Borrowing a Bachelor

by Karen Kendall

  ADAM TRIED TO LOOK as enthusiastic as the other raucous, on-their-way-to-drunk guys at Mark’s bachelor party. He waved a beer around and even did a couple of tequila shots, but inwardly he sighed.

  The only good thing about his rebel year in high school was that it had gotten the partying mostly out of his system—and then he’d had to pay a steep price to get his life back together. Not even the local junior college had wanted him until his persistence wore down the admissions people. He’d finally been able to transfer to a state university’s pre-med program, but only after two years of a solid 4.0 GPA.

  He cast a surreptitious glance at his watch, making plans to sneak out and spend a passionate night back at the hotel with his anatomy text. And he cheered wildly and made ape noises with the rest of them as a bouncer wheeled in a giant, shopworn “cake.”

  Mark’s round cheeks had flushed with alcohol, which turned his naturally ruddy complexion a dark red. His short, curly hair stuck up in tufts, courtesy of all the headlocks and noogies the guys had inflicted. He gazed at the cake expectantly, and the others moved like a herd to stand around the front of it.

  Derek made coyote noises, as if he were howling at the moon. Pete grinned his good-natured, Mr. Customer Service grin and waited patiently. Gib stood, bowlegged as he always did, looking as though he’d produce a rope and lasso the girl as soon as she emerged. Jay lounged with his hands in his pockets, eyes almost crossed. He was probably writing a murder mystery in his head.

  Adam rolled his own eyes and stepped around to the back of the wooden cake, since he figured watching their expressions would be a lot more fun than watching the skanky chick who’d jump out of it.

  Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On” suddenly blared from the speakers in the room. How original. Adam turned an amused gaze toward Mark’s face and waited.

  Then the top of the plywood confection exploded off. Adam had a brief impression of golden corkscrew curls and a gorgeous, smooth ass in a hot red G-string before a feminine elbow slammed into his nose. Pain seared him between the eyes, and his glasses damn near embedded into his forehead. Adam lurched backward from the impact, sliding through a pool of some spilled drink. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor, with something cold and sticky seeping through his pants.

  “Oh, God!” A distressed feminine voice floated down to him. “I knew something like this would happen!”

  Was this a nightmare or a dream? Despite the pain, Adam registered that delectable ass again, facing him as she clambered out of the stupid cake, on legs that seemed to reach all the way to heaven. Funny how heaven looked a lot like the satin string that disappeared between her cheeks.

  Correction. Heaven looked a lot like the barely restrained breasts that now swiveled toward him and bounced as she tottered over on her ridiculously high heels.

  Adam’s eyes widened as she bent over him and dangled the breasts like ripe, luscious fruit above his face.

  “I’m so, so, so sorry!” she said. “I told Yvonne I was claustrophobic. I told her not to make me get in there. Are you okay?”

  He blinked. The guys were all falling over themselves laughing—especially Mark. Only Pete, Mr. Customer Service, called out—between knee-slaps—the same question. Was he okay?

  Adam gazed up at the spectacular breasts again. And like a gift from the universe, they lowered closer to his face as he lay prone. “Yeah. I’m okay,” he said weakly, eyes glued helplessly to them.

  The breasts heaved, and a sigh of feminine relief wafted down to him in the form of sweet, minty breath. “Oh, thank goodness. I was afraid I’d killed you.”

  Manfully, Adam looked away from her breasts and focused instead on her face, which was a mistake, since he found himself drowning in her large, seawater-green eyes. Not even the fact that she wore awful false eyelashes and cauldron-black liner could change the loveliness of those eyes or the shocked concern they expressed.

  Adam gingerly put a hand up to his nose to confirm that it was still there, and hadn’t been knocked through the backside of his skull. His hand came away bloody, and Cake Girl winced.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she said again, and to his consternation she burst into tears. Fat, heavy drops rolled down her cheeks, gathering mascara and makeup in their wake.

  “Really, it’s okay,” Adam told her, struggling up onto his elbows. Her tears began to plop onto his head, and her distress grew.

