The Test

by Fenske, Tawna

  But it’s fucking perfect.

  “You look great,” I tell her. “The hottest chick I’ve ever seen wearing a silk Mötley Crüe polo shirt with a long leather skirt and shoes that cost more than my car.”

  Lisa glances down at her dazzly Gucci gladiator stilettos and shrugs. “It’s not every night a girl gets taken to a biker bar.”

  “True enough.”

  We both turn to survey the biker bar, which seems oddly smoky. Oregon banned smoking in bars almost a decade ago, but the perma-haze that fills the space looks like a mob of Hell’s Angels lit the building on fire.

  As we step through the doorway, Lisa clutches my arm. Part of me expects her recoil with distaste at the peanut shells on the floor, the sweaty smell emanating from the leather-clad bikers at the end of the bar, and the two drunk guys shoving each other by the pool table. It’s probably all unpleasant to a woman wearing three-hundred-dollar lingerie under her leather skirt.

  Yes, I do know about La Perla. And I can tell she didn’t follow my “no bra” edict, which makes me more eager to get her out of it at some point.

  I jump when Lisa yanks my arm and points. “Look. They have karaoke!”

  I follow the direction she’s gesturing and frown. This isn’t the biker bar I know and love. “That’s new,” I mutter. “They don’t usually do karaoke here.”

  One of the leather-clad dudes gives me an irritated glance, and I lift a hand to let him know it’s all cool. That I’m not some hipster tourist scoping out dive bars from a guidebook. He surveys my tattoos, my ratty jeans and motorcycle jacket, and goes back to nursing his beer.

  My date might be a stunning peacock in a cluster of crows, but I look like a guy who belongs here.

  I step closer to Lisa and lower my voice. “You do karaoke?”

  “God, no.” She gives a mock shudder and smiles. “My sister is great at it, so I’ve gone out with her a few times. I love watching.”

  I file that information away in the back of my head, wondering which of her sisters is the singer. “Why don’t you grab a seat over there?” I point to a booth to the left of the karaoke setup. “I’ll grab us some beers and meet you in a second.”

  “Okay.” She sashays away, and I watch her go. She’s right—the damn skirt ruffle does ripple. And even though it comes down past her knees, it’s somehow infinitely hotter than the black leather miniskirt I pictured in my head.

  Go figure.

  I glance around and realize I’m not the only one in the bar checking her out. Several guys glance up from their beers to watch her hips sway, and I want to grab every last one of them by the shirt and order them to look away.

  Mine, I telegraph to all of them.

  That’s true for now, anyway.

  I sigh and step up to the bar to order a couple of Budweisers and a plate of wings. Then I grab the beers and make my way across the room to where Lisa sits with her legs crossed primly and her hands folded on the table. She’s glancing around, studying the scene, and I wonder what it looks like through her eyes. Is she disgusted? Intrigued? A little of both?

  I set a beer on the table in front of her and take a seat on the opposite side of the booth. Lisa smiles, then stands up and moves over to sit on the bench seat beside me.

  “What’s up?” I ask, though I don’t mind a bit. In fact, I love feeling her thigh snugged up against mine and her hair brushing my arm.

  “The Test,” she says. “I’ve always sat across from my dates in booths. Never beside. Figured I’d try it like this for a change.”

  “Works for me.”

  That’s the understatement of the year. I gulp my beer, trying to keep my mind off the fact that the side of her breast just grazed my arm. I wonder if she’s doing it on purpose and decide not. That isn’t who Lisa is.

  Then again, maybe she’s as eager to have me touching her as I am. I take another swig of beer, skimming my bicep across her breast on the way up.

  Lisa shivers and gives a soft little sigh.

  Damn.

  “So, Dax,” she says. “Tell me about yourself.”

  I’m instantly on guard. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, you’ve met my sisters and my sister-in-law,” she says. “You know all about my split from my ex and my dog-free childhood, while I know almost nothing about you.”

  It’s true, and it’s by design. But that’s not going to cut it with Lisa. I can tell from the look she’s giving me, like this is a job interview and she just asked me to describe my career history in detail.

