Strip. Delta Dupree
good reason. An unfaithful husband normally changed the temperature of a woman’s heater. It had hers. “The fireplace, thermostat, and blankets provide heat.”
Galaxeé glared, her eyes thin slits. “I hate that tacky-assed snorting sound you make.”
Another explosion sent shivers racing through Rio’s body. “I hate your gum popping, but my complaints never have stopped you from detonating a bomb.” They argued daily.
Planting both feet on the floor, Galaxeé said, “Listen to you—evil, bitchy. No wonder you don’t have a honey.” She crossed her arms under the pair of 750-milliliter implants she’d purchased last year, against Rio’s motherly objections and outright horror, and clamped one leg over the other, swung it like a hypnotic pendulum. “You do need a good dick, just to—”
“E-O-D, Barnett. End of discussion.” Good lord. “I’ve got a ton of bills and payroll.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I already did, and you and Luanne have an inventory to complete.” She swiveled her stool around, opened the metal file cabinet’s top drawer and picked through file folders.
“Guess I’ll have to work out…”
Rio closed her ears to whatever Galaxeé finished saying. What next, tarot cards? Not again, but she hoped her best friend hadn’t gotten into séances, crystal balls and Aladdin’s lamp.
Abracadabra, she thought, as her partner left the office, boot heels clicking noisily down the stairs.
There was plenty of work to do before the club opened its doors for tonight’s show. She looked up at the octagonal wall clock, a gift from Galaxeé’s mother the day they signed their life away on Killer Bods. Mama Barnett had always said, “Time is short. Don’t waste it away.”
Fours hours until showtime.
The phone rang. Sighing, Rio secured the receiver between her shoulder and ear and grabbed her favorite pen. Another holiday party reservation would be great. “Killer Bods.”
“Hey, it’s Phillip.” His voice sounded scratchy, sickly. “Can’t make it tonight. Bad cold. Flu.”
’Tis the season. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie, just stay in and take care of yourself. We’ll manage. Need anything?” She took good care of the dancers, considered them all close as family members. When they suffered from outside forces, she worried as much about the boys as the mothers who had sheltered them for nine months.
“Jewel’s here.” His latest conquest was a shy woman, so different from the wild young lady he’d dated three months ago. “She’ll make sure I stay alive. Thanks for the offer.”
“Call if you need me.” Rio hung up. “Well, shoot.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, knowing she should call Bryce Sullivan and ask him to work tonight if possible. With Saturdays typically designated as date night, Fridays drew a big crowd. And after the performance she had seen today, he was no doubt ready.
She dialed the bar’s extension. Galaxeé answered.
“Got a problem. Phillip’s home sick and can’t make it.”
“Call Bryce.”
“You call him.”
“I’m busy, Rio.”
“So am I.” She shuffled a few papers together and rapped them on the desk for emphasis.
“You took the time to call me when you should’ve contacted him. You’re the one bitching about the inventory.”
“Galaxeé—” A loud click ended the call. “The nerve of that woman.”
She didn’t have far to look for his phone number. Sullivan’s résumé was sitting in the center of her drafting table. On top of the pile. Gathering much-needed strength, she dragged in a deep, fortifying breath and punched in his work number. She really didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to hear the rumbler.
“Thank you for calling Thorobred Computers. How may I help you?”
So, what kind of work does a muscle-bound, gray-eyed stud do at a computer company requiring him to moonlight? Data entry? Plugging boards? Screwing parts? Working every available woman with that enormous screwdriver hanging between…
She gave her name and asked to speak with him.
“He’s currently in a meeting. Could I have Mr. Sullivan call you back or would you like to leave a message?” The woman sounded older, formal and middle-aged. The boss’s secretary?
Figuring the “exec sec” might add two and two and come up with a few too many, Rio left her private cell number.
All but one of their dancers worked a daytime job. No one had wanted their first-round boss to get wind of their second gig, secretly moonlighting at a playground catering to women. Rio and Galaxeé had been discreet over the months, honoring their employees’ wishes.
The male population had every right to enter Killer’s, but few took the risk. Invading female stomping grounds meant potential degradation if a sneak peeker refused to hop on stage to flaunt his wares during a frenzied evening. Women went stone rabid when the mood struck them.
As for Bryce Sullivan, they should eat him up. Bit by tasty bit.
Normally, she stayed in the office during the dance routines. Galaxeé ensured all went well, introducing each dancer, motivating the crowd.
Not tonight. I want to see the frenzy take place, if there is one.
Someone had to take Phillip’s shift, whether that person was black, white or covered in green polka dots.
“It’s filling up fast,” Galaxeé said.
“Are all the dancers in?” Rio asked.
From upstairs, she’d heard the chatter. Bryce Sullivan’s sexy bass laughter had filtered up the stairs when she’d peeked out of the office.
Earlier, she’d spent little time on the phone with him; she’d offered him the job and asked him to dance tonight, he accepted and she ended the conversation within thirty seconds.
“Yep. Bryce, too.” Galaxeé smoothed her slinky, wine-colored dress with both hands, showing a great deal of cleavage as always.
“You’ve got wrinkled ankles,” Rio said.
“Shit. I hate wearing these things. They never fit, and stockings cost a shitload of money.” Wiggling, she fought with the hosiery. “Are you coming out to watch the show to see what effect Bryce has on the crowd?”
“Hadn’t planned on it.”
“Liar.” Her partner knew her all too well. “What’re you wearing?”
“Exactly what I have on.” Spreading her arms, Rio looked down at herself. Today she’d dressed in a cream-colored silk blouse with navy jacket matching a knee-length skirt, business attire for interviewing applicants.
“Wear something sexy.”
“Why? This is just fine.”
“Too conservative for evening wear at a strip club. Dressed like an administrative officer, you make us look old and crusty.” Galaxeé fished through the hanging outfits they both kept at the club for special occasions.
“Here,” she said, dragging out a shimmering sheath designed for a sex machine. “Put this on and wear those strappy, fuck-me-silly kicks. Show some leg. You have good ones, unlike my toothpicks—the reason why these damn hose always bag. Flaunt them for the boys. They like seeing your Tina Turners and the chickies hate you for having them.”
She’d selected the titillating, red clinger. The tailor-made, backless, thin-strapped dress fit an expensive call girl. Rio had worn it once. That night she’d danced