The Dirty Girls Book Club

by Savanna Fox

  “Which is always a good idea,” Marielle put in.

  “Sometimes, inability to climax is due to a horrible experience,” Lily went on, “like sexual abuse. Also, there are strict religions that don’t believe women should experience sexual pleasure. Then there are women who react to social pressure that makes them believe their bodies are unattractive and inadequate.”

  Georgia’s mind was stuck back on sexual abuse. When she was thirteen and one of her mom’s boyfriends groped her, it had traumatized her. She’d gained a lot of weight, started wearing boy’s clothes. But she’d gotten over that long ago. Besides, if that experience had been responsible for her inability to climax, surely the man who’d have helped her get over it was the one she loved, not the near stranger.

  “Man, this stuff is complicated,” Kim said.

  Georgia nodded, and Lily said, “Yes, sexuality is incredibly complicated.”

  “Which is why every girl should masturbate,” Marielle said cheerfully, “and learn how her body works and what turns her on.”

  Georgia had tried that a few times, but couldn’t arouse herself. Yet Woody’d done it effortlessly when she’d barely known him an hour.

  So far, she’d held back from contributing to a discussion she knew so little about, but now she ventured, “Does it ever have to do with the partner? Some special chemistry or something?”

  “Or that bad-boy talent?” Marielle said. “You bet it does. I have much better sex with some guys than others.”

  Kim said, “Don’t some cultures believe that virgins of either sex should be initiated by someone experienced?”

  Marielle chuckled. “Good idea. I mean, can you imagine two virgins on their wedding night? Would they ever figure out what they were doing?”

  Georgia busied herself spreading dip on bread. She and Anthony had figured out what they were doing. That was part of the wonder of the experience, both making love for the first time. But she’d sound hopelessly old-fashioned if she said that. These women weren’t the chastity club type.

  “Ladies,” Lily said in her brisk doctor voice, “we’re straying off track. Let’s get back to the book.”

  “Much as I’m loving the book,” Kim said, “talking about sex is more fun. But okay, here’s something I find interesting. It’s all in Emma’s point of view. We never get to know what the Comte is thinking.”

  “That’s pretty obvious,” Marielle said with a laugh. “He wants to get into her—what did they wear back then?—knickers or bloomers or whatever, and he’s going to seduce her into agreeing.”

  “But why?” Kim demanded. “He can have all those younger, vivacious girls.”

  “Because she’s a challenge?” Marielle suggested. “The one who doesn’t immediately fall for his charms?”

  “She’s not a puck bunny.” Georgia didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until the three other women stared at her.

  Marielle laughed. “Yeah, exactly. I see you’re really getting into the hockey thing, eh?”

  “You have no idea.”

  Hoping that a good, hard game of squash with a friend would burn off some restless tension and break him out of his bad mood, Woody bounded up the steps to the Chancery Squash Club on Hornby. He greeted the pretty brunette at the desk, and headed for the change room.

  His partner wasn’t there, but he arrived a minute later, out of breath, his suit jacket already off and his tie loosened. “Sorry; had some orders to sign,” he said as he pulled off his clothes.

  Tom Westin was a judge on the British Columbia Supreme Court, and a hockey fan. They’d met at a fund-raiser, hit it off, and been playing squash for the past two years.

  “I’m gonna slaughter you today,” Woody announced.

  Tom pulled on a T-shirt and shorts. “That’ll be the day. In this sport, I’m king.” More than a decade older than Woody, he was a big man too, and in great shape thanks to frequent games of squash plus early morning jogging.

  “Prepare to be dethroned.”

  “Take your best shot, pal,” Tom said as they headed for their court.

  “Bet on it.”

  Even so, Woody, pissed at himself for being off his game in the all-important Western Conference final, had trouble finding his rhythm. Didn’t help that his injured left shoulder had taken another beating in the last game.

  It also didn’t help that Georgia’d been on his mind. Last Wednesday she’d been totally into sex; then she’d freaked out. What the hell had happened?

