“It looks obscene,” I said frankly, and we all laughed.
That was only the beginning. Waiters that looked like romance heroes—no shirt and tight pants—came in carrying silver trays. Pink drinks filled martini glasses; Rayna and I exchanged glances, but Rose knew what they were immediately. Of course.
“Pink Panty Dropper. Delicious. Waiter . . .” Rose beckoned one of them over, and I sat with my tongue hanging out while he smiled, flashing teeth that were so sparkling white, I was momentarily blinded. He flexed his pecs as he lowered the tray, and naturally no one refused a drink. I didn’t care what was in it. I just wanted him to come to my side of the table.
I took the drink, smiled coyly up at him, ogled his abs, and he winked, grinned, and moved on to the next person, Gaynelle. She looked frozen, still holding up her canapé, her mouth slightly open, and he bent especially low, brushing her arm with his six-pack as he leaned forward to put her glass on the table. I saw her swallow. Her eyes were glazed.
Then he was gone, leaving us with pink martini glasses with rims crusted in pink sugar, and a vague restlessness. We all drank. It was delicious.
“What’s in this?” Gaynelle inquired of no one in particular.
Rose promptly replied, “Vodka, pink lemonade concentrate, and beer.”
“Beer?” Rayna and I said at the same time.
“But I don’t taste beer,” Rayna said. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. It’s served at a lot of bachelorette parties.”
I looked around at the others. “Maybe we need to inspect the buffet table. I have a feeling Bitty has a lot of interesting items for us.”
I was not wrong. Jell-O shots in condoms, cheese balls shaped like erect males, gummy-bear phalluses soaked in alcohol, pecker straws—you name it, it was there. I won’t even mention what the meat trays looked like. Just think of sausages and strategically placed olives and you’ll get the right idea. My face felt on fire, and a strange flush enveloped my entire body after just cruising the buffet table. So of course, I had another Pink Panty Dropper to cool off. It came to my attention that the ice cubes were also suspiciously shaped, and I found that quite funny.
Deelight showed up at our table on our third round of drinks. She had opted for the Jell-O shots in colored condoms, which I thought a bit incongruous with her Tess Durbeyfield costume. Gaynelle stood up to greet her but apparently was feeling the vodka because she swayed a little.
“I’m sho glad to shee you,” she gushed.
Laughing, Deelight said, “I couldn’t miss a Diva Day. Miranda is here, too. Have you seen her? She looks fabulous as Eliza Doolittle.”
“It’s the hat,” said Carolann. “And parasol.”
Gaynelle slurred, “Miranda lovesh working for zhee Memphish paper.”
Rather alarmed at the reminder, I said, “She’s not going to write about this, is she? Or take photos? I’m not real fond of having my picture in the paper when I’m not at my best. I’m never at my best.”
“God, I hope she’s not taking photos,” said Rayna. “Where is she, Deelight?”
“She’s over there, drinking Pink Passions. I might try one. I love raspberries.”
“Ooh,” said Carolann. “So do I. What’s in it besides raspberries?”
Again, it was Rose who knew: “Raspberry juice and liqueur, Grey Goose, lime, simple syrup, and frozen raspberries. Pink sugar crystals on the rim. Also delicious.”
“Who’s the bartender?” I asked. Not that it mattered. It wouldn’t surprise me if Bitty had hired Fabio to mix drinks.
“Bitty’s boys are in the back. They refuse to come out here, so they’re playing gin with Gwen and her family in between making drinks. None of them want to join us,” said Rayna. “I cannot imagine why.”
“Because they’re smarter than we are,” I said, and we all nodded agreement.
Bitty, the Queen Bee of the festivities, floated past, her gilded chains and cap gleaming like real gold beneath the lights. “She’s Mata Hari,” I said to Rayna’s questioning glance, and she rolled her eyes.
“Wasn’t Mata Hari executed by the French?” Gaynelle inquired with a slight hiccup, and I nodded.
“Daring choice, in light of all that’s happened,” said Rose.
“That describes Bitty rather well.” I drained my Pink Panty Dropper, considered why it was named that, and opted for water. In my younger days, I had learned the wisdom of lots of water in between drinks. It saved hangovers and making a complete fool of myself but allowed me an enjoyable buzz.
I do not always do what is best, however, and when the soft music that had been playing changed to a pulsing beat and the overhead lights dimmed, I knew something was coming that required liquid fortification.
