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My eyes rolled. “You’re angling for a spanking, hostage.”
“Do not threaten me with a good time,” she fired back. “Let me find something.” She flashed an even bigger smile at me.
Someone was suddenly very fucking perky. Seemed she was happy to be out of my room.
“We’ll see where you stop.”
She stopped and looked at me. “I like this one. Can I leave it on?”
“Don’t know it. We’ll see if it irritates me or not.”
“Amy Winehouse. A cryin’ shame.” She shook her head in dismay. And then she closed her eyes and started to sing along with the song.
And a couple bars in, her singing a song about being no good, the little hairs on my fuckin’ arms stood on end at the sound of that voice. Not the voice comin’ out of my speakers. Gianna’s.
The bunny could fuckin’ sing.
I had to make myself focus on the road ahead when all I wanted to do was listen to and watch her lips move to the lyrics of the song. Her eyes were still closed, and she was lost in it, snapping her fingers and swaying to the beat as she sang the words as soulfully as Amy.
5
When I pulled up to Archer’s place, the lawn was crawling with people, tables, lawn chairs, and kitchen chairs.
My mother ran for me like she hadn’t seen me in five years. I was here a few weeks back for her birthday weekend.
I got out of the truck and to the hood as she crashed into me. Gianna was being urged out of the passenger seat by Arch, who opened her door. Then he was lifting her out, setting her on her feet while hugging her.
“Ooh, where’d you get this one, Jesse? Nice!”
She laughed.
“She’s not mine,” I corrected, letting go of Ma and moving to shake his hand.
He let Gianna go in order to throw his beefy arms around me and gave me a hug that lifted me an inch off the ground.
“Easy there, Arch,” I grumbled.
He slapped my back and grinned. “Good to see ya, son. Fern’s tickled pink you’re here. Me too.”
Not long back I’d have bristled at being called son, but knowing Archer, it was intended with warmth.
Arch is in his mid-fifties, looks good for his age. Ape-like stature with massive arms and hands, soft around the middle, but still has strength. Ma looks nowhere near her age and doesn’t act it either. She’s in her upper forties, but looks like she’s in her thirties. She’s still got the physique of a stripper, fake rack, almost as much hair as Gia has, though Ma’s is dark. She wears her makeup thick, always has on a whack of jewelry, and dresses like she’s forever twenty-one. As a teen, it sucked, because I knew all my buddies sprang boners for her whenever they came over.
“You a dancer, sweetie?” Ma asked Gianna.
“Nah. Both of these are left.” She gestured to her boots.
“Body, hair, and face like you’ve got, wouldn’t matter,” Arch told her. “I’m not bein’ fresh,” he tacked on, “that’s my professional opinion. Bein’ I’m the owner of an exotic nightclub.”
Ma rolled her eyes. “Buying The Playpen didn’t buy you industry expertise, turkey, but keep on dreaming.”
“That’s why I pay her the big bucks. For industry expertise,” he told Gianna while flashing my mother a grin.
She rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Gianna. “As far as I’m concerned, every girl has an inner exotic dancer. Just not all of them know how to tap into it. What do you do, honey?”
“I work with the elderly in nursing homes, care assistance, but that job just ended, so I’m in the in-between while the…” she dropped her voice, “hostage situation gets dealt with.”
“Ah, well you look like you could work a pole. You ever wanna give it a try and relocate here, after that business is dealt with, let me know. And I mean that as a compliment. I could help you tap into it. Used to dance. I’m Fernanda Garcia, call me Fern. JJ’s ma if you hadn’t already figured that out. Welcome.”
“Hiya Fern. Gianna. Or Gia. JJ’s hostage, though I already know you’ve figured that out.”
Ma laughed.
I rolled my eyes.
Gianna looked around curiously. “And thanks for havin’ me.”
“Our pleasure, darlin’,” Archer put in.
There were half a dozen of their dancers hanging around. Some boyfriends or husbands, I was guessing. Half a dozen kids. Archer’s two brothers and their families, plus a couple older people sitting with Archer’s elderly neighbors at a picnic table between his and the neighbor’s house.
“I’ll get you somethin’ to drink and I’ll do intros. Food’s about two hours out. We’re doin’ a smoked ham and two turkeys. One the traditional way, mine. The other, he’s deep frying.” Ma grimaced exaggeratedly. “Personally, I think that’s sacrilege, but I’m a live and let live type. Wait till you taste my stuffing and my gravy. Best around.”