  “I’ll take you to the emergency room right away! You could have a concussion. Oh, God, why did I ever think I could do this? I should have known that if I tried to dance in public I’d murder someone.”

  “I’m not dead,” Adam reassured her. But he almost had a heart attack as she straddled him in the high heels and then crouched down to take his face between her small, soft hands. She peered intently into his eyes, now raining black, inky tears onto his face.

  They left pale white streaks down her heavily made-up face and he didn’t think he’d ever seen someone so beautiful look quite so pathetic. She sniffed woefully.

  Of course, the rest of the guys could see nothing but their evening’s entertainment hovering provocatively over him. They leered enviously at the picture Adam and Cake Girl made, eyes fixated on her luscious bottom with its disappearing G-string. For some reason that bothered him. Vaguely, he noticed Dev snapping pictures with his cell phone.

  “I’ve never done this before,” the girl sobbed.

  Poor thing. She was truly upset. “What,” he teased. “You’ve never coldcocked a man before? It’s fun. See?”

  “Of course I’ve never—” Briefly, she looked indignant. “What I meant was that I’ve never, um, stripped before. And I don’t know how to do it properly, and because of that I’ve hurt you—but I had to get out of there. I just had to! I was coming unglued.”

  Adam struggled to sit up more, which brought him nose to, er, nipples. Or two inches of shadowy cleavage, depending on which way he looked. She removed her hands from his cheeks and moved back self-consciously.

  “Well, I can assure you that none of the men here want you to strip properly.” He winked. “They’d much rather you did it improperly.”

  Her lush mouth worked for a moment. Then she stood so that his eyes now met her— Oh, Christ. A tiny scrap of satin covered it, and it looked so sweetly beckoning. His mouth went dry and he averted his gaze.

  She grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins and brought her breasts back to eye-level as she crouched again and gently held the napkins to his nose. “What can I do to make this up to you?”

  Oh, honey. Don’t you know better than to ask a man that question? Adam swallowed with difficulty and tried yet again to reassure her. “Really, it’s okay. Calm down.”

  “It’s not okay. I can’t calm down. And Yvonne is going to kill me now for sure. In the first hour of my employment.” She put a hand over her mouth as a thought occurred to her and she gazed at him in horror. “Oh, my God. You’re not going to sue me, are you?”

  Adam shot her a wry grin. No, suing was not what I had in mind, sweetheart. But it rhymes.

  He shook his head, which was a big mistake, since it made his nose throb like crazy.

  “But I shouldn’t even be thinking about me. Come on. We need to go straight to the emergency room. You could be seriously injured, could have a concussion—”

  “From a blow to the nose?” Adam laughed.

  “Anything’s possible. My friend Becca once ran smack into a stop-sign pole because, you know, she was talking to someone over her shoulder? And she knocked herself out cold. So please, please, please let me take you to a doctor and make sure you’re okay.”

  Her agitation was almost endearing. Adam finally made it to a full sitting position and reiterated that he was fine.

  “C’mon, darlin’!” Gib bellowed drunkenly. “Show us what you’ve got! Shake it. Somebody start the music again.”

  “Emergency room,” she pleaded, her eyes locked on Adam’s and strangely intense.

  “
But I don’t need—”

  “Please,” she said piteously.

  “But—”

  She leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t make me get out there and dance. I can’t do it tonight. I just can’t. I’ll throw up.”

  Her breasts nestled against his chest and her lush lips moved inches from his own. Adam felt the room begin to spin as all the blood in his body rushed south from his throbbing nose to his groin. His willpower spiraled down with it.

  “Please,” she said again. “I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll dance privately, just for you….”

  Only a complete pig would take advantage of this situation and exploit the poor woman, Adam’s big head told him.

  Too bad he was now listening to the little head. She broke your nose, dude. And she’s a stripper. She does this a lot, no matter what she says. Why not have a private dancer, just for tonight?

  Adam got to his feet, conscious of the fact that because of the spilled drink on the floor, he looked as if he’d messed his pants. He pretended to be dazed. “Guys,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I need to have my head examined.”

