Bad Things(10)

I heard a big sigh behind me as I was slipping the dress over my head.

“I’d give anything to have tits like that again. I had to tape mine up to wear that dress, I shit you not.”

I laughed. “I remember. I helped with the tape. You looked fabulous, though, which is all that counts.”

She grimaced. “I remember my braless days, though. Now that’s fun. You’re smarter than I was. You rarely go without a bra. I never even owned one until my late thirties.”

I shrugged. I was only a small C-cup, but I didn’t feel comfortable without a bra. The only time I went without was when a dress demanded it, and that rarely ever happened, since I hardly ever dressed up.

I adjusted the dress around my hips, then straightened the neckline. It was one of those dresses that felt good, and looked better.

“Your red shoes,” Bev said.

I nodded, knowing which shoes she was referring to. She’d given them to me after wearing them herself to four different events. They were open toed stilettos with a four-inch heel. I loved them, and though they weren’t comfortable, they were hot, and I could dance in them fine, which was all that mattered.

Bev tried to talk me into the earrings, but I held strong. This wasn’t the prom, and I was already decked out.

I felt like hot stuff as I strode out into the living room, but I stopped dead when I got a load of Tristan. If I was hot, he was scorching. The worst part was, I would have bet money it had only taken him minutes to get that way.

His slacks and blazer were nice. I didn’t know a thing about suits, but his looked expensive to me, and it fit him perfectly, hugging his build so that no one could doubt that he was buff. It looked like a custom suit, especially considering his size, though I couldn’t have said for sure, and I found it unlikely, since he was a ‘club promoter’. I was pretty sure that was one of those jobs that never had an actual pay check.

Black was his color, to be sure. It brought out his tan skin, handsome features, and his golden eyes. He hadn’t shaved, but somehow the black stubble on his jaw and his short black hair went just right with the suit. He looked sinister, and drop-dead gorgeous.

He grinned when he saw me, and I tried my hardest to stop checking him out. I already knew he looked good. I would only embarrass myself by ogling him.

“I’d like to say several things,” he began, “but since we’re just being friendly, may I just say that you look very nice.”

“Thank you,” I told him, still trying hard not to check him out. He shifted, shoving his hands in his pockets, and my eyes went to his chest, fascinated with the way that the material pulled there. “You look very nice, too.”

His grin deepened, and his dimples made my own self-destructive music play at full volume in my head. “You like to dance?”

Oh, God, please say he doesn’t dance, I thought. Please, please, please, say he’s not good at it. “I do,” I said, my tone flat.

He wiggled his brows at me playfully. “That’s good. So do I. We’ll have to see if you can keep up.”

I folded my arms across my chest, arching a brow at him. “I can go all night.”

He touched a hand to his forehead, looking pained. “Tease,” he murmured, opening the front door for me.

Either Bev or Jerry had been nice enough to shut the dogs in back so they wouldn’t be rushing the front door as we left.

“Am I driving?” I asked. I didn’t really want to drive my beat up, 98’ civic to the strip, but I was pretty sure that was our only option, since Tristan had clearly driven to the house in Jerry’s car.

“Nope.” He pointed to a black sedan that was idling at the curb. “I’d hate to make the twenty-one year old act as the designated driver. That’s blasphemy. My friend is going to take us. He owes me a few favors.”

He opened the back door of the car for me, I slid in, and he shut it behind me, climbing into the passenger’s seat.

A skinny, brown-haired guy sat behind the driver’s seat. He wore black-framed eyeglasses. He was handsome, in a hipster sort of way, with even features, and dark eyes. I thought he could have been a year or two older than me.

He flashed me a friendly smile as Tristan made introductions. “This is Kenny. Our friends love nicknames, though, so we call him Pancakes.”

“Pancakes?” I asked.

Kenny rolled his eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“We call him that because he’s a nice guy. No matter how brief the hookup, he’ll always make a girl pancakes in the morning.”