her, see inside her brain, read her thoughts. Ever since childhood, darn her.
Galaxeé had the nerve to call herself a fortune-teller and worked as one for a year, back in the good old days. She’d changed her first name from Cecilia for that reason alone and legally processed the paperwork. Astrology, palm readings and dreams were her best games. She’d said it was all in the hands and mind.
Two weeks ago, Rio had had a nightmare involving snakes. She should’ve known better than to tell her partner, who explained any visions about snakes meant a good “fucking” encounter and, if the dream included an anaconda, a big cock.
Rio chastised her for using foul language and laughed off the prediction, even when the dream featured one very large, very stout serpent chasing after her. She’d awakened startled, drenched in a sweat when it wrapped around her body.
Yeah, so she was afraid of too much meat. Too much meant pain and no enjoyment. Good old Devon had cured her.
But she was also aware of how her body had responded seeing Sullivan leisurely sprawled out like a sultan deciding on his daily choice from an ever-ready harem, displaying every thick, tempting inch of his staggering…Her mouth had watered and something else had shimmered from within. Something maddeningly metaphysical swept through her on one long wave from pinky toes to the roots of her hair, like the hot flashes she’d begun having recently. A sudden fire searing her flesh.
Even now, heat flooded her insides as she recognized the tingling of erotic sensations. Excitement coursed through her body, though Bryce Sullivan had already left the club with his fine self.
He did it on purpose, damn him. Just like a man. Baby! He’s a baby!
She slammed the office door. These thoughts were absurd. Why hadn’t she listened to Galaxeé and bought a vibrator for all the cold, lonely nights she spent without companionship in her downtown loft, for any time when horniness riled her libido and fantasies ruled her dreams?
“There’re always the personal digits,” Galaxeé had hinted.
“Forget that. If I ever decide to have sex again, I want the real thing, not fingers, not toys.” She had avoided adult stores for good reason, still unable to defy her staid upbringing with too much change at once. Hopefully, one day she’d have another chance at a sexual encounter before she was too darned old to enjoy it.
By the time she finished work today, all of these flaming thoughts should melt the frost on the skylight, break the glass and fly away. They’d better fly somewhere. She had no insane reason to entertain them or Mr. Too-Young, Mr. Too-Hot Sullivan.
2
They discussed each applicant, but every time they ran through the list, one man surpassed all others in every way.
“Guess that settles it,” Galaxeé said. She searched through her purse, found her cell phone. “I’ll give him a call.”
“Hold your horses,” Rio ordered. “Richard Monroe isn’t a bad choice. He’s cute, he dances well and he’s black.”
“Shit, he’s also rangy. Women want to see muscle on our dancers. They want to fantasize about them as good lovers, not about crushing chicken bones or believing they’d squish him flatter than a damn pancake.”
“Okay, fine. David Chambers.”
“He’s gay, remember? A waste, but gay. He wears a Mickey Mouse watch and wiggles like Minnie. Totally uncool.”
Chambers was the best-looking dancer in the remaining group, a fine-looking African American who sported a decent body, but wasted manliness all the same when he paraded his feminine side. He’d risk having his delicate feelings injured if the crowd booed him offstage. And that would even hurt Rio’s feelings because Chambers was quietly sensitive.
“Quit trying to eliminate Bryce. He’s perfect in every way. Our clientele will love him.”
“We might lose clients over this.”
“Bet?” Galaxeé snapped one hand to her hip. “Buck says you lose. Put your money where your mouth is.” They never wagered more than a dollar.
Rio scratched at an imaginary itch near the corner of her mouth. Why was this niggling sensation tickling her skin, now of all times? Sullivan surpassed good. He had talent. Everything about him was steeped in excellence—like a high-quality Bordeaux worth hanging on to, saving the best for last.
“All right. You call. See if he can start tomorrow night. Call Dallas, too. Let him know his partner in crime will split dance routines.”
“He won’t be happy, but his bitchy little girlfriend will jump for joy.”
“Forget her. Shannon is just a silly, jealous heifer.”
Rising from her chair, Galaxeé said, “Actually, I think I saw her mug plastered on a telephone-pole poster that read: Lost dog. Breed: Slut.”
Rio closed her eyes at the poster’s image forming in her mind, her shoulders rocking.
“Answers to ‘Tramp.’ Last seen: In bed with any willing mongrel.”
Rio burst out laughing. “Stop.”
“Shannon ought to be happy Dallas made money here. Good money.”
The dancers earned more in tips than salary. Shannon hated seeing her man touched by other women, although Miss Fields had no qualms about caressing any other dancer. She worked her hands better than two washcloths when performers left the stage to give customers a closer look and better feel. Tips came in the form of G-string insertion. Every dancer accepted the codeand women paid to do the honors.
“What about the bet? Chic-ken?” Galaxeé asked. Flapping her arms, she squawked.
“The devil with you.” Rio laughed again. She swung her soft leather stool around, picked up her favorite gold pen, scribbled her signature on a service document and shoved it into the out-basket with an attached check.
When a loud gum pop filled the room, she murmured, “The bet is off.” And she flinched at the next explosion.
“He’d make a good birthday present for you this year. You could thank him for giving.”
Every year for the last thirty-five, they’d exchanged gifts on birthdays and Christmas. This year, they had included Killer Bods’ sixth-month anniversary.
She spun around again. “Giving what?”
“You a good fucking.” Galaxeé imitated a hyena’s laughter better than the natural-born creatures.
Rio didn’t crack a smile. “Girl, you need to tame your tongue.”
“Why? Randy likes me to talk dirty without cussing.”
“I’m not Randy. And you cussed.”
“Well, it makes him horny. Makes me horny making him horny.” Biting her lip, she looked down at her diamond-faced wristwatch. “I’m taking an hour. Got to find my old man. For some reason, I feel a juicy climax coming on. And Randy—”
“Too
