Of course he still looks as good as he did when I saw him at the club. He’s still wearing the same jeans and dress shirt, not a wrinkle or sweat stain in sight. “Do you need to finish that call?”
He points to the phone I dropped, and the sound of his voice pulls me out of my shocked daze. I quickly squat and grab the phone, cutting off Ariel’s shouting and screaming as soon as I bring it back up to my ear.
“PJ’s here, I have to go. I’ll call you back later. Don’t come over,” I speak in a rush as I stand back up, my eyes landing on his gorgeous blue ones, drilling a hole right through me with the way he’s quietly studying me.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING M—”
I end the call in the middle of Ariel’s disbelieving shout and toss my phone onto the foyer table, crossing my arms in front of me as I take a few deep breaths and concentrate on not being embarrassed that this man is seeing me at my absolute worst.
“Go home to your husbands and bake something. Find another hobby to fill up your bored little lives, and get out of my club.”
The last words he said to me at the club before he stormed away play on a loop in my head until I forget all about being embarrassed and move right on to anger.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in annoyance, not caring one bit about manners or inviting him in with a polite smile. The time for niceties is long gone.
“I thought we should talk. I called John and had him look out his front window to see if you were home,” he replies with a shrug and a sheepish smile that I refuse to think is in any way adorable.
John is officially off my Christmas-card list.
“We have nothing to talk about, and I’m kind of busy here. . . .” I trail off, reaching for the door.
PJ sticks his foot out and stops it from slamming in his face, and I sigh in annoyance.
“Look, I know it’s weird that I showed up here out of the blue, and I’m sorry for interrupting . . . whatever it is you were doing,” he says, glancing quickly down at the white powder on my legs before meeting my eyes again. “But will you just give me two seconds to say what I came here to say?” he pleads.
“Fine. But I’m not inviting you in,” I tell him petulantly, crossing my arms in front of me again as he continues to hover in the doorway, running a hand through the hair on top of his head and making it stand up in messy spikes, which I want to run my hands through even though I don’t like him very much right now.
A few seconds of silence stretches between us before he finally speaks.
“Look, I just wanted to apologize for what I might have said earlier that could have offended you,” he states.
“What in the world could you possibly have said that would have offended me?” I ask with a sarcastic laugh. “Was it the part about how I should just go home and bake something? Or maybe it was when you said I had a bored little life and should go find a different hobby? Oh, I know! I bet it was when you said I had a stick up my ass the size of the Empire State Building. You should really narrow this down so I know exactly what you’re apologizing for.”
I glare at him, and at least he has the decency to look embarrassed and not full of smug condescension like earlier, when he judged me without knowing one thing about my life.
“I’m sorry. Everything I said was rude and uncalled for. I spoke without thinking,” he says. “I had a little chat with Tiffany after you left, and you’ll be happy to know she called me a wide range of insults from stupid fucking idiot to the biggest asshole in the world.”
Tiffany is now my new best friend.
He steps over the threshold and stands toe-to-toe with me, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him. I keep my arms tightly crossed over my chest and my feet planted where they are, refusing to move. I’m afraid if I move, I might rest my palms against the muscles in his chest just to see if they’re as firm as they look, or punch him. It could go either way.
“Great, thanks for the apology, you can go now.”
I take a step back from him, deciding that moving away from him is probably the wisest choice, before I do something I’ll regret.
“Cynthia, please,” he begs softly.
I’m channeling Ariel and letting a bunch of curse words fly around in my head when the sound of my name coming from his mouth makes me feel all warm and tingly.
“I truly am sorry for what I said. I made a snap judgment about you. Tiffany told me a little bit about you and what you’re going through and . . . I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m not an asshole. I’m just protective of my club and the women who work there.”
I close my eyes for a few seconds to get my thoughts in order. Part of me wants to feel mortified that Tiffany divulged my personal information to this man, who clearly didn’t have a very high opinion of me. But another part of me, the part that just chucked a plate against the kitchen wall and tossed pots and pans across the room, is glad he knows and feels like an idiot for the way he behaved.
