by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)
Braxton looked at Li’l Bit’s eyes. Clear and bright without a hint of pink. Could it be possible Li’l Bit sober was stranger than Li’l Bit stoned?
“Time to start lining up, Manwiches!” boomed the male voice.
“Brax, my...friend,” Li’l Bit said, “the time has come.”
* * *
THE MANWICHES SAT in folding chairs lined up against the side of the elevated stage. The guys couldn’t see the audience, unless they stood and looked out over the performance area.
Which Braxton was doing now. The stage floor looked to be about the size of his mom’s living room. On the far side of the stage, a tired-looking guy wearing headphones sat hunched over a podium, reading something on a sheet of paper.
From the edge of the stage, a catwalk extended forty or so feet into the audience of several hundred women. One section in front of the stage was roped off for wheelchair access where six or so women sat, chatting and drinking cocktails.
Beyond the audience, blazing red under spotlights, sat the Mustang Shelby GT500.
He stared at it for a long moment, coveting it with the heart of a twelve-year-old Braxton. All those drawings, all those dreams, and here it was, teasing him all these years later.
He felt a fortifying rush of determination. An almost surreal belief he could do anything—climb Mt Everest, swim the English Channel, win the Magic Dream Date Auction. Why not? He’d been paying dues, making amends, fixing his life—maybe he’d earned one night to dream big.
Tonight, ’Stang, you’re gonna be mine.
After he sat back down, Li’l Bit—who’d switched numbers so he and Braxton could sit together—said, “Think I ate too much popcorn. Feeling a little queasy. Kinda dizzy.”
“Need some water?” Braxton asked.
Li’l Bit waved him off. “No, man, but thanks. After all the food denial this week, I kinda lost it at the popcorn machine.” He belched, infusing the air with its buttery scent. “Ate three bags.”
A hissing static-y sound crackled over the speakers. “Is this on?” said a man’s voice.
The chatter level decreased. Beeping slot machines could be heard in the distance.
“Welcome, ladies,” the announcer’s voice boomed, “to the Magic Dream Date Auction! Are you ready to see the fifteen hunky guys who want to be your dream date?”
After the deafening response of screams and squeals died down, the announcer went through the rules, including the warning that if anyone inappropriately touched any of the hunks, security personnel would escort them immediately from the event and there would be no refunds.
Once he’d given the audience a chance to boo and hiss, the announcer said, “And now, let me introduce our first Manwich.”
Michael Benning, bare-chested and tight-jeaned, stood, gave the other Manwiches a thumbs up, then climbed the stairs. Wolf whistles and clapping drowned out the rest of the introduction.
Then Mötley Crüe’s badass, guitar-growling metal hit “The Animal in Me” began playing.
From the howls and screams and women begging Michael to take their money, Braxton got the sinking feeling his pirate moonwalk was doomed to walk the plank.
“Dude is killing it,” Li’l Bit murmured.
Captain Brax Sparrow solemnly nodded his agreement.
Manwiches Two through Seven were hit and miss, several cresting the scream factor of Michael Manwich Number One. As each guy, sweaty and flushed from exertion, left the stage, auction volunteers gathered the stuffed bills. Braxton watched as they retrieved at least six hundred dollars off one guy.
Rules were that the women who tipped cash had to document it via photo, and forward it to Keep ’Em Rollin’ with their names and contact information. So there was a lot of camera and cell phone photo-taking action along the catwalk. Flashes to challenge the red carpet at the Oscars.
“Manwich Number Eight!” The announcer’s voice reverberated over the speakers. “Captain Brax Sparrow!”
Li’l Bit turned to him and grabbed his shoulders. “Listen, man, you can do this. If you forget a step, just swirl your hips. Drives women crazy.”
Braxton climbed the steps, his peacock feather waving in his peripheral version, wondering if swirl your hips meant what he thought it meant, and that no matter how bad things might get, no way was he swirling.
“Ladies,” the announcer said, “let me introduce you to Manwich Number Eight, Captain Brax Sparrow, the long-lost brother of Jack Sparrow.”
He stood there, his hand on his sword holster, wishing Val had told him he was actually being introduced as Captain Brax Sparrow. He didn’t like people outside of family calling him Brax, but so much for that.
“Captain Brax Sparrow,” the announcer continued, “whose breeches no woman could resist, was last seen sinking into the murky depths off—” a pause “—Rop-o—” another pause “—off some exotic ocean, cutlass in hand, frantically hacking at the iron-weighted rope pulling him under.”
“Can the words—start the dancing!” a woman yelled.
Clapping and whistles.
Braxton waited for his music to start... Nothing. He glanced over at the tired-looking guy wearing headphones who gave him a don’t-ask-me look back. Brax turned back to the several hundred bored, confused-looking women who’d turned sullenly quiet. No one even cared to boo.
He was getting the feeling that the Shelby was always going to be out of reach.
Time for this pirate to exit the Chippendale party.
