22. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE #2
My plan with Miranda is as follows: I’ll finish my dance on stage with the guys and then the clock will start ticking.
I only have to stick around for 45 minutes more after the number ends.
I’ll do a basic rock move side to side with my ass sticking out so she can’t grind herself up on my junk.
I’ll hold her hands if I have to so that I create natural space between us – and I’m wearing gloves, so it won’t even be skin to skin contact.
I’ll two step and dance some of the other routines in the space in front of her when the music picks up and is a little faster, essentially dancing with myself instead of her, but facing her.
And I will limit the conversation to an absolute minimum.
I don’t know why she even wants me here. She’s getting married , for Christ’s sake.
The group number ends, and I take a deep breath, give Gretchen a wink, and begin to keep up my end of the bargain for this paycheck.
I approach Miranda, reach out to take her hand, and begin to two step with her.
Admittedly, this comes off a bit like an eighth grade boy-girl dance move.
But she doesn’t really have much of a choice.
She asked to dance with me, and here I am.
She leans in and puts her face next to my ear. “I want to talk to you, Brady.”
“Sorry, no can do,” I reply. “You’re paying me to dance, not to talk.”
“I just want to clear the air. Can you please just step outside with me and give me two minutes to explain? ”
I sigh and look at the clock. 44 minutes to go. “I’m not leaving,” I say. “You want to talk, go ahead.”
She shakes her head, frustrated. “Fine,” she says, then takes a heavy breath as I continue to two-step. “Can you hold still for a sec?”
I do. She looks at me and nods. “I never slept with him.”
“Who? Stacks Phillips?”
“Yeah.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Then explain the pictures.”
She shakes her head. “They were Boudoir Shots. You know those pictures you can take for, like, your soon to be husband?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
“Well, Stacks was representing a client who was trying to sue the photographer for a personal injury claim. The client said the place was unsafe. I wanted to secure a spot in the firm beyond my internship, and I figured if I went in and checked it out for myself, I could testify as a witness in the case and then maybe he’d promote me. ”
My obvious confusion must be evident in my expression, because she continues to explain.
“So, I did the boudoir shots and I sent them to Stacks in an email with the subject line info for your case . But then his wife saw them and, well, you know the rest.”
“And that was all?” I ask.
“Yes – but it all escalated so quickly that I could never really explain it to you. My parents took away my phone when they sent me to California. They didn’t want me to be in touch with anyone.”
“So, what brought you back?”
“The holidays. We always celebrate at our Cape house, and after missing a few years of Christmases, I wanted to come back home. My sister set me up on a blind date with a cop here – figured, if I was home, I should at least have a little extra protection – anyway, now we’re getting married.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because, Brady. I always felt bad about how we ended things. Plus, I don’t think I ever really got over you.
And now, seeing you like this, I felt like it was the universe giving me a second chance to make it right with you.
” She bites her lip coyly. “Or maybe, it’s just the universe giving me one last hurrah before I go off and get married.
” Miranda places a finger on my abdomen.
“I mean, you don’t think this is all just a coincidence, do you? ”
I remove her digit from my stomach. “I do, actually. And I have a girlfriend.”
“So? I have a fiancé. I’m not suggesting we do anything. I just wanted to clear the air. You know. Move on from all that.”
“Fine. Consider the air cleared.”
She nods, and a smirk plays on her lips. “Okay. So, then, dance with me, Brady.”
I literally am squished between a rock and a hard place.
The boys around me are killing it. They’re grinding up on the ladies, playing it up hard.
Then the boys surround the two of us, yielding a surprising reaction from her.
Instead of looking around, Miranda hones in on me with laser focus, as if she’s determined to get me to do the kinds of moves those guys are doing.
While I begin to shuffle innocuously from s ide to side, Miranda frowns.
She places her arm around my waist and says, “Come on. For old time’s sake.
” I take a step back, creating distance, letting her story sink in.
I don’t know if I believe it’s true, but at this point, what does it matter, anyway?
We’ve been done for so long, and I am head over heels for Gretchen.
I just need to get through the next – I check the clock – 39 minutes.
But Miranda’s not having it.
She begins dancing as if she is the stripper. She licks her finger and traces it down the front of her body. She drops to the floor and pops back up again.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I said, dance with me,” she whines.
“I am ,” I insist.