  He’d always figured dating during playoffs was a bad idea because it distracted him. Now he was just as distracted by not having sex with a woman.

  Seeing Tom’s ball hurtling toward him, Woody swung his racquet and connected perfectly, sending the ball off the front wall and down the side one.

  Tom tried, but failed, to scoop it up. “Good one,” he said, wiping sweat from his face. “But your playing’s erratic today.” That was something Woody liked about Tom. He didn’t talk down to Woody, just used his regular vocabulary as if he figured Woody would understand. Mostly, he did. Even the legal jargon Tom sometimes dropped in.

  “Today’s not the only time,” Woody muttered.

  “The Beavers will get back on track,” Tom assured him. Then he slanted the ball to send Woody racing to the front of the court.

  Woody missed and hurtled into the wall, smashing his bad shoulder. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He peeled himself off, rubbing his shoulder.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure. And yeah, you bet we’ll come back.” It was his job, as captain, to make sure of it—and to fix his own game. Since he’d been a kid, there was this thing that happened to him on the ice, like he could envision the individual parts of the game and the pattern they formed, even as it changed second by second. He sensed when someone was coming up behind to steal the puck, knew where his teammate would be to field a pass, saw the exact spot the goaltender couldn’t cover. For him, that was part of the beauty of the game, along with the crisp slash of skates against ice, the hard smack of a well-shot puck off his stick, and the knowledge that at that moment in time, nothing else in the world mattered.

  His head coach used terms like “spatial and situational intelligence.” Said Gretzky and Crosby had it too.

  Whatever it was, Woody had to get it back. He wasn’t playing badly, but his team deserved his best. Each of the men had his own strengths, but they needed him to be on top of his game, not to mention keep them motivated and focused. And he’d damned well do it. “We’re always up for a challenge.” Besides, it’d be a home game and Vancouver fans were the best.

  “We’ll be rooting for you Wednesday night.” Tom grinned. “Bash ’em, Beavers.”

  They whacked the ball around some more; then Tom said, “Something else on your mind?”

  “Nah. Well, yeah, maybe,” Woody confessed. “A woman.”

  Fourteen

  Tom served. “That figures. You ought to get married, my friend. It settles a guy down.”

  Woody smashed the ball with all his strength. It cracked against the front wall, flew up in the air, and fell neatly into the angle where side wall met back wall. Where it was virtually impossible to hit. Tom left it alone and Woody whooped.

  “Don’t wanna be settled,” he proclaimed, retrieving the ball for his own serve. His parents had soured him on marriage for life. Besides, he couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life with any of the women he’d dated.

  He won the second match, put up a good fight in the third, but lost to Tom’s superior skill. He slapped the other man on the back. “Not bad for an old guy.”

  “Better than you can do, superstar.”

  “One of these days,” Woody threatened.

  Back in the change room, they headed for the showers. Warm water sluiced the sweat from Woody’s body; hot water eased the ache in his shoulder; cold water invigorated him.

  “You’re tone-deaf,” Tom shouted from the stall next door. “What the hell are you trying to whist
le?”

  Woody hadn’t even known he was whistling. He thought back. Damn, it had been “Sweet Georgia Brown.” His palm slammed the shower off.

  Next door, the shower stopped too, and both men emerged, toweling off.

  “Do you have plans for the evening?” Tom asked. “Maybe with the woman?”

  “No way. Want to go for a beer?” They sometimes did that.

  “How about dinner?”

  “You don’t have to get home?” Both busy guys, the most they’d done before was play squash and go for an occasional beer. They had little in common, yet they’d always been able to talk. Woody had learned about Tom’s family life and his work on the court, and the judge always seemed interested in what was up with Woody.

  Tom grinned. “Maureen’s out of town, Jason’s at a friend’s, and I’m in the middle of a trial and am actually caught up with my work. In other words, I have the evening completely free.”

  Woody, remembering Georgia’s lessons, said, “A rare occurrence.”

  “Indeed. And worthy of celebration. Let’s go for a nice meal.”

