Strip. Delta Dupree
mind was draped around someone else. Rio had nothing else but fantasies and unproductive dreams.
“Put the damn thing on and come on out. Take those stupid hose off, too. You don’t need them. Luanne’s holding our seats at the bar. Oh,” Galaxeé said halfheartedly, “and Frankie’s got her big behind propped up next to our chairs.”
Frankie Perino, a twenty-nine-year-old Italian beauty with sparkling brown eyes and lazy, blond curls tumbling over her shoulders, had become their friend four months ago. “Don’t use that tone. She’s a very nice person.”
“Was.”
“I understand your feelings, Galaxeé. If she’d known you and Randy were an item, she would’ve apologized then and there. Besides, look how much time she’s given us. She set up our computer, taught us the basics, designed a website that’s—”
“Incomplete.”
Rio sighed. “Some people have regular eight-to-five jobs. She puts in more hours than most. Remember, she’s not charging us.”
Frankie had offered to build their site. Jobless at the time, she seemed to be looking for a friendly face when she’d ventured inside Killer Bods. She enjoyed the show and struck up a conversation with Rio and Galaxeé. A regular now, Rio had added Frankie’s name to the short list of patrons who never paid the cover charge.
Galaxeé dismissed her with a wave of both hands. “Whatever. Get dressed.” She went out the door, slamming it shut behind her.
Well, why not? When had she jumped clean last? And if Dallas beckoned her onstage again, so be it. Let Shannon whine puppy-dog tears. Who owned this club?
Ya home wrecker.
Rio locked the door. She stripped out of her clothes and poured herself into the dress, sucking it in. She’d never get it zipped again if she gained one more pound of fat.
Dieting and exercise, she chanted. She’d had little time or inclination for either until recently, when she’d earned a waistline bulge and her clothes seemed to have taken on a sloppy appearance.
“Metabolism slowdown. We’ll need detailing,” Galaxeé had said. “We’re getting old and our bodies are going straight to hell, south for the final countdown.”
No way. Not yet.
“Except, my new boobies will always hang tough.”
“If they don’t burst beforehand.”
The ballet bar Rio used helped if she took the time to stretch and practice. Years ago, modern and jazz dancing freed her mind, energized her soul and kept her slim.
She’d splurged and cleared a generous area of the loft for workouts. So into maintaining her weight and staying trim, she charged a stair stepper and stationary bike to the only credit card she carried. The mat, bench and rack of dumbbells had helped a little, but she’d hired an in-home trainer to assist instead of frequenting a gym. It was worth every credit card dime and monthly fee. She hated perspiring in front of other people.
Rio smoothed the slinky dress down her hips, slid her feet into the pair of red shoes, which Galaxeé called “fuck-me-silly kicks,” and fastened the ankle straps. Mules were what Rio’s grandmother had called open-heeled shoes, but her devout-Christian mother begged to differ. She called them whore-steppers.
In private, Momma was a kick in the pants when her minister husband had spiritual duties. The Rev preached the good word and read the Bible daily. Sort of like cramming for finals, and it was final.
Sure miss Momma and Daddy.
They hadn’t stood a chance. Emotionally and spiritually bankrupt following her parents’ tragic car accident, Rio’s depression had sealed the end of her marriage to a husband who had cared little for her or her family.
Banishing the devastating thoughts to a dark corner of her psyche, she straightened her body from the slump that always managed to consume her when she thought of her parents. She still had a younger brother and good friends to lean on.
She twirled in front of the full-length mirror, stopped and checked her reflection over her shoulder. Biting her bottom lip, she bent forward to ensure the short-tail thing covered her butt. Barely enough fabric. Lord. She really needed to stop wearing clothes fit for a wealthy teenybopper. At twenty it was fine, thirty was pushing it, forty…she should’ve updated her evening wardrobe last year.
The telephone rang.
“They’re about to start,” Galaxeé announced.
“Who leads off? You didn’t put Bryce first, did you?”
“Nah. Got to incite the crowd. Jason’s first, Orlando’s second up, then comes our shining newbie and his boogieing self. Get your ass down here. We’re packed, and there’s a line outside.”
Rio set the receiver down. After one last twirl, she bent forward again to ensure her boobs stayed secure, her butt stayed covered.
Satisfied, she muttered, “Showtime.”
“How ya feel?” Dallas asked. “Ready?”
“Nervous as a freakin’ mouse with a pride of big cats on the prowl,” Bryce replied loudly. Killer’s DJ spun the latest tunes at maximum decibels.
“Chill out. Keep your mind on the music rather than the crowd. Show a little arrogance. You’ll do fine and rock.”
Bryce hoped to hell Dallas was right. Standing in the drafty hallway, he peeked through the curtain’s opening into the audience. He wanted to shit. A ton of women crawled all over the place, wall to wall. Tall ones, short ones, thick down to lean, superfine and quite a few…others. Dallas had said the latter group tipped the best if dancers gave what they wanted.
He didn’t recognize any woman other than Galaxeé, luckily. Sure as shit, if a worker at the company showed up, word would spread faster than a computer virus through the office.
Galaxeé had wandered backstage earlier, informed him of the dancers’ sequence, offered a few pointers, then wished him luck. She added an interesting request he had no problem fulfilling. In fact, he looked forward to it.
Where was Rio?
Then he saw her. Whoa. She was gliding down the stairs in filmy red, satin skin, and all the dick-enhancing visions of a sex-starved man. She lacked only a hazy fog billowing about her feet.
Fortunately, he hadn’t tucked his long black shirt inside his black trousers. The length concealed his sudden arousal. Beneath the slacks, a sparkling ebony G-string put a tight squeeze on him. Bryce shifted the confining garment to accommodate the swelling. He couldn’t step onstage iron hard.
He followed Rio’s movements as she greeted customers, flashing her brilliant smile, saying a few words. She eclipsed the group like an exquisite ruby among a display of costume jewelry.
Real. And everything she wore, no doubt, was real. Glittery earrings, a single-stone pendant nestled in a set of hooters worth wallowing in, even her dazzling bracelet—most likely diamonds—glistened as she reached for a wine goblet handed to her.
Bet some dumbshit dropped a few paychecks on her, probably one of the fifties guys. Some idiots can be so damned stupid. Be a cold day in hell before I give my money to any broad.
Bryce squinted, zeroed in when she sat next to Galaxeé and crossed her luscious legs. What did she have on beneath that short dress, anything? He noticed she’d gained other’s attention as well. One server damn near broke his neck trying to get an eyeful. The son of a bitch.
“See anything worthwhile?”
Bryce recognized the baritone from a phone conversation he’d had with his sister. Interrupter Jason Simmons, this man. They’d never met face-to-face. “Who’s the big dude serving the woman in blue sitting in the center?” He angled his head around, gave Simmons the once-over: same height, slightly leaner, arrogance written