Anyway, his moonwalk sucked.
As he turned to leave, one brave soul started clapping.
“Bravo, Captain Brax,” yelled his grandmother.
Someone else started clapping with her. “Go get ’em, son!”
He paused.
Then smiled.
He’d always pushed the boundaries, broken the rules. Been a six-legged spider, the inventor of Brax-Chex Party-Hearty Mix, a pirate bucking the trend. But the most important thing of all, he finally had what he’d fought hard for years to earn back. His family’s devotion.
Sometimes life was about making breadboards out of shattered paddles.
Walking to the edge of the stage, he whipped the peacock feather out of his hat and loudly announced, “Captain Brax Sparrow will be giving this exotic peacock feather he brought back from....” What the hell had Val called it? He’d wing it. “...the Land of the Morgans, to the first lady who bids...two hundred dollars!”
Once a hot dog, always a hot dog.
The funky percussion intro of the seventies hit “You Should Be Dancing” began playing, and Captain Brax started dancing. Or the steps he’d practiced, anyway, doing his best to keep pace with the music. A few women stood, swaying to the music, bills in their hands.
The Bees Gees hit a spine-tingling vibrato, his cue to do what Li’l Bit called a free spin. He did it, ended up facing forward, a good sign, and started his strut to the catwalk.
Maybe he didn’t have the throngs of screaming devotees like the previous Manwiches, but he had a handful of pirate groupies crowding the catwalk, waving bills. Money for Grams’s charity, which was all that mattered.
He remembered to hit the heel spin at the second “dancing yeah” part, but when it came time to do the moonwalk, screw it. He was free form, baby, from here on out.
Time to hit the catwalk.
He strolled toward it, giving his step some of the ol’ bad-boy Brax attitude, sliding eye contact to her and her and her, to
ssing smiles like Halloween candy.
More women were standing, waving the green. He could feel the excitement rippling through the crowd. He glanced at the Shelby in the distance, wondering if it was too late to dream.
He’d never know unless he tried.
He waved the two-hundred-dollar feather like a wand over his pirate groupies, whose cult was growing. Red, brown, gray hair. Pre-cougar, post-cougar. Clapping, dancing and singing along, they pressed against the sides of the catwalk like barnacles to a pirate ship’s hull.
“Captain Brax,” one yelled, leaning provocatively against the side of the catwalk, holding both arms straight up into the air, a Benjamin in each hand.
She looked mid-cougar, curly brown hair, eyes too blue and a top cut too low. He stepped toward her, pretending it was dancing, holding the feather toward her like a divining rod. She smiled, straight white teeth framed by slick red lips. As he step-danced closer, she slowly lowered her arms, giving a little shimmy as she shook the Benjamins.
As the Bee Gees hit a trilling note, she dipped one bill, then the other, into the waistband of his red velvet breeches, her fingers staying, her body swaying, those red lips pursing....
Two other hands reached up and grabbed the hundred-dollar-clutching ones, and yanked them away. Mid-Cougar, nostrils flaring, took a fighting stance, ready for battle.
Just as Val had warned. Booze, estrogen and too few men were trouble. He went into security mode. Time to separate these two before things escalated.
Making a back-off-and-take-it-easy gesture to Mid-Cougar, he turned and looked at the instigator.
“You need to leave—”
His heart stuck in his throat as he looked into a pair of familiar amethyst eyes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LOOKING UP AT Braxton on the stage, Frances’s heart thumped against her rib cage. Removing that woman’s hands from his pants made Frances look like the poster girl for Miranda Lambert’s song “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.”
An ex. Before she ever got to be the girlfriend part.
Pulling her sweater jacket tighter around her work dress, she shifted her weight from one strappy-heeled foot to another, wanting to tell him that the real reason she was here had nothing to do with jealousy, but being damned scared since finding a GPS tracking device attached to her car a few hours earlier.
With her dad out for the evening at his monthly magicians’ dinner, she hadn’t felt comfortable staying in the condo alone, especially knowing someone had been on her front porch in the last day or so. So she’d reapplied her gel and makeup, ran a few Google searches based on bits of information she overheard last night, and learned all about the Magic Dream Date Auction, including that Braxton was one of the bachelor hunks.
When she’d walked into Sensuelle a few minutes ago, her frame of mind had been scared, but determined to find Braxton and tell him about the GPS. She wasn’t born yesterday, knew all about bachelor auctions. That part didn’t bother her at all; obviously, he’d been part of his grandmother’s event before he met Frances.
Then she’d seen that woman fastened on to Braxton’s pants, looking like a lonely abalone seeking its shell.
That’s when Frances snapped.
Before she knew it, she was reaching up and not-so-gently detaching those shifty, scheming, badly manicured digits off her man’s red-velvet privateer privates.
Now she stood here, looking up into Braxton’s bewildered expression, mortified by her actions and ashamed she’d hurt his chance to raise money for his grandmother’s charity. She was going to make it up to Grams and Keep ’Em Rollin’ with her own donation.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she was, but that didn’t change why she was here. “I found something. When can we talk?”
