Hoofin’ It: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)

by RJ Blain

  I pulled out my wallet, made a point of tilting it so the barkeeper caught glimpse of my cash, and pulled out my Illinois driver’s license. Thanks to my lost eye, I’d gotten a new one—one clear of evidence I’d once been a police officer.

  “Ah! Now Chicago’s a hopping town. There are some damned fine girls there.”

  “Sure are,” I agreed. “I just thought a change of scenery would be nice.”

  Resting his elbows on the bar, the barkeeper leaned towards me, tapping my license on the polished wood. “Here’s how it works. Since you’re a first timer, seven hundred gets you a good bottle of Scotch and the girl’s company for the rest of the evening. I’ll send the pair of you up to the VIP lounge. Relax, take a load off, enjoy your conversation.”

  The way the man put an emphasis on conversation implied I’d be doing most of my talking below the belt. Since there was nothing illegal about buying an expensive bottle of Scotch and talking to a girl who wore the equivalent of a skimpy bikini, I pulled out my credit card and handed it over. “What kind of bottle will fifteen hundred get me?”

  The barkeeper’s grin widened. “The best drink of your life with the bonus of a ticket to a show you’ll never forget.”

  Chapter Nine

  The barkeeper gestured to one of the club’s bouncers, took down a full bottle of aged Scotch, a thirty-year single malt if the label was to be believed, and nodded towards the girl alone in the booth. A man with enough muscle to go toe to toe with my father approached, grunted, and gestured for me to follow him.

  “You’re exclusive for the night,” the bouncer informed the woman, and her eyes widened. “Take him upstairs to a private booth. Someone’ll bring your drinks.”

  Most girls I knew with blonde hair had blue eyes, but the woman I’d be spending the rest of the evening with had brown eyes touched with the faintest gleam of gold. My exposure to Dad and other werewolves gave me an appreciation for hazel eyes. I figured the color had something to do with the wild side of the lycanthropy virus, the one that blended man and beast into a whole.

  She scooted out of her seat. From the bar, I hadn’t noticed her slim figure had the hallmarks of a fit body. Unlike a lot of women I’d met over the years, she wasn’t the kind of girl who kept her waist tiny with the goal of appealing curves. When she moved, muscles and hard lines marked her as someone who liked being active.

  It didn’t take long for my mind to wander to the thought of her in a pair of tight jeans riding a horse, and I was disturbed by how much I liked the idea.

  Her lingerie, too skimpy to even classify as a bikini, didn’t do her justice, and that annoyed me almost as much as the way she tensed when she eased her way by the bouncer. “This way, sir.”

  She led me to a hallway tucked at the far end of the bar and up a flight of narrow stairs, discreet enough I hadn’t noticed it in my initial look around the club. My time on the force helped me recognize the woman’s tension, and I could guess the cause of it.

  In her shoes, I’d be tense, too, since a one-eyed man with a scarred face had just bought her time for the evening. After the past two days, I probably looked like a serial killer who lured women deep into the woods to have his way with them before tearing their bodies into little pieces and burying them.

  The VIP lounge had booths with tall backs and curtains arranged in tiered rings facing an elevated stage, offering the illusion of privacy for those within.

  It bothered me most likely didn’t care if anyone watched what they were doing with the club’s women. A pair of bouncers waited at the top of the stairs, and the woman hesitated before saying, “We’re exclusive for the night.”

  The club had a thing for overly muscled bouncers dressed in suits, men who could probably break bones without much effort. Both regarded me with a frown. A phone rang, and I traced the sound to a nearby podium. One of the bouncers answered, “What?”

  His eyes widened a moment later. “Yes, sir.” After he hung up, he nodded to me and turned his attention to the woman I’d bought for the night. “Front row, Sally.”

  Sally? Somehow, I hid my surprise, although Sally herself had something to do with it, as she immediately headed for the steps leading down towards the front row. Following her gave me an opportunity to get a better look around the place. While the downstairs lounge had been busy, few of the booths were occupied, but a single glance convinced me to turn my attention elsewhere in a hurry.