  All set to agree, Woody remembered his poor table manners. Would he embarrass himself? Then he thought of Georgia’s suggestion that he find a model to imitate. He grinned at Judge Westin. “Sounds good.”

  “Do you like French food?” Tom asked. “There’s a restaurant Maureen and I like. Small, one of the old standbys rather than a trendy newcomer. Not too much chance either of us will be pestered.”

  When the two of them went for a beer, it was a toss-up whether more people came to kowtow to the judge or to beg autographs from Woody. “Sounds good, but alls—all—I brought to change into is shorts and a tee.”

  “We’re about the same size. I brought jeans, but I guess I could live with climbing back into my work clothes.” Tom took neatly folded clothes from his gym bag and handed them over.

  Woody pulled the jeans on over his underwear, finding they were a bit tighter than he was used to wearing. He held up Tom’s beige shirt, which was classier than anything he owned, enjoying the rough texture. Wondering what it was made of, he read the label. Cotton and linen. He squinted at the name. “Zeg-na?”

  “It’s pronounced ‘Zenya,’ ” Tom said matter-of-factly. “Italian.”

  “Nice.” Woody put it on and started to do up the buttons. “Nicer than that suit you’re stuck wearing. Sorry, man. I’d have brought proper clothes if I’d have known.” Proper clothes meaning one of the suits he hated.

  “No problem.”

  As they walked out together, Tom said, “So tell me about the woman.”

  Woody groaned. “Name’s Georgia.”

  “Pretty. Images of southern lushness come to mind.”

  Nah, that was more Viv’s style. “She’s more, uh, confusing. All buttoned up tight for work, but when she lets her hair down, man.”

  “Confusing. I hear you.”

  Out on the street, Tom said, “You’re on foot?” He knew that was Woody’s habit, since the squash club was less than a mile from Woody’s condo.

  “Yeah.”

  “My car’s in the courthouse lot.”

  They walked in that direction, and a few minutes later were cruising through the West End in Tom’s Mercedes.

  “How are things going with Jason?” Woody asked, knowing that the judge’s son was a constant source of worry.

  “Fifteen is a hellish age,” the other man said gloomily. “If it weren’t for those season tickets you gave us, I doubt I’d ever see the boy. Thank God at least we’ve got hockey in common.” He glanced toward Woody. “Maureen wanted me to ask if you’d come by for dinner. Jason, though he’d never admit to anything as uncool as hero worship, is dying to meet you. Maureen too. She says you sound more interesting than most of my colleagues.”

  “Don’t know about that.”

  “She says all that lawyers and judges talk about is law, and it gets boring.”

  “Well, I sure wouldn’t be doing that.”

  The judge stopped at a light. “You didn’t finish high school, right?” There was no judgment in his voice.

  “No, just grade eleven.”

  “You got drafted into the NHL when you were what? Seventeen?”

  “Yup.” It had been his ticket out—away from small-town Manitoba, his abusive dad, his guilt and anger that he couldn’t get his mom to leave his dad. “Never was fond of schoolwork. Hell, if a guy can make millions a year without putting himself through the agony of schooling, I figure he’d be a fool not to go for it.”

  Tom’s expression was serious. “It’s not many who can do that, though.” He pulled away from the light. “Jason wants to drop out of school and play in a band, but I doubt he and his group have what it takes to be successful. The talent, discipline, drive. Connections. Luck.” He pulled the Mercedes into a parking spot on Alberni Street, two or three blocks up from Denman.

  Woody nodded. “Takes all of that if you’re going to get ahead without an education. It’s not something I’d recommend for many folks.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d come for dinner and have a man-to-man with Jason.” Tom flashed a grin. “Bring Georgia.”

  Yeah, right. “Don’t think that’s gonna happen, but dinner sounds good. When the playoffs are over.”

  “It’s a date.”

  They climbed out of the car and Woody studied the heritage house that had been converted to a restaurant called Le Gavroche. He’d never been there before.

  Tom led the way in the front door, where a distinguished man rushed forward enthusiastically. “Judge, how good to see you. We weren’t expecting you tonight.”

