inch by seven inch elastic band at me as she drags the pants her way. They’re leggings, actually, and make Olivia Newton John’s inGreaselook modest. “Which leaves shirts,” she offers, letting it hang out there.
As if.
“I’m not wearing silver disks and black sequins. I do have my dignity.” I feign indignation when I need to actually have it.
She tosses the feathered bandeau to me. “Do you still have those clear stripper shoes?”
“They were a gag and not meant to ever be seen, much less worn. And I was too embarrassed to donate them to charity.”
“So they’re in your closet? Oh, hell yeah.” She jumps off the sofa and skids her way into my bedroom. The sound of things being shifted and moved mingles with her curses and giggles.
She returns with the ridiculous clear platform heels in one hand, and sparkly red stilettos in the other. “Mine,” she says as she lifts the if-Dorothy-had-been-a-hooker shoes.
A few hours later, I pretend life is great. And with this much alcohol, it is.
Lights splash around me, tripping off walls and people alike. Music flies from the speakers and vibrates from my shoes up into the feathers of my barely-there tube top.
I look ridiculous – and that’s the point. Goofing off, dressing up, acting out, and not caring for one darn minute.
This most certainly is not about finding a date, much less anything serious. It’s just two friends who don’t limit “dress-up” to Halloween.
The only rule we have on these nights is we don’t accept drinks from strangers. Bartenders? Yes. Each other? Sure. Anyone else? Never.
There are too many stories, and nothing is worth becoming one of them, so we pregame and play it smart when we’re together. I rarely drink, so it takes next to nothing to get me buzzed. I’d be embarrassed if I cared what anyone else thought about it.
Sabine is on the dance floor, and I shimmy through the crowd to get my groove on. I danced long enough I can feel the music and where it wants to go. My skirt reminds me of a belly dancer’s that would jingle if I hit the beat right, so I raise my arms over my head and let my hips lead the movement. It’s almost hypnotizing, accentuating the music and moving to it, rather than being moved by it.
As the song changes to something sultrier, I play around with the melody instead of the beats and roll my hips, letting the song snake up my body. I meet Bean’s gaze and smile as she winks.
That’s when I feel heat at my back, and a strong arm wrap around my rib cage. It’s firm but not threatening and not too handsy. Warm breath hits the shell of my ear as I hear, “Keep dancing, sugar. It’s so fucking sexy.”
I roll my eyes. So pathetic. Has that line ever worked? No woman believes that crap – well, not after the first loser lies to her. Besides, it’s objectifying and cliché.
I dance my fingers up his forearm, noticing the veins and tanned skin there. Better still, those muscles that ripple on the top from wrist to elbow, the ones that I can never resist, are sinewy and well-defined. And oh, so sexy. As my fingers play, his grip loosens, and he shifts to turn me to himself. I take the opening to slide away, using the discrepancies in our heights to my advantage.
I step outside and let the cool evening air hit my warm, damp skin. I check my watch and see a series of texts from Sabine.