  Maybe some people enjoyed voyeurism, but I wasn’t one of them. I already needed several buckets of bleach to erase the mental images my parents had painted with their unwanted lesson on werewolf reproduction. By the time the night was over, I’d need a vacation from my vacation from my first vacation. In fact, I swore against ever going on another vacation ever again.

  Sally led me to a booth tucked to the side and stared at the floor.

  “Ladies first,” I murmured, gesturing towards the curved bench seat.

  While some of the booths were more like circular beds with end tables, Sally had brought me to a smaller booth meant for two, one with enough space between the bench and the table a determined woman could end up on her partner’s lap if she really wanted.

  I tried not to think about that too much when I slid onto the seat beside her. Dad had never hidden his admiration of the fairer gender, although the lycanthropy virus ensured the vast majority of his attention remained on my mother.

  Women were to be admired and respected, and he’d take my balls for a trophy if he ever caught wind of me treating a woman like I currently was, as property to be bought and sold. Would he let me off lightly since he’d sent me into the damned nightclub in the first place?

  I barely had enough time to unzip my jacket before a waiter brought the bottle of Scotch and a pair of snifter glasses. “If you need anything, sir, do not hesitate to ring the bell.” The man motioned towards a discreet button at the end of the booth. He left us in private—as private as a tall-backed booth could get.

  A better man would have asked his company if she wanted a drink, but I poured a double and slid it to her. “I’m about as talented at small talk as the average goat, so please forgive any rudeness. It’s unintentional. Sally, is it?”

  “Sally,” she confirmed, and the way she said her name gave me the feeling it wasn’t actually her name at all. Clutching the snifter, she glanced at me before taking a sip. When I made a show of pouring my own drink, she took a longer swallow.

  If she figured out I was in need of a little liquid courage, I’d probably be laughed out of the nightclub. I didn’t intend to touch her any more than necessary to maintain my ruse, especially since it’d be several days before the lycanthropy virus worked its way out of my system. “Shane.”

  I took a sip of my Scotch, keeping an eye on her the entire time. Most of her attention seemed focused on her drink, but she reached up and fiddled with her bra. At first, I thought she was adjusting it, although I couldn’t imagine how something so insubstantial supported her breasts.

  Her finger traced the black and red lace, drawing my attention to her creamy, untanned skin and a small disc attached to a tiny black wire. While I hadn’t worn wires often as a cop, I’d done a stint or two undercover, and the device I’d worn looked very similar to the one attached to her bra. The way she warned me our conversation was being monitored was so subtle my jaw just about hit the floor.

  To cover my astonishment, I took a swig of my drink, which burned all the way down. “You’re no stranger to Scotch, are you?”

  Slipping her hand out of her bra, she reached for her glass and swirled the amber fluid around. “I like it. It’s complicated, a bit like you from the looks of it. To buy a bottle like this, you’ve got the money, but you don’t dress like you come from money.”

  “I’m on vacation, so I thought I’d live a little.” I set my glass aside and snagged the bottle, lifting it up to admire the label. “Something this nice deserves to be shared with worthwhile company.”

  “That leather
jacket’s hiding a flirt, I see.”

  “More like a lot of dust following a long ride on my bike.” I liked I could speak the truth and nothing but the truth; while I had indulged in a long soak, Lewis’s spare jacket hadn’t gotten any love—or cleaning—from me, resulting in more dust and dirt on the leather than I liked. “I was looking for a nice place to unwind.”

  Sally drained her glass and set it aside, then she scooted a little closer to me, trailing her fingertips along the length of my arm, checking for evidence of dust, which she found in plentiful supply. “It seems you’re right. You’re a bit dusty from your long, hard travels. Let’s get you out of that so you can be comfortable.”

  A trap of my own making, involving my credit card and the most expensive bottle of Scotch I’d ever touched, closed around me. With her being wired and someone likely listening in on everything we did or didn’t do, I either had to play along or make a break for it.