  I take a deep breath and spin my pint glass on the table. “I have a brother in prison and a sister who passed away.”

  “Oh.” I glance up to see sympathy flooding her eyes. She moves her hand to rest it on my arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  She doesn’t ask what happened, and I don’t mean to tell her. But something about the warmth of her fingers on my forearm has me spilling out the details. “My sister, Dana, died of a heroin overdose at nineteen,” I say. “And my brother is doing six years for second-degree armed robbery.”

  I’m not sure if I say this for shock value or for sympathy, but that’s not what she gives me. There’s compassion in her eyes, sure, but no trace of pity. No trace of scorn or shame. “God, Dax. I’m so sorry. Your poor parents.”

  I stare at my beer, considering how much to tell her. “Our dad died three years ago, and our mom left when we were little, so it’s really just my brother and me. Paul—that’s my brother—he’s at the State Pen in Salem.”

  “Do you see him much?”

  I nod and take a sip of beer. “Yeah. Once a week I drive over there for visiting hours. He’s three years in, and there’s a chance he’ll get an early parole next spring. Good behavior and all.”

  “I hope he does. I hope it works out for you.

  “Me, too.” My chest feels tight, and so does the nod I give her. “We’ll see.”

  Her hand is warm on my arm, and her eyes are kind. “How do you think you avoided it?” she asks. “Falling into crime or drugs or whatever. What kept you off that path?”

  I study her face and see she’s genuinely curious. Not judgmental, not pitying, just interested in my life choices.

  I take a sip of beer and consider the question. “I guess I always wanted something better for myself. I saw the decisions my dad made, my sister made, my brother—and then I thought, ‘how can I avoid fucking up like that? How can I make totally different choices?’”

  Lisa nods and looks down into her beer. “It’s like The Test.”

  “What?”

  “You made a decision to do the exact opposite,” she says. “To choose different things for yourself when you realized the other choices were dead ends.”

  I stare at her, dumbfounded. I’d never thought of it like that before. “I guess so.”

  “Is that why you agreed to help me?”

  I shake my head, still amazed she made that connection. Is there something to it? Is it true that Lisa and I have that in common?

  I pick up my beer and take a sip, too rattled to respond right away. This whole conversation is way too intense, and I feel like I’m sitting naked on this cracked vinyl bench. I have to defuse it. To keep her from getting any closer.

  “Maybe I just wanted to sleep with you.”

  Lisa blinks at my dickhead answer, but doesn’t flinch. There’s nothing in her eyes that says my words bothered her.

  “Mission accomplished.” She lifts her glass in a mock toast. “You have officially crossed crazyhawt sex off my bucket list. And dirty talk, a fling with a stranger, and pretty much everything else required to complete my sexual education. Nicely done.”

  Done? Wait, no.

  “Let’s not go patting ourselves on the back just yet,” I tell her. “There’s still plenty of ground to cover.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve barely even scraped the surface of your sexual reeducation.”

  She lifts an eyebrow at me, but the
re’s intrigue glinting in her eyes. “Such as?”

  “Oh, plenty of sex positions. Tons of things I’m sure you’ve never tried.”

  She tips her head to one side, blond hair skimming the M on her chest. “Like what?”

  “Take the Screaming Weasel, for instance.”

  “The Screaming Weasel?”

  “Yeah. Like, are we going to need to order extra duct tape and tomato paste for that, or do you already have a good supply?”

  She’s studying me like she can’t tell if I’m yanking her chain, so I keep going. “Or maybe the Upside-down Radish,” I say. “That’s more of an advanced move, but I think you’re ready for it. You aren’t claustrophobic, are you?”

  A smile flickers over her face, and she sips her beer with a knowing look. “That should be fine,” she says slowly. “But I’m really more interested in the Paisley Parasol. Do you think my shellfish allergy will be a problem?”

  I snort and run a finger through the ring of moisture from my beer glass. “Nah, we’ll be good as long as the gas mask is nice and snug.” I sip my beer and fight to keep a straight face. “Of course, we could always start with the Blue Rhino Tusk.”

