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Kinsey flopped onto one of the chairs, managing to look graceful doing it. “Donnie Paul is a jerk, and J.J. is well rid of him.”
“I wish you would quit talking like that, Kinsey,” J.J. complained. “When you call him names like that, you make it sound like I have no taste at all in men. For your information, Donnie Paul is pretty wonderful in a lot of ways.”
“Drop that torch you’re carrying, honey, and name one,” Kinsey challenged her.
“Wellll,” J.J. dragged the word out, stalling to give herself time to come up with a convincing answer.
“Look at her—she has to think” Cat teased, sitting down and joining the familiar and affectionate baiting.
“No, I don’t,” J.J. retorted. “You all saw him. You can’t deny Donnie Paul has a great body, gorgeous shoulders—
“Substance.” Kinsey waved off her answer and reached for the pitcher of margaritas on the bar table, then filled two salt-rimmed glasses, one for herself and one for Cat. “We want substance, not surface.”
“Substance?” J.J. looked blank.
“Substance,” Babs chimed in. “You know, the important stuff—”
Kinsey interrupted again, “—like—is he any good in bed?”
When Babs exploded with laughter, Cat forced a smile, on edge as she always was whenever their conversations turned to the subject of sex.
High color rosed J.J.’s cheeks. Briefly she dropped her gaze, then looked up with an embarrassed grin, and admitted, “Actually, Donnie Paul was fabulous in bed.”
“Donnie Paul?!” Kinsey hooted in disbelief.
“Yes, Donnie Paul,” J.J. asserted, then leaned forward, inviting them closer while she confided, a naughty light dancing in her eyes, “To be honest, guys, he is like the Energizer bunny in bed. He just keeps going and going and going.”
Laughter exploded from Cat, joining Babs’s gleeful squeal and Kinsey’s full-throated roar. The slyly sexual remark was completely out of character for J.J.; it was the surprise of it, even more than the humor in the comment, that had the entire group holding their sides.
“Oh, mercy.” Wiping the tears from her eyes, Kinsey sighed in exhaustion. “No wonder you want Donnie Paul back.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Babs murmured.
“Do you all remember the football jock I dated last spring?” Kinsey asked.
“Chris Harper, the running back?” Cat picked up her glass and took a sip of the tequila-laced drink.
“I thought Harper was the tight end.” J.J. frowned.
“No, but he did have great buns.” Cat grinned.
“That’s the one I’m talking about.” Kinsey pointed a finger at Cat. “He was always bragging about what a love machine he was. Believe me, the batteries were not included.”
When the second round of laughter died, Babs rubbed her hands together in gleeful anticipation. “Another kiss-and-tell session, what fun!”
“Speak for yourself,” J.J. countered. “Because I certainly haven’t kissed anyone other than Donnie Paul to talk about.”
“You know what this means?” Cat raised her drink glass and waited while the others followed suit.
Before she could offer the toast, Kinsey said, “To the Kappa gang, and our last manhunt together.”
“Hear, hear,” they all echoed and clinked their glasses together above the margarita pitcher, scattering clumps of damp salt onto the table.
Cat had barely swallowed her drink when Babs nodded to point out someone. “There’s one for Kinsey.”
“Where? Which one?” Cat turned in her chair, readily joining in the window-shopping game they frequently played, surveying the selection of males present and picking one out for an unattached friend. It was done mostly in jest, although there were always those rare occasions when they spotted a guy who was too good-looking to pass up. At those times, they would push the girl forward, urge her to check him out—sit behind the wheel, so to speak, maybe take him for a test drive.
“The guy in the plaid cowboy shirt and ten-gallon hat just coming back from the rest room,” Babs identified her choice.
