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Of course, because merely jumping into a split wouldn’t be reckless enough for Beauchamp de la Fontaine. He has to go from the goddamnroof.
“Well, tell him not to,” I said briskly, as if I had a good work-life balance and therefore was not to be bothered on my time off.
“You must be shitting me!” Liam screeched, somehow even increasing in volume as he said, “You know you’re the only one he’ll listen to, so get your ass down here!”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, hanging up on Liam. “I’ve got a work emergency and I’ll have to go.”
“A work emergency to do with Beau?” Emilia asked, folding her arms over her chest.
Damn, she was so pretty and responsible and put-together.
“I—er, he does appear to be connected in some obscure way,” I conceded, but she interrupted me.
“The two of you are sick,” she hissed at me. “Lose my number.”
I couldn’t really blame her.
But I drove over to the brunch in a state of simmering anger. I was going to dig out the number for Adrian from accounts receivable and agree to a date with him.
I needed to get laid.
I double-parked at the brunch place, blocking in one of the SUVs the queens drove with a feeling of vicious satisfaction.
The Jane Austen Brunch was supposed to begin with a refined set of classical music numbers, and then transition into the more raucous traditional drag numbers.
Despite the fact that we were still at the classical music portion of the morning, I could see groups of women in the audience up and dancing, with many clinkings of glasses.
The first person I saw was a slutty little Mrs. Bennet in a pale yellow dress with a lacy cap, and she clutched my arm with panicked urgency.
“You’ve got to stop Sweet!” Peachy squealed in a high-pitched voice.
“Are you dipshits sure Sweet isn’t messing with you?” I asked sourly. “She never drinks before shows.”
“That’s what happens when you aren’t here, Elowyn!” Peachy cried again.
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” I asked, grabbing a drink from Snatch Devereaux and downing it. Snatch was dressed as the bitchy Caroline Bingley, complete with a vivid auburn wig. “Tackle Sweet?”
“Yes, do that,” the Corn Queen said to me. I noticed that her Regency bodice was askew.
“Sweet is over a foot taller and outweighs me by at least 70 pounds,” I retorted, but the other queens did not care, dragging me to the side of the building. I peeped around the corner and watched Sweet dance on the brunch tables. It was the shortest skirt and the longest sleeves Emma Woodhouse had ever worn, the bodice laced tight over her massive chest.
“She looks like she normally does,” I said sourly, watching Sweet wrap her legs around a pole, gyrating her ass.
But they ignored me, shoving me around the corner so I could confront her when she walked out for a break.
I narrowed my eyes at the queen and then looked at the roof. Surely she wasn’t stupid enough to do a trick like that when she wasn’t perfectly sober. I bit my lip nervously.
Well, I was here already, so why not?
When Sweet walked out of the door after her number, I launched myself at her, leaping on her back and putting both my arms around her neck to try to bear her down to the ground.
I heard a hiss of annoyance and I said, “Sober up, Sweet!”
I tried to tighten both arms around her neck, only to hear her objectionable unafraid laugh. She plucked me easily from her back and flipped me over her knee. Then she raised her big hand up and it came down hard on my ass.
I yelped as the blow went through the thin fabric of my sundress, exploding on my flesh with a sharp sting of pain that took my breath away for a second.
Ignoring my protests, she spanked my ass again as I howled.