  “That does sound intriguing.”

  I pretend to study her, though I’m mostly just after an excuse to admire the way her silk shirt hugs her curves. Mötley Crüe really should consider marketing silk polo shirts.

  “Yeah, I think you’ve got the upper body strength for that one,” I tell her. “But I’m not sure your earlobes can handle that sort of strain.”

  She holds a straight face, but I can see she’s on the brink of giggling. “I already stockpiled a pound of Gouda and a set of jumper cables for the Manchurian Twist, but if you’d rather start with the Blinking Lightsaber, I suppose I can look into renting a chainsaw.”

  I snort and splash my beer on the table. I half expect Lisa to whip out a dishcloth and start tidying, but she keeps her attention fixed on me. “Nah, let’s go straight for the Throbbing Beanstalk,” I suggest. “I’ve already got the inversion table set up in my living room, and the bear grease is just going to go to waste if we don’t use it.”

  She tries and fails to mask a giggle as her eyes flash with mirth. She drums perfectly manicured fingers on the table and pretends to ponder. “Okay, but if you suggest the Crooked Licorice Whip, I’m going to have to pass. It took forever for that last nipple piercing to heal.”

  I bust out laughing, bested at my own game. God, what is it about this woman? How the hell can she do sophisticated and silly, straight-laced and sexy, all at the same damn time?

  I shake my head and study her over the rim of my pint glass. “You know, you’re turning out to be a lot different than I thought you’d be.”

  She grins and takes a sip of her own beer. “I can’t say this is what I expected, either, when I dragged you home from the bar.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “Good.” She sets her glass down, considering. “I needed to break out of my shell. To try new things. I never realized that until I met you.”

  I nod, wanting to ask more. Wanting to know where she sees herself in a month, a year, five years. If she sees The Test as a temporary game, or a chance to make more life-altering changes.

  But I’m spared the embarrassment of asking any of those questions as the waitress arrives with a heaping pile of hot wings and a trough of ranch dressing. “Here’s your napkins,” she says as she plunks down a pile of scratchy brown paper. “If you need a refill on those beers, we’d better get it now. Karaoke’s about to start.”

  I glance toward the stage to see a skinny guy with a mullet and a white T-shirt. He’s adjusting a microphone and squinting at a screen that will display lyrics for all the songs. I turn back to Lisa. “Which sister does karaoke?”

  “Missy. She’s the older one. Married to Paul.”

  “What’s her go-to karaoke song?”

  She shrugs and picks up a hot wing. “Usually Bette Midler’s ‘Wind Beneath My Wings.’”

  I do my best not to gag, though I’m sure she sees the mirth in my eyes. “Once she did an Adele song after a few tequila shots,” Lisa adds. “But yeah, usually it’s kind of pretentious-sounding stuff.”

  “Missy’s the taller one, right? And Cassie is the scientist?”

  She nods, and I can tell she’s surprised I remembered. “Cassie’s tried karaoke once,” she says. “But that was just because her fiancé was there and she wanted to serenade him.”

  “What song did she pick?”

  Her cheeks pinken, and I know it’s not from the spiciness of the wing she just bit into. “She sang, ‘When I Think About You I Touch Myself.’”

  I laugh and grab a hot wing of my own. It’s tangy and spicy and messy, and the thick poblano-spiked sauce coats my fingers. I finish chewing before I ask another question.

  “Have you ever thought about what your song would be?”

  She shrugs and grabs another wing, clutching it daintily like it’s a teacup. There’s a smudge of sauce at the corner of her lip, and I ache to brush it away with my thumb. Or my tongue. Or—

  “I’ve had a few song ideas,” she says. “Nothing concrete.”

  I can tell from the way she’s avoiding my eyes that she knows exactly what song she’d sing. And that there’s a story of some sort behind it. I wait for her to finish licking sauce off her fingertips.

  “Wow, these are spicy,” she says.

  “Too spicy?”