  Unfortunately for me, until I knew if hazel-eyed Sally was the alpaca I’d carted from New York, I couldn’t justify escaping for the sake of my personal comfort. If they were the same, I wasn’t leaving without her, although I had no idea how I’d get her out of a place with more guards than a prison.

  “Let’s,” I agreed, shifting on the bench so I could wiggle out of my jacket.

  Sally had other ideas, including grabbing hold of my jacket and sliding her hands along my sides, dipping her fingers into my pockets to relieve me of my wallet and cell, which she set on the table. “Wouldn’t want to damage anything getting you out of that nice leather coat, now would we?”

  “Of course not.”

  She took her time checking my pockets, cleaning them out, before she slid the leather off my shoulders.

  While there was nothing overtly sexual about her touch, between the alcohol and my inability to keep my gaze from wandering, I was squirming by the time Sally freed me from my jacket and tossed it aside.

  The waiter made an appearance and took my jacket.

  “They’ll bring it to you later when you’re ready to leave,” Sally murmured. “During the main show, they’ll claim your phone, too—no devices, including cameras, are allowed. For the sake of privacy, of course. It’ll be kept with your jacket.”

  If I hadn’t had two extra phones stuck in my boots along with an extra battery, I’d be worried. “As long as it’s returned, I don’t mind.”

  Sally’s brows furrowed, but she recovered a moment later and forced a smile. “Of course.”

  If Sally was part of the sex trafficking ring—and a former alpaca with a spitting problem—she wouldn’t be allowed to have anyone take a picture of her. Rather than asking for permission, I muted my phone, slipped it off the table, and held it on my lap, hopefully shielded from any unwanted recording devices. Her eyes widened.

  “Do you like motorcycles, Sally?” I asked to cover the sound as I snapped a picture of her.

  “If men like you ride them, I think I’ve a newfound appreciation for them.”

  “And you called me a flirt. You, Sally, are the real flirt here.” Maybe I was a virgin and denser than a rock when it came to relationships, but I’d been around my parents enough to know how the game was played. I chuckled to cover the sound of me snapping another picture of her. “Is this when I surrender and let you do anything you want with me? I told you I wasn’t all that good at small talk.”

  She slid her hand under the table; to anyone watching us from afar, her grip on my upper thigh probably looked far more personal. “For some reason, I doubt there’s anything small about you.” She paused, and her fingers dug into my leg. “Nothing small about you at all.”

  I somehow managed to text the pair of pictures to my parents and Lewis without dropping my phone. I also warned them not to message me, as I’d be losing the device during an upcoming show. I deleted the conversation and set the phone on the bench between us, leaving it open to a note app.

  Since it’d look awkward if I did absolutely nothing, I reached up and caught hold of a loose lock of her hair, spinning it around my finger. “I never thought I’d find myself liking a blond, but you’re something special, Sally.”

  “You’re only saying that because I have my hand between your legs.”

  Well, technically, her hand was on my leg, but if she wanted to give a good show for any listeners, she was succeeding. I prayed her hand remained where it was, or I’d be more than embarrassed in a heartbeat. “It might be playing at least a minor role, yes.”

  Her laugh startled me. “You’re an honest one. I like that.”

  She scooted closer and angled her body so she could rub her bare foot against my jeans, which put her left hand near my phone. I pretended not to notice, reaching across the table to retrieve our glasses and bring them closer. I refilled both and took a sip of mine, taking deep breaths to maintain my composure. “Honesty works pretty well for me. No one can catch me in a lie if I’m always telling the truth.”

  A few stray strands of her hair fell over her cheek, giving me a convenient excuse to shield her from any watchful eyes while she used my phone. I tucked them behind her ear, careful to keep my touch light and gentle.

  “Then tell me, Mr. Honest, how did such a sweet man get trapped in such a hard, rugged body?”

