Chapter 19
Nineteen
Now
CJ
Wyatt and I walk into the ballroom twenty minutes later hand in hand and head to the table where our friends have saved us seats.
“Well, well, well.” Jonesy tips sideways in his chair to watch us approach, then high-fives a smug-looking Liv.
He’s not the only one having an eyes-widening, brows-raising, nudging-his-partner reaction.
“Is there any chance that any of you might mercifully, miraculously, opt to keep your comments to yourselves?” Wyatt asks as he pulls out a chair for me.
The three couples dart glances around the table, then say in unison, “Nah.”
“Okay, could you at least pretend to be a little surprised?” I ask.
Gabe gestures at the side-by-side chairs they left open for us. “We cannot.”
“Hey, Wyatt.” Liv leans forward and swipes at the side of his neck. “You’ve got a little something right here.” She then holds up her fingers. “My word, is this lipstick?”
“All right, all right!” I shout above the whistles and ohhhh-ing from our alleged friends, but it gets worse when Darby holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers at Sebastian, and her brother hands her a twenty from his wallet with a grumble.
In the middle of all the celebrating, Wyatt calmly drapes an arm across the back of my chair and fiddles with a lock of my hair. He looks happy.
Oh my god, he looks so happy.
And he notices me getting emotional about it, of course.
“Crying again, Parrish?”
“No,” I choke out.
His lips press against my temple. “Don’t worry, you’re about to get cheered up.”
He’s beyond correct.
“Tap-dancing drag queens?” I turn to him in open-mouthed delight.
He shrugs like it’s a given. “Nine ladies dancing.”
Following another brass introduction, nine women of various heights, races, and body types take center stage.
They’re all immaculately and extravagantly dressed in shades of red and green, with flawless makeup and wigs that defy gravity.
Patty cues up a techno-Christmas-disco song from the AV booth, and as the upbeat jam rolls through the speakers overhead, the women launch into a routine that fills the ballroom with rhythmic click-clacking.
Each queen gets a breakout moment before they come together for the grand finale of tapping, shimmying, posing, and spinning.
“Cash for the table?”
I tear my eyes away from the performance to see Becks holding a tray of white envelopes. When I look at Wyatt, he says, “What? They work on tips.”
Before reaching for an envelope, I fling my arms around the neck of this kind, thoughtful, occasionally scowly man, and a moment later, there’s a clatter and we’re both squeezed by a third pair of arms.
“You guys!” Becks squeals. “Is this really happening? Am I getting another cool new sister?”
“Um…” I’m not sure how to answer.
“Yes,” Wyatt says.
“Yes?” The rest of the ballroom falls away as I stare into his smiling brown eyes.
“Yes,” he says again.
Becks and Drea. Jonesy. Sophia,Tristan, and Kai. Wyatt’s mom and stepdad. He’s giving me the gift of his incredible family. Even Liv, my best friend in the world, is going to be more of a sister than she already was.
“This is fast,” I warn him, almost lightheaded in my joy.
“Disagree.” He tucks my hair behind my ear. “It’s been years.”
“Oh my godddddddd,” Becks whispers. “Wyatt actually does have game. I have to tell Drea!”
She whirls to chase her sister down, but Wyatt’s pointed throat-clearing has her sheepishly spinning back to the table to collect her dropped tray. “After I hand out the cash, of course.”
She offers the envelopes to the rest of our table, but before she moves on, she whispers to Wyatt, “That sucky old couple refused to take an envelope and told your boss they didn’t appreciate the ‘immorality.’ It was gross.”
A villainous smile slides across Wyatt’s face. “Excellent.”
“You’ve never been sexier,” I breathe, and that evil smile melts into a sexy delighted one.
“To think,” he says, “all it took was an elaborate, months-in-the-making plan to destroy our mutual enemy involving drag queens, death peppers, live birds, baby ballerinas, multiple live bands, fraudulent invitations, and the help of all of our friends and some of our family.”
“Easy peasy.” I smack both my hands against his cheeks and kiss him. Yes, again.
The dancing queens hit their grand finale in a flourish of tappa-tappa and more than one dramatic death drop that has most of the crowd whooping in appreciation, although a few pinch-mouthed, sour-faced assholes make their way to the exits, coats in hand.
“Good riddance,” Birdy calls after them. The performers then scatter through the room to spread holiday wishes and collect their hard-earned tips before blowing kisses and exiting on a sustained wave of applause.
When the servers start circulating with more envelopes of cash, I do some quick “Twelve Days of Christmas” math.