His confusion shifted to concern. “Meet me at the tent. You okay?”
She nodded yes as static crackled over the speakers.
“Captain Brax Sparrow?” boomed the announcer’s voice.
“Present!” Braxton raised his hand as if responding to roll call.
Laughter rippled through the area.
“The Bee Gees have left the building, and the next Manwich, Li’l Bit Goes a Long Way, is in the wings, ready to take the stage.”
“Tell him I surrender the stage to him.” Braxton looked back down at Frances. “You know where the tent is, right?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever it is, Frances,” he said solemnly, his hand on his heart, “I’m here for you.”
His gaze held hers, and in that moment, she believed his words, believed that he would stand beside her no matter what came her way. She could almost believe he might care for her the way she was coming to care for him.
A screech jolted her out of the moment.
“What’s your problem, bitch?”
Frances turned to see who was talking...and every muscle in her body froze.
The curly-haired, stealthy-fingered woman stood a few feet away, glaring at her.
“You had no right to grab me like that,” she said, jabbing her finger at Frances.
“Hey,” Braxton said, “let’s take it down a notch.”
“I’m sorry,” Frances said. “I was wrong.”
Frances had learned one important thing about people over the years. Defending her actions to someone this angry was useless. Things were likely to explode.
But a simple apology could usually soothe even the most ruffled ego.
But not this woman’s. She held up both hands, giving Frances the bird with each.
“Captain Brax Sparrow,” the announcer said over the speaker, “it’s the crow’s nest for you, sir!”
“Coming, coming....” Braxton looked at the other woman, then back at Frances. “I suggest—”
“I’ve got it under control,” she said, her voice cool and steady. “See you in the tent.”
She’d caused enough problems; wanted to show him she could handle this quietly. Anyway, the woman had turned away, was chatting with her pals.
After a slight bow to her, Captain Brax Sparrow headed backstage.
Frances heard a woman swoon behind her. “I’d love to visit that Davey’s locker.”
“Tell it, girlfriend,” murmured another. “When I get home, I’m gonna log on to that website, send a donation in Captain Brax’s name.”
Frances felt relieved. Maybe I didn’t blow it that badly for him.
A blur of movement caught her eye. The bird-flipping woman sidled closer, flashing Frances yet another energetic one-fingered salute as though to say, Whatcha gonna do about it?
What was it with women flipping her off lately? First Uly, now Abalone.
Big deal. Time to meet Braxton in the tent. She started to walk away.
“What’s he see in you?” screeched Big Bird.
Take the high road, Frances told herself. Keep walking.
“Didn’t your mama teach you any manners?”
Frances stopped. Sticks and stones. Don’t take the bait.
“Or did your mama have bad manners, too?”
Frances was damned tired of running away.
Tired of reacting instead of acting.
Tired of playing nice with Dmitri.
Tired of Charlie giving her cases that didn’t feel right.
And really, really tired of waiting to have a complete relationship with Braxton, one where they spent more time together being themselves than being undercover. One where they took walks, watched movies, and made love whenever they wanted.
But as tired as she was of putting up with other people’s crap, she’d try one last time to make amends.
She turned, wishing she’d thought to at least change her shoes whe
n she had the chance because these heels were starting to hurt her feet.
“I’m sorry you don’t believe me,” Frances said, “because I meant what I said. I apologize. And by the way, my mother was one of the kindest human beings who ever graced this planet, so why don’t you cool your mouth-jets on that one.”
All right, the mouth-jets comment wasn’t exactly taking the high road, but it felt good to say it.
The woman curled her hands into fists, her face scrunching into a tight, ugly mask.
The announcer’s voice came over the speakers. “And now, ladies, it’s time to introduce our next Manwich, Li’l Bit Goes a Long Way!”
As the announcer continued his introduction of Li’l Bit, who liked bowling and area rugs, Frances turned her back on the woman and continued her trek to the tent.
She made it all of three steps when something slammed into her, throwing her off balance. Staggering sideways, she fell against a table laid out with plastic utensils and a platter piled with fried won ton, causing the items to crash to the floor.
The area around her grew surreally quiet. Even the announcer stopped talking.
Frances slowly straightened, meeting the woman’s furious gaze, and wondered why her gal-pals didn’t drag her away.
A hundred years of silence passed as they continued their stare-down like a couple of cowgirls at high noon. The air reeked of oily won tons and wine.
The woman lowered her head, bunched her fists, and ran at Frances like a human cannonball.
As women screamed and shouted, Frances decided maybe running away wasn’t such a bad idea after all. She didn’t go far before slipping on a won ton and falling smack on her butt, rolling over in time to see a blur of curly brown hair descending upon her.
Frances threw a wild punch, her fist connecting with a sickening thud on flesh and bone.
Emitting a stifled grunt of pain, the woman fell backward with a loud fwomp.