  I couldn’t hear the click of my phone’s camera, but I caught a glimpse of the screen reflecting most of my face, and to help her out a bit, I angled my head so she could get a better shot. “I’m not all that good with the wine and roses, but I like sharing my whisky with a pretty woman. I’m also a fan of sunset rides on horseback.”

  “A motorcycle-riding cowboy. I’m a lucky girl tonight.”

  Anyone listening in would think I was the one about to get lucky. Judging from the nature of the texts she was sending, there were going to be a lot of unhappy people in the club within a few hours, as she was furiously tapping names, addresses, and locations to a phone number.

  I scooted a little closer to her, ducking my head so it looked like I was dropping kisses along the length of her neck. Hanging out with a lot of single cops, I’d heard more than my fair share of pick-up lines, although most of them were painfully awkward at best.

  I couldn’t afford to stay quiet, especially when she was frantically trying to pass information to someone, making the most of a bad—and recorded—situation. “How lucky do you want to be? We could make our own luck.”

  She broke down laughing. If I had had any pride or dignity left, I might’ve grimaced at her mirth, but I ended up laughing with her. Whoever was listening probably thought we were beyond drunk, although we hadn’t even reached the halfway point of the bottle yet.

  If she wanted to laugh, I’d give her a reason to laugh, and I ran my fingers along her bare sides, tickling her. She squealed and laughed harder, and with my head ducked, I got a good look at her typing on my phone. While she wiggled and showed every evidence of being ticklish, her left hand tapped away at the screen. When she finished, like me, she sent a message saying she was losing access to the phone and deleted the conversation and all record of her communications with the outside world.

  Reaching down, I turned the screen off, put the phone in her hand, and shifted on the seat so she could reach my back pocket. Between giggles, she sucked in a breath, and her small hand worked my phone into my jeans.

  When the waiter came around to claim the device, he’d see me pull it out of my back pocket, which would explain why it wasn’t on the table with my wallet anymore. I intended to wipe the device on my jeans before handing it over to rub away her fingerprints in case they were smart enough to check for them.

  “If you could make your own luck right now, what would you do?”

  While making a run for it and taking a cold shower occupied the top two spots, I had a rather extensive list of things I wouldn’t mind trying with a woman clever enough to take advantage of the opportunity I had created for her. “Some things shouldn’t be said in polite company.”

  The last thing
I expected was for her to slink her way onto my lap and straddle my legs. “Then I guess we’ll have to stop talking for a while.”

  Chapter Ten

  Had things gone my way, I would have escaped the nightclub with a few suspicious bruises on my throat, a newfound appreciation for a woman on my lap, and the satisfaction of being involved with breaking part of a sex trafficking operation.

  The start of the show ruined my plans.

  No one had told me the nightclub had an incubus and a succubus and wasn’t afraid to use them. Every last one of my good intentions leapt out the nearest window, and my new partner didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. The incubus and succubus had a lot to do with that.

  Fortunately, the show had ended before the cops and FBI arrived. Somehow, I hadn’t lost my pants. Pants made facing a bust much easier to deal with, especially when I hadn’t consumed enough Scotch to get drunk but had drunk enough to get hungover. While I could have retrieved my shirt, which had gotten tossed out of reach, I decided fetching it wasn’t worth the effort.

  I had no idea where the Scotch had gone, but I needed a drink. Exhaustion weighed me down, but my worries and regrets kept me wide awake, as there was no nice way to tell a woman she needed to be tested for the lycanthropy virus. Sally watched the raid kneeling on the bench beside me, her chin resting on her arms, completely at ease with her rather nude state. The cops and FBI agents mostly ignored us, and Sally had a lot to do with that. Every time someone approached us, she told them to deal with the rest of the club first, driving them away with snarls worthy of a werewolf.

  With her lithe body built for strength and pride etched into every line of her, Sally lacked traditional beauty, but I couldn’t help but stare.

  She flashed me a smile. “Thanks, by the way.”

  “For what?” I doubted she had any reason to thank me for my part in the evening’s activities. Then again, maybe she did.

  I had prevented her from being shot in New York. That counted for something, right?