“Wait,” I say, “After the ladies come…”
“The lords a-leaping!” Liv shimmies in excitement, immediately clueing me in about who those lords will be.
Wyatt snags Becks as she hands us more cash. “You and your sister are too underage for what’s about to happen.”
“But—”
“Grab all the teenage servers and any ballerinas you see, and go to the kitchen.”
She looks at me and Liv for help, but we can only shake our heads in sympathy.
“Sorry, love,” I say. “This is adult lady stuff.”
Darby adds, “Trust me, you two are going to want to sit this one out.”
Becks pouts but obeys. I, however, am a horny adult and gasp as a thought occurs to me.
“Waaaiiiiit,” I say to Liv. “Does that mean Diesel’s in this building right now?”
“Be patient!” she singsongs, and I mock-swoon in my seat at the thought of seeing Jonesy’s biggest—and I do mean biggest—former coworker at the Crimson Lounge.
“This is fast becoming my favorite holiday party ever.” I grin up at Wyatt like a little kid on Christmas morning. “But before I make it rain, where’s all the cash coming from? Will I be stuffing your hard-earned cash into Deke’s G-string?”
“It’s from Howard’s party budget.” Instead of sounding inordinately pleased with himself for that little twist of the corporate knife, Wyatt’s sulky. “What’s the deal with you and Diesel?”
I pat his cheek. “Don’t worry, baby. Deke and I only go back a year. That’s nothing in CJ/Wyatt time. Plus, it was just one or two VIP dances—three tops.”
That unleashes a growl, and for the first time in seven years, his grumpy face fills me with tenderness instead of triumph.
Leaning close enough that I can get a lungful of Wyatt, I press my lips to his ear.
“Dances only,” I whisper. “You’re the man who fucks me so good I still feel you inside of me. ”
His growl means something entirely different this time as his hand finds my thigh under the table and he squeezes like his grip on my leg is the only thing keeping him in check.
“Siren,” he murmurs against my neck. “Succubus. Sexy demon sent to ruin my life.”
“You love it,” I tell him.
“I really fucking do.” His fingers find the slit in my skirt and travel upward, and oh no, I want him again, right now. I want him out of his tux and naked on top of me, whispering filth into my ears while he makes me lose my mind with that incredible dick.
“CJ.” His voice is a warning as I squirm in my seat. “You can’t look at me like that or—”
German oompah fills the room before he can finish whatever delicious threat he’s about to issue, and nine insanely attractive men stride into the room.
The band’s final notes fade as Queen Patty cues up the dancers’ song.
Unlike the up-tempo number the drag queens tapped to, the music that comes thundering over the speakers is a dirty, sultry grind, and the men of the Crimson Lounge start to move.
Wyatt counts to himself, then calls over to Jonesy, “Aren’t there supposed to be ten lords?”
“Why yes, there are,” his brother says with a wink. “Lord Number Ten, reporting for duty!”
He stands, dramatically whips off his jacket, and saunters to the center of the room to join the rest of the group.
“Oh my god,” Wyatt says to Liv. “Did you know he was performing?”
She points a warning finger at him.
“Don’t you ruin this for me,” she demands. “You’re basically my brother-in-law, but if you get in the way of my man coming out of retirement for the night, it won’t just be CJ who wants your balls roasted by an open fire and hung near the chimney with care.”
She whips back to the dance floor, and I pat his knee reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to remove your balls with a sharpened candy cane anymore.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Unless, of course, you’re going to sulk all the way through the show.”
He sighs in resignation.
“As long as one of the lords makes his way over to Howard’s table to make it super fucking weird, I don’t care who’s doing the ass shaking.” Then he leans back and cheers with the rest of the crowd as the Crimson Lounge lords rip open their tear-away shirts to reveal their waxed and oiled chests.
As they shimmy their way through a dance number, the room’s inhabitants divide themselves into two groups. Half of the partygoers whoop and clap along with the performance, while the other half dart their eyes around the room in discomfort.
“Best night of my life!” Liv shouts, waving her arms over her head with a fistful of cash.
She’s not the only one getting into the spirits of the ten lords a-grinding. When the dancers tear off their pants to reveal thongs and booty shorts and start to work the tables like it’s a busy Saturday night at the club, a huge chunk of the room joins her.
Then again, more than a few stick-up-their-asses stand and head for the door.
That exodus includes people I recognize from the Beaucoeur community, but several are strangers to me, meaning they’re supporting players in Howard’s bid to take Sounder public: accountants, junior associates, and corporate counsel for the possible investors.
“Hate to see ’em go, love to watch ’em leave,” I whisper, and Wyatt chuckles softly next to me.