The Dirty Girls Book Club

by Savanna Fox

  Lily cocked her head. “You sound a little, uh, bitter. Did the story strike a personal note for you?”

  Embarrassed, Georgia muttered, “Maybe.”

  The waitress delivered Kim’s and Marielle’s drinks and Lily’s second martini. Marielle promptly picked up the flute glass filled with a frothy pink concoction, sipped, and purred satisfaction. Lily lifted her glass too.

  Kim didn’t touch hers. She gazed steadily at Georgia, the serious expression in her near-black eyes a contrast to the playful caramel streaks in her spiky hair. “It brings up these issues, right? About sex and love, and what women want—and deserve, like you said—out of relationships.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “It makes you think about the relationship you’re in.”

  Was that why she’d agreed to have drinks with the guy she’d met at the game last week?

  Georgia nodded agreement, and noticed Lily was doing the same.

  “That’s why it’s better to do things my way,” Marielle said. “Lots of guys, lots of fun, and no angst.” Normally, she was breezy, joking, chiding them, bursting out with her own ideas, but now she seemed subdued. Almost as if she didn’t really believe what she was saying.

  Lily studied Marielle. “That’s fine for a while. But people are meant to bond with others.”

  “I bond with lots.” She sounded a little defensive. “And I’m happy on my own too.”

  “So am I,” Georgia put in. “And it’s better being on your own than with the wrong person.”

  She expected the others to jump in, either to agree or disagree, but all three of them picked up their drinks and took a sip. Georgia realized the pianist was playing the classic “When a Man Loves a Woman.” How depressing.

  Finally, Kim said, “Anyhow, once I got my head around the fact that the Comte wasn’t going to turn into the man I wanted him to be, then, yeah, I liked the ending. The story’s about Emma, isn’t it? Not about him.”

  Happy to be back on the book, Georgia said, “Yes. It’s called The Sexual Education of Lady Emma Whitehead, and she sure did get a sexual education, but she got more than that. She grew up. She figured out who she is as a woman, and how she wants to live her life.”

  “Knowing what you want is one thing,” Lily said, “but the universe won’t necessarily deliver it.”

  “Which is why,” Marielle said, “you have to be happy with yourself, by yourself. And I think Emma’s going to be. She’ll take lovers, and have a wonderful time.”

  “No,” Georgia said. “She’ll find that one perfect man.”

  Lily studied her. “You’re a romantic.”

  Was she? Maybe that was why she’d let herself care for Woody. Perhaps her heart had been looking for another soul mate, even though her rational brain knew Woody didn’t want to fill that role. “She’ll have everything,” Kim said.

  “She’ll learn to be happy by herself, and she’ll take lovers and enjoy them, and when the time’s right, that one special man will come along and they’ll fall in love with each other.”

  “And I thought George was a romantic,” Lily said wryly, taking another sip of her martini. “By the way, is our book discussion going off course again? Usually we’re more interested in the writing style, and so on.”

  “This is more interesting,” Marielle said. “Look at how we all got caught up in the story. Who cares about the technical stuff? We care about Lady Emma, because each one of us identifies with her.” She turned to Georgia. “Like, not to pry or raise a sore point or anything, but you had some guy you cared about, who you wanted to change, but he didn’t. Right?”

  Georgia nodded.

  “And isn’t that a futile quest.” Lily said it as a statement, not a question.

  “I don’t think so,” Georgia said slowly. “Some men are capable of change.”

  “You can never make anyone change unless they want to,” Marielle put in. “Emma was ready, and she wanted to change. The Comte wasn’t.”

  And didn’t that exactly summarize Georgia’s own relationship with Woody?

  “I feel sorry for him,” Kim said.

  “He’s perfectly happy,” Marielle protested, flicking her hair back again.

  “He’s stuck,” Kim said firmly. “Maybe he enjoys his life, but it’ll always be the same thing, over and over. That’s got to get boring after a while.”

  Would it, for Woody? And was Kim accusing Marielle of being stuck, or did she perhaps feel stuck herself?

  Marielle slitted her wide, dark eyes, as if she was pondering a retort. Instead, she said, “Time’s almost up. Next week we pick a new book, so bring your suggestions. More sex, anyone?”

  “No,” Georgia said. “I need a break from sex.”

  By Monday night, the Beavers had had some rest, massage, and physio. Best of all, Stu had called to say the swelling was almost gone and he could move both legs.