The Pink Passion was as delicious as the Panty Dropper and equally potent. I sucked down two of them as undulating waiters went into a dance routine right in front of our table. A glance at Rayna showed her to be just as mesmerized, and I studied the taut, tanned bodies with what I pretended was a clinical eye. After all, I had my own hot body in the form of Kit Coltrane and he was imminently more mature. Sensible. I wondered if he could—or would—rotate his hips like that in time to “Pony.” My eyes must have glazed over. The next thing I knew, the music changed to “Earned It” from Fifty Shades movie fame, and the four men turned their backs to us as they moved in time to the music. Sensuous melody wafted from the boom box speakers, curling around us as we sat riveted.
We held our collective breaths, knowing that more was to come, and it did. Light through the long windows illuminated every ripple of muscle as the tight pants were suddenly jerked off, revealing four young men in thong underwear and black leather boots to their knees. Someone squeaked, then a voice that sounded a lot like Cady Lee called, “Shake it, baby!” and they did.
Black thong underwear did a remarkable job of molding to bodies as they shook their derrieres, brandished short riding crops, and undulated across the floor. Leather strips curved under taut cheeks as they moved in perfect unison, turning and sliding the riding crops across their chests, then lower, drawing all eyes to their, ah, attributes. Someone in the back whistled, a piercing sound, and the dancers grinned, enjoying an appreciative audience.
Next to me, Gaynelle sucked down another Pink Panty Dropper. My mouth was too dry, and I did the same. As the song ended, it went right into a lively beat that had us all tapping our feet, blood racing, and the dancers roamed through the tables, pulling women to their feet to dance.
Someone should have warned them that might not be the thing to do. We can be rather rowdy in our enthusiasm. Especially with barely-dressed young men. One young man chose Rayna, and she gave him a pitying smile before grabbing his riding crop and showing him how to use it. I think he made some kind of sound, but she obviously interpreted it as encouragement as she teased him with the flexible strips on the end, brushing them over his chest and down his ribs, lightly flicking him here and there. His companions laughed as he bravely attempted to reclaim his property, but for all her fragile appearance, Rayna is not a woman to be trifled with in these situations.
Divas clapped and hooted, and Carolann jumped up from our table, and she and Rayna made a dancer sandwich. The poor boy never had a chance. He got a look on his face like a deer in headlights, and then Divas surrounded the other three dancers.
If they survived, they would all go home with lots of money stuffed in their thongs, as well as whatever Bitty paid them. All in all, it could have been worse.
I wish I could say that I sat at the table, maintaining my dignity and enjoying the show. I did, for a short time, anyway. Then something came over me. It could have been the music, or it could have been the Pink Passions, but suddenly I found myself in the midst of the dancers and Divas.
As usual, what happens with the Divas, stays with the Divas.
But I regre
t to report that the next issue of the Commercial Appeal printed photos barely suitable for a family newspaper, along with a short description of festivities that left out a lot of details. For that, we were somewhat grateful.
However, I was dismayed that one photo showed a rather inebriated Holly Golightly holding a long cigarette holder in one hand and a whip in the other, posed quite suggestively with an obviously alarmed young man.
All I can say is, Well, sunny beaches . . .
The End
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Acknowledgements
Thank you to Gwen, Jo, and Alexa for allowing me to use the Holly Springs Railroad Depot for murder, and to Larry Dixon for informing me about Civil War weapons, and to the great town of Holly Springs, Mississippi, for being so welcoming and patient. You are all kind and wonderful!
For those who want to know more about Holly Springs and upcoming events, or just visit some of the places you’ve read about, visit these links:
http://hollyspringsms.org/
And for a tour of the elegant and historical railroad depot:
http://thehollyspringsdepot.blogspot.com/
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About the Author
Since her first romance novel came out in 1984, VIRGINIA BROWN HAS WRITTEN over 50 novels. Many of her books have been nominated for Romantic Times’s Reviewer’s Choice, Career Achievement Award for Love and Laughter, Career Achievement Award for Adventure, and 2 EPIC eBook nominations for Historical Romance. In addition she received the RT Career Achievement Award for Historical Adventure, as well as the EPIC eBook Award for Mainstream Fiction. Her works have regularly appeared on national bestseller lists.
A native of Memphis, Tennessee, Virginia spent much of her childhood traveling with her parents as a “military brat,” living all over the US and in Japan. This influenced her love of travel and adventure, which she indulges with research trips to England and Scotland as often as possible. While Ms. Brown spent her formative years in Jackson, Mississippi, she now lives near her children in North Mississippi, surrounded by a menagerie of beloved dogs and cats while she writes.
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