that thread of conversation drop. Full-figured Chere in an itsy-bitsy bikini wasn’t something she wanted to think about.
“See you at the Pink Flamingo in half an hour then,” Jen said fumbling with the radio dial. She located WARP where a lively discussion was underway.
“Mama needs a good whopping,” a strident male voice said. “Mabel shouldn’t even be meddling in her grown son’s affairs. And that advice columnist don’t have a clue. Do you know the kind of women answering those personal ads?” The caller didn’t wait for the DJ to comment. “Chicks no one else wants. Two tons of fun, and a whole lot neurotic.”
The disk jockey chuckled. “I hear you. My man speaks from experience. Who in the house has been on one of those Internet dates? Step up now. Tell us if our man here is right.”
Phones began ringing off the hook. It still amazed Jen just how much information people were willing to share about the intimate details of their lives. D’Dawg’s audience for the most part were very vocal about her usage of the word queer.
The discord caused Jen to second-guess herself. Maybe as some had suggested she really should have told the old lady to get a life. Perhaps she could have presented other options, but she’d gone with her gut. And her gut seldom let her down.
D’Dawg’s urban drawl snapped Jen back to the present.
“Any of you see Dear Jenna up close and personal? There’s a photo in the newspaper with girlfriend wearing this little business suit, pearls and glasses. Looks to me like she stepped right outta the fifties. Uptight I say, lady needs a good loving to loosen her up.”
The DJ’s raucous laughter caused Jen to quickly shut off the radio. Even though only a chauvinist would have made that outrageous remark, he’d hit a nerve. Jen hadn’t allowed a man to get next to her since Anderson dumped her. She was still recovering from his betrayal and it would be a cold day in hell before she trusted another man. She would play the same game men did. No connection and no commitment. Live in the present and enjoy each day as it came.
Jen had dated Anderson for two years. Even so, he’d walked away without an explanation and a short time later gotten engaged to another woman. Adding insult to injury, he’d purchased a home in the same Ashton suburb as Jen.
She would be late if she didn’t hurry. Chere, the bottomless pit, would be waiting at the Pink Flamingo’s bar checking out the prospects. After hurriedly zipping up the apricot sundress scooped low in the back, Jen stepped into matching wedge sandals. She finger-combed her shoulder-length hair and added a pair of gold hoop earrings. Convinced she no longer even faintly resembled Dear Jenna, she headed off.
Ten minutes later, Jen strolled into the packed Pink Flamingo. The place was filled with patrons winding down from a stressful work week. At the bar, groups of men nursed beers while female companions sipped on Cosmos and Appletinis. How could anyone possibly hear themselves? Jen wondered.
An olive-skinned hostess in a Flamingo Pink mini-dress chatted with a man Jen guessed to be the restaurant manager. He wore the exact color shirt. She tore herself away to point out a vacant seat at the outdoor bar.
Jen’s first impressions were of Flamingo heaven or maybe it was hell. Fluttering from the thatched ceiling of the Tikki Hut were the pink birds in abundance. Jen eased onto the vacant bar stool, noting there was no sign of Chere. Her administrative assistant wasn’t amongst the chattering twosomes and single hopefuls. Nor was she holding court with the two men at the end of the bar looking for action. The lighter one in a turquoise linen shirt, winked at Jen. Forcing herself, she winked back. She’d promised herself a new life.
Just then Chere entered in a ridiculously short skirt she had no business being in. Her cropped top exposed a layer of jiggling mahogany flesh. Two hundred pounds of confidence tottered across the floor in acrylic platform-soled sandals; a red hibiscus wobbled from the big toe.
“Sorry. Something came up,” she said wedging herself between Jen and the man to her right.
Better not ask Chere what that might be, lest Chere told her.
Chere began flirting outrageously with the buff bartender.
“I’ll have a glass of Chablis,” Jen quickly interjected before things got out of hand.
“Make mine Sex on the Beach, Dwayne,” Chere added coyly.
“Sure you don’t want a Slow Comfortable Screw?”
While Jen sipped her wine, Chere stirred her drink with one finger and filled the bartender in on her issues with Leon. The two probably had history.
A bunch of nubile women were being checked out by the man who’d winked at Jen. On the rattan chairs, hopeful couples, many of the same gender, played footsie while sipping their drinks. Those more enterprising gyrated to the lively reggae band on the beach.
The decor was tropical, cheesy and in an odd way attractive. In the world Jen had left behind, people would be huddled in their winter coats dreaming about taking a trip to Florida.
A tall, well-built man in his late thirties climbed onto a vacated bar stool and ordered a gin and tonic. Although he eyed Jen, Chere slid her stool closer.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked.
Chere sighed. “I’ll introduce you, Quentin.” She leaned suggestively against his arm as she made the introduction. “This here’s Jen.”
“I’m Quen Abrahams. The health club manager.” He captured Jen’s hand.
No wonder he was in such good shape. He got paid to work out.
“Nice to meet you.”
New to the area?” I’ve been here going on two months.”
A loud female voice shouted, “Quen,” and the man turned his attention to the new arrival.
The volume in the bar had risen. Chere left to make the rounds and Jen gave up on a sit-down meal and settled for a lobster sandwich.
When the band took a break someone turned up the stereo.
“If you’re listening, dearie, I’m challenging you to hook up with me on the show.”
There was that obnoxious DJ, again. “
Defend your position. Keep that radio tuned to WARP and find out if the lady can take the heat. I’m turning in for the night. Drive safely y’all, and remember WARP is the place to be.”
Reminding herself no one in the place knew who she was, Jen checked the crowd’s reaction. The few who were listening seemed mildly amused. It would be a cold day in hell before she accepted that Dog’s challenge.
Chere was too busy chatting up a guy—who looked as if he might fall over if she bumped into him—to have heard the commentator. The man wore a thick gold chain around his neck and waved a fistful of bills at the bartender.
A smart woman would make her exit right now. “
Compliments of that gentleman,” the bartender said, plopping a glass of wine in front of Jen, and rolling his eyes in the direction of a man with a Fu-Manchu rimming his lips.
Jen,