She pouts. “You can’t tell me you don’t miss me, even just the tiniest bit?” She pushes her breasts up and begins to play with her nipples through her shirt. No shame, this girl.
“Miranda, stop,” I say. “That’s enough. I’ll dance with you, but as I said, I have a girlfriend. You’re getting married. And most importantly, I’m not interested.”
Evidently deaf to my words, she goes too far.
Miranda turns around, facing her back side to me, bends over to put her hands squarely on the floor, and reveals to me that she is wearing nothing underneath that skirt.
My eyes frantically dart around the room, looking for Gretchen, making sure she didn’t see what I just saw.
She’s dancing with Max now, but he’s keeping a respectful distance.
I’m sure he’s just pacing himself. Sometimes the girls are so thirsty that dancing with Cosmo employees becomes a welcome reprieve.
Her back is to me, though, so my wild gaze goes unnoticed by her.
Miranda turns back around to face me, and, pleased with herself for shocking me, flashes me again, this time from the front, She lifts up her skirt and reveals a clean-shaven ham wallet that I want exactly zero part of. I lean in towards her and say, “If you do that again, we’re done here.”
“I’m sorry, Brady,” she sulks, and then, her expression turns diabolical. “But I’m a paying customer, so I call the shots tonight. You don’t have to touch me. You just have to dance with me.” She gives me the bitchiest grin. “Assuming you want to get paid, that is.”
I shake my head, willing myself to keep it together. The whole reason I’m here is for the paycheck. So I can make ends meet and do nice things with and for my girlfriend.
I take a deep breath and pretend to smile.
Miranda, still facing me, takes a step closer. “Absolutely no touching,” I remind her. “You touch me, we’re done here.”
Instead, she continues to touch herself. Over the skirt, over the tank top. Her hands snake up and down her body and she writhes into the touch as if she is genuinely arousing herself.
“Enough,” I say, and she laughs. “I’m serious.”
“So, when did you become a fuckboy anyway, Brady?” She’s trying to get a rise out of me. That’s fine, I decide. Two can play that game.
I ignore her question, plaster on a fake smile and – not sure where this comes from – start doing the running man, just to piss her off.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Big Mike laughing.
It’s about the least sexy move someone can d o in a thong.
And there’s not a damn thing she can do to stop me.
The running man becomes the sprinkler. Then, I begin to floss.
Next, I dab. I do the gritty back and forth in front of her as she grows increasingly agitated with me, folds her arms over her chest and huffs.
Finally, I get sturdy, and Big Mike is in fucking stitches.
I look like a fool, but hey, I’m not the one who rolled up with no goddamn drawers on like a ratchet piece of street trash.
Miranda stops dancing, and puts her hands on her hips in aggravation. “Will you please stop?” she yells at me. I see Gretchen turn around, and she starts laughing, too.
“Nah, Miranda. I can do this all day,” I announce. “It’s a killer workout for my glutes.”
A few seconds later, most of the people in our immediate vicinity are laughing along with Gretchen and Big Mike. Miranda’s face twists up like she might cry. Finally, she screams, “You know what, Brady? Fuck you,” and storms past Big Mike out into the parking lot.
Once I get my fit of giggles in check (yes, I am wiping tears from my eyes), I resume dancing for real.
I work the room like I normally would, noticing that the maid-of-honor has chosen to evacuate the dance floor and locate the blushing bride outside in the gravel lot.
Good for them, I think. Like I give a shit.
Later, Big Mike is put in the position of having to collect our money.
He explains to the bridal party that I did exactly what I promised to do and that Miranda was wrong to flash me multiple times.
Big Mike is big . His voice booms. And he’s there to protect us – whether that means keeping unwanted hands (or mouths) off of us, keeping us from getting in fights with ladies who drink too much, or, in this case, collecting our payments.
Miranda screams at Mike in the parking lot that she did not order my brand of foolishness and did not want to become the butt of the joke at her own bachelorette party, but Big Mike responds that she should have been respectful about the limitations and stopped flashing me the first time I asked her to.
Eventually, the bridal party pays us what they owe us, and the rest of the party is cut short.
Miranda’s furious. She orders herself an Uber, leaving the rest of her party to pay the remainder of the Cosmo bill.
When the Uber pulls up to the parking lot, she yells one final thing at Big Mike.
“You’re all going to fucking pay for this! Mark my words.”
Then, she’s gone.