  The players who took the ice in the Verizon Center were a stronger, healthier, happier group of guys.

  Woody still missed Georgia, but he’d resolved to treat her the way he did his injured body. Yes, there was pain, but when he skated onto the ice, it wouldn’t exist. It sure as hell wouldn’t get in the way of playing the best damned game he could.

  He played well, and so did the rest of the team. But the refs had it in for them. The Beavers spent more time in the penalty box than they had in any game this season, and the Caps exploited those power plays.

  Federov, the Beavers’ goaltender, almost worked magic, yet a couple of goals snuck in, and the Beavers managed only one of their own. They left the ice three games down.

  If the Caps won one more—just one—they’d win the Stanley Cup.

  Pissed off, the team gathered around Coach Duffy to hear what he had to say.

  “You played well. Every single one of you. And Federov deserves a fucking medal. But, men, it’s not good enough. Back in Vancouver, you’re going to win. The Cup will be in the building, and no fucking way the Capitals are taking it home.”

  The players booed and cursed the idea of their opponents taking their cup back to California.

  “You have to win,” the coach said. “There’s no option.”

  Every single head nodded vigorously.

  Two days later, Wednesday, in Vancouver, they did win, four-two.

  On Friday they were back in DC, with the Cup there in the Verizon Center. The energy in the building was kinetic with the Caps’ fans hungry for the win, and a sizable group of Beavers fans yelling their lungs out. It was damned fine seeing those chocolate-and- caramel jerseys scattered among the sea of red-and-white Capitals ones.

  Both teams were strong, and in the last two minutes of the third period, the score stood at two-two. Coach Duffy sent Woody’s line onto the ice with one command: “Win this one for Stu.”

  They poured everything they had into an all-out assault on the Caps’ goal; then Bouchard slipped the puck to Woody, who slammed it right past the goaltender’s head.

  The chorus of boos was music to Woody’s ears. Back home, he knew Stu was watching the game from his hospital room and yelling his head off like the fans up there in the stands.

  The series was tied, three games each.

  Game seven, on Sunday, would decide the Cup. They’d be in Vancouver. Home ice advantage.

  And tomorrow night, Saturday, he’d see Georgia. It was the Boys & Girls Club fund-raiser. He’d hoped to go as a Stanley Cup winner, but hell, he wasn’t going as a loser.

  And he’d see Georgia.

  They’d spoken on the phone a few times and her voice had been cool and businesslike. He’d heard that voice murmur beside him in bed at night, moan as he tortured her with his tongue, cry out when he drove her to release. He hated how impersonal she sounded now, as if none of it had ever happened.

  Georgia was driving him crazy and so, in a completely different way, were dozens, maybe hundreds, of other women. Those stupid gonch photos had made him a magnet for even more puck bunnies, and made him recognizable
beyond the world of hockey too.

  Didn’t women have anything better to do than stare at seminaked photos of guys and tweet their friends to take a look?

  Wasn’t it men who were supposed to get off on looking, and women were supposed to be more high-minded? Sure as hell couldn’t prove it by him. If he had to autograph one more thong or scrawl his name across one more woman’s cleavage, he’d look into becoming a monk.

  Might as well. He didn’t have the slightest interest in sex these days.

  He told himself it was due to playoff focus, where nothing else counted.

  Georgia had watched the last two games on TV.

  After a series of losses and Stu Connolly’s horrible injury, the Beavers had their fire back and were on a winning streak.

  She was happy for them. Happy for the VitalSport campaign. Happy for Woody, even if she didn’t want to care how he felt.

  You didn’t stop caring. That was a lesson she’d learned when she was young, with her mom. Even when Georgia had been mad at Bernadette, she hadn’t stopped caring.

  It would stop soon with Woody, though. Right now she missed him like crazy, and her heart ached whenever she spoke to him, watched him on ice, or even thought of him. But they’d been lovers for such a short time, it should be easy to relegate him to “just business” once the Stanley Cup playoffs and the Boys & Girls Club fundraiser were over.

  The fund-raiser was tomorrow night. She had to be there, even though she’d far prefer to deal with Woody over the phone than in person.

  But this event was big. The pseudo-leaks of photos and information from “Woody’s insider fangirl”—aka Mr. Terry Banerjee—had brought lots of attention to Woody and the VitalSport campaign. Everyone would be watching him Saturday night. Smartphones and other devices would take photos and shoot video; people would tweet; images and posts would appear on the Internet as the event progressed.