  2

  NIKKI FELT A RUSH of gratitude as she and her victim helped each other to stand. “I’ll drive him to the emergency room,” she said to the boys. “I’m the one who knocked him down.” But her gratitude turned quickly to alarm as she and Bloody Nose were surrounded by a wall of drunken, denim-clad testosterone and various expressions of male disappointment.

  The consensus was that she, Nikki, had a job to do and she wasn’t going anywhere until she’d done it to their satisfaction.

  “You gonna load him up into that cake, darlin’?” mocked the bowlegged guy who’d yelled for her to start dancing again. “It’s obviously made for the autobahn.”

  Nikki bit her lip. “No, of course not. My car’s outside,” she said, turning to Bloody Nose. And she couldn’t wait to get into it, before Yvonne caught her and disemboweled her for screwing up the gig. “By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Adam,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  “Nikki.”

  “Is that short for Nikita, female assassin?”

  “No,” she said, flushing. “It’s short for plain old Nicole.”

  “Plain and old are not adjectives that I’d use to describe you,” said Adam, wincing as he examined the blood-soaked cocktail napkins.

  Nikki grabbed another handful, extended them to him and looked into the steady brown eyes behind their wire-rimmed glasses. She wondered which adjectives he would choose. But she didn’t have the nerve to ask. Clumsy and moronic might be among them. Or slutty. She needed her street clothes and purse, but she was petrified of running into Yvonne.

  “I’ll drive you to the E.R., Adam,” said a cheerful-looking dark-haired guy who reminded her of a teddy bear. “Leave the talent here for everyone else to enjoy.”

  Adam shot the guy an evaluative look. “Pete, you couldn’t drive a Big Wheel right now. You’ve had half a bottle of tequila. But thanks.”

  “I got you covered.” Another member of the bachelor party pushed his way forward, this one with a gold chain around his neck and enough gel in his hair to grease down a Siberian husky.

  Adam outright laughed. “We took a cab here, Devon. Remember?”

  Devon stopped talking midprotest and looked sheepish. Then he said, “I’ll drive Pete’s car.”

  “No way,” Adam said. “Who here hasn’t had at least four or five drinks already?”

  The bowlegged guy squinted and started counting on his fingers. The one Adam had called Pete turned redder than he already was, and the groom burped sheepishly.

  “That’s what I thought,” Adam said. “I’m the only sober one here—apart from Nikki. So I’m afraid, gentlemen, that the talent comes with me.” He put his arm protectively around her shoulders, and she could have kissed him.

  Pete frowned as he swayed back and forth, looking owlish. “No, no, no. Talent gotta stay. I have a cell phone!”

  “Congratulations,” Adam told him.

  Pete blinked. “Thank you.” He hiccupped. “I have a cell phone, so I can call a cab. To take you to the ’mergency room. C’mon, bro. Talent stays.”

  Horrified, Nikki looked at Adam to see if he had an answer for that one. He didn’t seem to.

  “Wait!” she said. “The talent should go…because I have no talent. Really!” Not to mention the issue of that jumbo bag of M&M’s she’d eaten yesterday. She was sure that they’d already adhered in sugary little lumps all over her hips and backside.

  But the idiots didn’t seem to be listening. They stood gawking at her as if her breasts were two NFL announcers debating the last play at the Super Bowl—and they each had a thousand bucks riding on the outcome.

  The bowlegged guy they’d called Gib said hoarsely, “We don’t care about talent, sweetcakes. Just get out there and wobble around for us. Shake it like you mean it.”

  Nikki gulped and looked at Adam. “Please get me out of here,” she mouthed. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Guys,” he said, “let her drive me. I’ll pay for the next round and I’ll get you two other strippers. Just let me take this one.” He dug some cash out of his pocket and slapped it into Gib’s hand.

  The general consensus among those who could still employ rational thought was that two was better than one, and free booze wasn’t something to be turned down. So, feeling a little like a piece of traded livestock, Nikki tiptoed into the dressing room behind the stage, thankful that there was no sign of Yvonne. She fell on her belongings like a vulture, not even taking the time to dress, and scrambled out as fast as she could.

