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Everett tips his head. “I’d like to think I could have avoided this degradation on my own.” He does a double take toward the door and his features darken.
“What is it?” I look that way and note a man in a black and white checkered fedora. “Everett, it’s that guy again.”
“It sure is,” he says. “He was just looking this way a second ago. I’d swear he has his phone pointed at us and not the stage. I’ll be right back.”
He takes off before I can accuse him of being paranoid.
And as much as I’d love for this to pan out to be nothing but a little paranoia on his behalf, knowing the trajectory of our lives, his unease is very much warranted.
Mom gets up and cheers with pride at Wiley as the girls fill those baby bottles with beer and a true-blue chugging competition ensues.
Wonderful.
I’ll forever have an image of Noah looking up at a topless woman who is doing her best to cram a bottle down his throat.
I’m just glad Lyla Nell will never know the horror of seeing her daddy like this.
Come to think of it, with all of these cameras pointed right at him, she’ll be seeing it long into her senior citizen years.
Danya shifts uncomfortably in her seat, all alone and with no one to talk to—just the way I like it.
Suspect number three, here I come.
LOTTIE
Danya Swanson is just waiting to be interrogated sitting alone at Cormack’s table.
The rest of the hatchelorette party screams their heads off in approval of the men being mildly assaulted by a group of strippers on stage.
Make no mistake about it, I’m striking while the iron is hot.
No sooner do I land next to Danya than a spray of baby blue stars appears as Teeny Weenie materializes between us.
He gives a happy little bark before glancing at the nachos on the table, and his tail gets to wagging so fast I’m certain it’s about to propel him in the air like the blade of a helicopter.
“Is it sofa Sunday?” he barks my way with glee. “Bella always shared her Sunday treats with me. Cheese chips were our favorite.” He finishes the sentence with a lively yip before helping himself to the ooey-gooey cheese chips sitting in front of Danya.
“I can’t eat another bite.” She laughs as she pushes her plate away a notch and ironically right into Weenie’s pointed little nose.
Good thing because Teeny Weenie is chowing down and taking no prisoners.
“How are you liking the show?” I ask, hitching my head toward the stage where Noah is on his knees with the contents of that baby bottle—beer—dribbling down either side of his chin.
The crowd is shouting suck it down, suck it down, and now I’m ten times happier that Everett is nowhere near that stage. And I certainly can’t blame him for doing a disappearing act.
Danya cringes as she glances at the stage. Her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, she’s wearing her large signature dark-framed glasses, and she has on a cheery cobalt blue sundress.
Last night, I looked up her Cabbage Sisters Mysteries Series and they’re adorable, complete with talking animals.
If only she knew about the talking animals in my life.
“I suppose I prefer male humiliation to the alternative.” She leans in. “A girl I knew in high school was a table dancer, way back when. She did it because she needed to feed her little brothers since her mother was a raging alcoholic. I’ve never judged one of these women since.”
“Most of these women are here because they see no other alternative. I’ve never judged them either.” I shrug. “In fact, my sister Meg works here.” I wince because even though it’s the truth, it feels like a lie. Meg isn’t a stripper, she’s the choreographer.
Danya’s mouth squares out, and she shoots a quick glance to my mother. “Well, I had no idea.”
“My mother doesn’t mind as much as you might think. She does write steamy romance after all.”