“I spent thirteen years letting a man tell me what I could and couldn’t do. I’m not about to let it happen again,” I tell him.
“I know. And again, I’m sorry. I want to help you. You and your friends. Give me a chance to make this right. Come back to Charming’s this Friday night, when the club is open. If you’re determined to learn how to be a dancer, you at least need to see how it really works, when the place is packed and full of energy and testosterone,” he says, backing out of the foyer and onto the porch.
He takes another slow perusal of me, from head to toe, as he continues moving backward, and I try not to shiver.
“Just lose the pearls and wear something a little less . . . 1950s housewife,” he tells me with a smirk as he turns and heads down the stairs.
I narrow my eyes at his back and move into the doorway, shouting after him.
“These pearls are a family heirloom!”
This piece of jewelry is the only thing I have left of the mother I never met, since she died giving birth to me. The only thing my evil stepmother didn’t sell after my father died, because I kept them hidden under my mattress on the floor. It’s the only piece of jewelry I still wear and haven’t sold on my own—which is what I did with all of the pieces Brian gave me over the years. They meant nothing to me. I didn’t even flinch when I handed them over to the man at the pawnshop.
PJ chuckles as I watch him start to get into his truck—a big, shiny, black Ford that’s a hundred percent manly and makes him look rugged and hot as he pauses in the open door to look at me with another smile that makes my heart flutter in the most annoying way. Brian drove a BMW. A pretentious, sleek, silver car that made him look like he was trying too hard, especially when he’d pull a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe a stray fingerprint off of that stupid thing. PJ probably doesn’t have a handkerchief in his pocket just for his truck. He probably rips off his shirt and balls it up in his hand to wash that thing down, while holding a hose above his head and shaking the water out of his eyes in slow motion.
For the love of God, Cynthia, get a grip.
“Ten P.M. Friday. Less housewife, more exotic dancer,” he reminds me. “If you can handle that.”
He folds himself into the front seat, closing the door and backing down my driveway as I shout after him again, even though he can’t hear me.
“Oh, I can handle that! You don’t even KNOW what I can handle. I’m going to show my boobs and maybe even put glitter on them! I’M GOING TO HAVE STRIPPER GLITTER BOOBS AND YOU’LL BE THE ONE WHO CAN’T HANDLE THAT!”
I immediately stop shouting at his truck, which takes off down Fairytale Lane, when I see Phillip, a neighbor who’s on the homeowner’s association with me, pause at the end of my driveway, with his dog tugging on the leash in his hand. I lift my chin and give him a wave, refusing to be embarrassed by what I just shouted for the entire neighborhood to hear.
“Lovely evening we’re having!”
Phillip doesn’t say a word, just looks away and quickly resumes walking his dog.<
br />
Going back inside, I close the door and lean my back against it, finally turning toward the mirror in the foyer. Sure, I look a complete mess, but my eyes are bright, and excitement is coursing through my veins. I don’t even care that I just screamed about stripper glitter boobs and probably traumatized my neighbor. All I care about is the fact that I’m going to make PJ eat his words.
As soon as I reevaluate the clothing in my closet.
Chapter 11: Clone-a-Willy
“I still don’t understand why you felt it necessary to bring ten garment bags, two suitcases full of shoes and . . .” I pause, lifting the lid off a giant plastic tote and peering inside, “ . . . what looks like half of Sephora over to my house.”
Replacing the lid, I look up as Ariel sticks her head out of my walk-in-closet holding up a pantsuit from Nordstrom’s.
“Because everything you own is beige and boring.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I shake my head at Ariel. When I told her PJ invited us back to the club and what he said to me about dressing less like a 1950s housewife, I expected Ariel to be indignant on my behalf. Instead, she called an emergency meeting with Belle and showed up here an hour later carting so much stuff with her, it took three trips to get everything up to my room.