  Then she took Adam’s arm and tottered toward the door with him. She’d bet her feet in the high heels hurt almost as much as his nose.

  The humid South Florida air washed over her nearly naked body as they left the bar. She inhaled the scents of auto exhaust, sweetly decaying vegetation and fast food, but none of them made her feel as sick as the idea of dancing in there for the wolf-whistling, howling crowd of men.

  “Thank you,” she said to Adam.

  “No, no. Thank you,” he said. Oddly, he seemed to mean it.

  She flushed. “I’m really sorry that I’ve ruined your good time.”

  “You didn’t. I hate those places. Cheap booze, cheap wo—” He broke off, but she knew he’d been about to say cheap women.

  She looked down at her current get-up and couldn’t really argue. Only the vitals were covered, and just to remind her of it a stinging insect bit her on the backside. “Ow!” Nikki exclaimed, slapping at it.

  Behind the cocktail napkins, Adam’s eyes widened slightly, and he swallowed hard, averting them.

  “I’d offer to pay for the, um, other talent and the round of drinks,” she said, “but I’m dead broke, which is why I even considered doing this.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Adam.

  She led the way to her car, a powder-blue Volkswagen Beetle. “Where’s the nearest E.R.? Or minor emergency center? Do you know?”

  “I’ll be fine. Really.”

  Nikki looked at him doubtfully. “What if I broke your nose?”

  “I don’t think it’s broken.”

  “But it could be. And I’ve heard of all kinds of freak things that can happen—a bone fragment could pierce something in your brain, and boom! You’d be a vegetable.” She shuddered.

  Adam laughed. The sound was reassuring but also annoying—he wasn’t taking her seriously. He was treating her like the dumb blonde she appeared to be.

  “I’m serious. Look, you’re not a doctor,” she said in reasonable tones.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her but didn’t argue.

  “So why don’t we make sure that you’re okay?” she prodded.

  “Not necessary. They’ll tell me to elevate the nose, keep an ice pack on it and take a couple of ibuprofen for the swelling. If a shard of bone had pierced my brain, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you. So reall
y, you can drop me at my hotel.”

  Nikki gulped. She owed him a private dance in his hotel room, and she was none too eager to pay up. Any delay was a welcome one. “I’m sorry, but I insist that we get you checked out, if only for my peace of mind.”

  Adam sighed. “Fine,” he said. “But it’s a waste of time.”

  Wasting time sounded very good to her, especially if she could do it clothed. She dug her keys out of her purse and unlocked the Beetle. She opened the driver’s-side door, tossed her things onto the seat and found her shirt. She slid on a bra—red, of course—pulled the shirt over her head and tugged it into place as Adam rounded the car and got into the passenger seat.

  He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she held her white denim miniskirt in front of her, and she could have sworn she heard a swift intake of breath as she raised her leg to step into it. She pulled it up over her hips and buttoned it at the waist.

  There. Now she felt better. She still wore the skyscraper stilettos, but every woman in Miami wore those. Nikki tossed her purse into the backseat and slid behind the wheel. “Should I take you to Jackson Memorial?” she asked.

  Adam shuddered. “No—the E.R. there will be full of gunshot wounds, auto-accident victims, ODs and God only knows what else. We’d wait all night.” After some thought, he gave her the name of a minor emergency center close by, and directed her to it.

  The building, not surprisingly, was regulation stucco with a standard red-tile roof. Adam signed in, and they waited in a shabby but comfortable sitting area done in blues and greens. The only other people there were a shrunken old man with a severe cough and a young couple. The wife rocked back and forth, clutching her stomach.

  Nikki shot her a sympathetic glance, but the woman closed her eyes and wiped perspiration from her forehead with a paper towel.

  After inspecting the faux wood tables, the utterly uninteresting plants and the dog-eared magazines perched haphazardly in a small rack, Nikki had nowhere to look but at Adam.

  “Heh,” she said idiotically.