  She shakes her head and takes a sip of beer. “Spicier than I’d normally eat, but I like it.” She grins and dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Different is good.”

  I glance at the stage where the mulleted guy is doing a quick sound check. I turn back to Lisa. “So, you’ve never done karaoke before?”

  She shakes her head and reaches for another wing. “Nope.”

  “Because it’s scary?”

  “Terrifying.” Her gaze locks with mine, and I can tell she knows where I’m going with this.

  “But maybe a little exciting, too?” I keep my voice low, ready to back off if she tells me to.

  But her eyes flash with intrigue as she takes a cool sip of beer and dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Maybe.”

  “Okay then,” I say. “Time for your next stage of The Test.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lisa

  My legs are like jelly as I take a deep breath and brace myself.

  “Ready?”

  I nod in response to the male voice behind me, but I’m not sure I’m ready at all. I’m terrified.

  And a little excited, but mostly scared spitless.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” the guy says into the mike. “Our next performer is Miss Lisa Michaels singing ‘Bootylicious’ with a little help from Destiny’s Child.”

  There’s a tepid round of applause, and a few leers from the biker guys at the bar. A few feet away, Dax gives me an encouraging smile. Though he offered to do this with me, I had something else in mind.

  Something that scares the ever-lovin’ hell out of me right now.

  “You got this,” Dax mouths.

  It’s not the words but the mouth that sends a bolt of courage through me. Or maybe it’s the memory of where that mouth has been, and where I’d like it to be again. The opening notes blast through the speakers on either side of me, a riff on Stevie Nicks’s “Edge of Seventeen,” and I’m inspired to do my own riff on the opening lines.

  “Cassie, can you handle this?” I sing, my voice cracking as I channel my sexually liberated younger sister.

  I clear my throat as the beat pulses, and I try not to choke on my own spit. “Missy, can you handle this?”

  Okay, so my older sister would be mortified to see me strutting across the stage like a hoochie right now, but isn’t that the point? Feeling eyes on me, I attempt a small, sexy wiggle, stumbling when my heel catches on a cord.

  My palms are sweating as I watch the lyrics scroll past on a flickering screen.
I belt out the next few lines, voice warbling as I try to recall how the tune goes.

  Tender thang?

  Ready for this jelly?

  What the hell does this song even mean?

  My eyes flick to Dax, and I catch his hungry gaze on my ass. I give a little wiggle and remember why I picked this song.

  I belt out the next few lines, gaining confidence as Dax’s eyes follow me across the stage. I sound more like an injured cat than a sexy R&B singer, but I’m doing this, dammit. I’m up here with the spotlight making my skin sizzle, or maybe that’s all Dax. I lock eyes with him as I sing the next words.

  “Baby, can you handle this?”

  I sway my hips, attempting another booty shake. I’m amazed when I remain upright, and even more amazed when I spin back around to see Dax has moved to the edge of the bench seat. His eyes are feral, hungry, and when I glance at his lap, there’s a telltale bulge.

  My confidence swells, sending pulse-beats of energy through me.

  “My body too bootylicious!” I yelp, no longer worried that I can’t carry a tune. I’ve got Dax’s full attention, and that’s all I care about. That, and finishing this song as fast as possible so I can have his hands on me again.

  The last notes have barely faded when he’s out of his seat and tossing a wad of cash onto the table. He catches my arm amid a smattering of applause, but I barely hear it. My heart thuds in my ears, along with Dax’s voice as he steers me toward a dark hallway in the corner of the room.

  “Outside,” he growls. “Now.”

  “But—”

  “Yes,” he says as he pushes through a door and into the cool night air. “You have the most amazing butt I’ve ever seen, and if I don’t get my hands on it in the next ten seconds, I’m going to fucking explode.”

  We tumble into the alley together, breathless in the crisp night air with the pounding of bass fading as the door clangs shut behind us. We face each other across darkened asphalt, the spicy scent of hot wing sauce clinging to us like pheromones. The heat between us is palpable, and I lick my lips as I look up at Dax. “You liked the song?”