“That’s not beige, it’s golden wheat. I wore that suit to a charity even for the Animal Protective League last year. It was anything but boring. I had two glasses of champagne and almost adopted a litter of four-week-old puppies.”
The haughtiness in my words lose their significance when Ariel snorts and rolls her eyes at me.
“Whoa. Two glasses of champagne. Slow your roll there, Crazy Cindy.”
Ariel disappears back into the closet, and a few seconds later, Belle comes out, holding a dress on a hanger up to her body.
“I like this one. It’s very elegant,” she tells me with a smile.
I open my mouth to thank her when Ariel squeezes into the doorway next to her, pointing at the dress with a cringe on her face.
“Beige and boring. Toss it.”
“That’s ecru,” I argue. “It’s not boring, and I’m not tossing it.”
“Let me guess: You wore it to a business dinner with Boring Brian and after several hours of positively stimulating conversation all about him, the half glass of Merlot you sipped turned you into a wild woman who ordered coffee and dessert. I bet it was total anarchy,” Ariel deadpans.
She tosses the dress onto the pile on the floor she’s already made and disappears back into the closet with Belle while I stare at the dress. It was from a business dinner with Brian where all he did was talk about himself while I sat next to him not saying a word the entire evening, feeling completely invisible in my ecru dress that matched the paint on the walls of the establishment. But I did have dessert. A very fattening tiramisu that was delicious.
“Honestly, how did you even function in normal society before you met me?” Ariel questions, her voice muffled from inside the closet, the scrape of hangers sounding like nails on a chalkboard, before she reemerges a few minutes later, dumping an armful of clothing onto the pile.
“Since your asshole ex-husband took all his shit with him and we have nothing fun to burn, we’ll start with this pile of shitty clothes,” she tells me, kicking the stack with her toe.
“We’re not burning my clothes. Do you have any idea how expensive those pieces were?” I argue, even though the sight of all my monotone, plain clothing makes me want to reach for the closest lighter.
“Cindy, you had a breakthrough the other night. You are on the track toward recovery and the first step is admitting you have a problem. Repeat after me: I will no longer put things on my body that are golden wheat, ecru, light baby-shit tan, or anything else in the beige family unless what I’m putting on my body is an actual man with that color skin tone,” Ariel recites, putting her hands on her hips and raising one eyebrow as she waits for me to comply with her request. “And we don’t have to burn everything. Just a few pieces to make you feel better. And by you I mean me, because if I have to look at this crap any longer, I’m going to throw up in my mouth. We can sell the rest.”
“It wasn’t a breakthrough; it was a temporary loss of insanity. I dumped powdered sugar on my kitchen floor and swore at a man, Ariel. It was very undignified,” I remind her, crossing my arms in front of me and trying very hard not to think about what a mess I was the other night.
PJ saw me at my absolute lowest—sweaty, sticky, and not in the right frame of mind. I’m sure he only invited us to his club tonight because he felt sorry for me.
“You said the word ass, repeating back the insult he threw at you. It doesn’t count as swearing at a man until you’ve strung together at least fifteen curses that make him scurry away with his tail between his legs, looking up half the things you called him on Urban Dictionary as he goes because he didn’t understand the words flying out of your mouth in rapid succession,” Ariel explains. “And who cares if he only invited us to the club tonight because he saw the crazy in your eyes and feared for his life? He apologized for being a dick, he’s seen the error of his ways, and now he wants to help us. We need help, Cindy. We need money. There’s only so much we can do on our own without the right connections and knowledge. PJ has those connections and knowledge. Maybe deep down he still doesn’t believe we can do this, but that just means you get to have a whole shit ton of fun proving him wrong. Don’t tell me the last couple of days haven’t been just a tiny bit exciting, knowing we’re well on our way to proving him wrong.”