  “A spur-of-the-moment decision. I hope you have room for us?”

  Woody got the impression this place would always have room for his friend. He trailed the other two up the stairs to a medium-sized restaurant with windows at the far end. He could see why a husband and wife might favor this spot for an intimate dinner, particularly if they got the window table currently occupied by an attractive couple.

  How about that? The woman was Viv Andrews, in bright turquoise and purple tonight, sitting across from a sleek, dark-haired guy in a suit.

  Viv glanced up, mouthed, “Woody!” and beckoned him over with a vivid smile and a curled finger.

  “And I figured you might be safe from fans here,” Tom murmured, following him.

  “She’s a business acquaintance,” Woody said. Then, as they reached the window table, “Hey, there, Viv. This is a surprise.”

  “Hi, Woody. Woody Hanrahan, this is my friend Jeremy Grant.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Woody shook his hand. “And this is Tom Westin.”

  “Tom Westin?” Grant said. “Judge Tom Westin?”

  “The same,” Tom said easily, also shaking Grant’s hand.

  “I thought so. Saw you on the news a month or two back, when you were handling that drug conspiracy trial.”

  “Yes, that was a mess,” Tom said. “And everyone knew that whichever way I decided, it would be appealed. Now it’s the Court of Appeal’s problem.”

  Viv tugged gently at Woody’s sleeve. “Nice shirt.”

  He was about to tell her it wasn’t his, but then a devil made him say, “Zegna,” making sure he pronounced it exactly as Tom had.

  “Very nice,” she repeated, studying him from head to toe in an appraisal that made him wish he was in his own loose jeans and a jersey.

  “We’ll let you get on with your meal,” Woody said, and he and Tom walked over to the table they’d been assigned.

  Once seated, Tom said, “Want that beer, or shall we go with a bottle of wine?”

  Georgia had said that different drinks were appropriate for different occasions. Taking his cue from Tom, he said, “Let’s have wine. Your pick.”

  While Tom deliberated over the wine list, Woody studied the food menu. Lots of French words, but there were English translations. Still, if he was going to use Tom as his role model, he should probably order the sam
e thing. Unless the judge chose something gross like sweetbreads, which Woody knew damned well did not refer to the dessert tray.

  Tom chose an appetizer salad and rack of lamb cooked rare.

  Relieved, Woody said, “The same for me, please.”

  Carefully, he watched as Tom tasted the red wine and approved it. When Woody sipped from his own glass, he said, “That’s nice.” It didn’t have the refreshing, almost-sour edge of beer, but it wasn’t sweet either. It was interesting on his tongue, with lots of flavors that came together well. He picked up the bottle and studied the label.

  “I chose French because we’re eating French food, and hearty to stand up to the lamb,” Tom said. “Glad you like it.”

  “I’m trying to learn more about wine,” Woody said. “Tell me some of your favorites, and why you like them.”

  Tom seemed happy to oblige, and Woody concentrated, looking for mental hooks to remember at least a tiny portion of what Tom said. He did pick up some of the lingo, about bouquet, nose, hints of vanilla, oak, blackberry, smooth finish.

  He realized Tom was studying him with amused curiosity. “All right, my friend,” Tom said, “who are you trying to impress? Georgia?”

  Woody gave a wry chuckle. “Yeah, but not in the way you’re thinking.” He fiddled with his wineglass. “This is confidential, right?” He had total trust in Tom.

  “Of course.”

  Woody told him about the VitalSport endorsement, omitting only his reasons for doing it. When he finished, Tom gave a low whistle. “You’re going to be even more famous.”

  “Yeah, I’m not keen on that part.” Or any part except the money.

  “You must have a hell of a good reason for doing it.”

  Woody heard the curiosity in his voice. He should have anticipated it. Tom was a perceptive man. Not sure how to respond, Woody was glad when the waiter served their salads.

  Tom glanced at his plate, thanked the waiter, but didn’t pick up his fork. Instead, he returned his gaze to Woody’s face, looking interested and concerned.