I have to admit, after PJ left my house the other night, I was filled with renewed excitement about our business venture. I took charge, and Ariel, Belle, and I have been working nonstop coming up with a business plan for how exactly this home-stripping-party thing will work, since we can’t exactly put up fliers or send an email to all of our friends announcing it. So we’ve doing research and compiling as much information as we could over the last few days. While I will admit that PJ lit a fire under me, he’s not the main reason I want to do this. He’s not the driving force behind me wanting to get my life together, finally do something for myself, and figure out who I really am along the way. Proving him wrong is a just a small perk to this life-changing moment.
“You’re so close to having that stick finally removed from your ass,” Ariel continues as she walks over to stand in front of me. “You’re broadening your horizons, making new friends, hanging out at strip clubs, and learning how to dance on a pole. This is your moment, Cindy. That pole is turtle-heading its way out of your ass, and you need to yank it the rest of the way out. Burn the beige clothing.”
I shake my head at Ariel’s crass way of putting things, but she’s right. This is my moment. I’m standing on a cliff, and I need to make that final jump. Otherwise nothing will ever change.
“What is a Clone-a-Willy and why was it in the back of your closet in a shoe box?” Belle suddenly asks, standing in the closet doorway holding up a cylindrical container.
Ariel’s eyes widen as she charges over to Belle. My face heats up and most likely turns an alarming shade of red as Belle continues turning the tube around in her hands, trying to read the fine print.
“You have a Clone-a-Willy in your closet, unopened? You hid this magical marital aid in the back of your closet in a shoe box? Forget everything I just said. That stick has buried itself so far up your ass you’re going to need a crowbar to get it out,” Ariel complains, grabbing the object from Belle’s hand and waving it in the air, increasing my mortification.
“It was a gift,” I mutter.
“That’s a marital aid? What does it do?” Belle asks.
“Cindy here had an opportunity to make a mold of her husband’s dick and she never did it. Hours of enjoyment could have been had with this thing. HOURS, Cindy. I’m so disappointed in you right now,” Aril states with a shake of her head.
I clench my jaw, my teeth grinding and my hands clenched tightly in my lap to stop myself fr
om screaming.
“Wait a minute. You can actually make a mold of someone’s frickle and . . . I don’t understand,” Belle says with a sigh.
“What the fuck is a frickle?”
“A frickle is for a boy and a frackle is for a girl,” Belle explains with a shrug, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Jesus God, am I in the Twilight Zone?” Ariel complains. “Never, ever say frickle or frackle again. It’s penis and vagina. Or dick and pussy. Anything but frickle and frackle,” Ariel scolds, pointing the tube at Belle’s face before turning and aiming it at me. “And you. When your husband buys you a mold to make of his penis, you make a mold of his penis! It’s hot that he wanted you to get yourself off when he was away. Or to get yourself off while he was watching. Now, granted, I’ve seen his penis and it’s nothing to write home about, and having an exact replica of that thing might not have been the best way to spice up your marriage, but maybe he wouldn’t have been sticking his dick in the babysitter if you had his willy in your nightstand drawer. He definitely wouldn’t have stuck his dick in me, I’ll tell you that.”
I squeeze my hands together so tightly in my lap that I’m pretty sure I’ll be cutting off circulation soon.
“Did you know the world’s most expensive sex toy is a white gold vibrator, encrusted with one hundred seventeen diamonds and worth fifty-five thousand dollars?” Belle asks.
“Holy shit,” Ariel mutters, ignoring Belle. “That Clone-a-Willy just made me realize something, because the picture on the box is of a less than impressive dick. Did you know Brian had his dick in us at the same time? We’re like that whole Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon thing, except it’s Six Degrees of Brian’s dick.”
I close my eyes and take a few deep, calming breaths before pushing myself up from the bed, stalking over to Ariel.
“No, he did not.”
My voice comes out quiet and meek even though my thoughts are screaming through my brain, dying to be let out.