  Woody had been on the road a lot, and even when he was in Vancouver he’d been occupied with practices and game preparation, so Georgia’s team hadn’t had nearly enough time to work with him. Using e-mail and phone, Terry had developed a speech with him, and they’d gone over possible interview questions and answers. Viv had carefully selected his wardrobe. Georgia could only hope that the lessons in deportment she and his judge friend had given him were enough to get him through the banquet dinner.

  And then there was the dancing. It was a black-tie ball, and when she’d asked Woody if he could dance, he’d said, “Yeah.” She had a feeling that meant high school clutch-and-shuffle rather than foxtrot, waltz, and cha-cha, but there was simply no time for ballroom dancing lessons. So she’d said, “Try to stay off the dance floor. It’s more important you mingle.”

  She’d have to keep an eye on him every moment.

  That meant she had to keep a tight rein on her own emotions.

  The night promised to be sheer torture.

  Thirty-three

  On Saturday night, fresh out of the shower, Woody dressed for the fund-raiser. Viv had chosen not only his tux and shirt but every other item in his wardrobe: the black VitalSport boxer briefs that he had to admit were more comfortable than the brand he used to wear; the blue-and-black patterned bow tie and vest that accented his custom-made tux and, according to Viv, made the blue of his eyes even more vivid; and the Italian cotton hankie she’d insisted the well-dressed man should never be without.

  She’d wanted to come over to help him dress, and bring Christopher Slate to style his hair.

  That was where he’d drawn the line. “I can dress myself,” he’d protested irritably.

  Now, as he did exactly that, he wished he was spending the evening in front of the TV, wrapped in ice packs.

  He checked his watch. Ten to six, and the cab would arrive on the hour. The event didn’t officially start until six thirty, but Viv had insisted on him arriving early. She’d also insisted on a taxi, even though the Four Seasons was only a five-minute walk. She’d said she didn’t want him arriving windblown and sweaty. Like he’d sweat walking a half dozen blocks.

  Viv was nice, smart, and she could be fun, but he was getting damned tired of being bossed around. The last order she’d given him was to meet up with Georgia the moment he arrived at the ballroom.

  The Dynamic Marketing people didn’t trust him not to stick his foot in his mouth.

  Being with Georgia would be awkward at best. Yet, as he took the elevator down from his penthouse apartment, he knew he needed to see her.

  The last two wins had shown that the sexy redhead wasn’t his good luck charm. Now he hoped to prove to himself that his interest in her had passed; that she was just another woman, like those he’d dated before, and the ones who’d mobbed him at the airport when the Beavers flew home.

  After tonight, he’d get over that weird feeling that something was missing. Even when the team won a game and the adrenaline surge of victory filled him, there was still a kind of hole. An aching hole. It had never been there before.

  He kept having this desire to talk to Georgia, to see her, to hold her. It had been nice how the two of them discussed their days, whether it was in person or over the phone when he was out of town. He wanted to share his worry over Stu, and his happiness about how his mom’s health was improving. Tell her how it had felt to score the winning goal in game six. Listen to her relate the ups and downs of her day. Have her tenderly wrap ice around his aching shoulder, then make him forget all about the aches when her lips touched his.

  There was something wrong with him. More than his bad shoulder and back. How many women had he slept with over the years? He’d never obsessed over a single one.

  The taxi arrived and he climbed in, saying, “Four Seasons Hotel, please,” to the dark-skinned, turbaned driver.

  The driver scrutinized him. “Aren’t you Woody Hanrahan?”

  “Yeah.”

  He pulled away. “Almost didn’t recognize you, dressed up like that.”

  “Me either.”

  “You’re going to win that Cup tomorrow night.”

  Woody liked the way he said it: a statement, not a question. He also liked that the man was talking about hockey, not gonch photos. “You bet we are.”

  “The Caps don’t stand a chance.”

  They talked hockey for the rest of the short ride; then Woody gave the driver his autograph for his son, along with a big tip.

  He climbed out of the cab, thinking that he’d sure been more at home talking with the cabbie than going into this black-tie affair, to use Georgia’s term. He’d been to these things before and always felt awkward, at least until he met up with someone who was interested in sports.

  Tonight, at least he wasn’t in an ill-fitting penguin suit that pulled across the shoulders, with hair that needed a trim, and he could hold his own in the deportment area. He felt good about the speech in his pocket too. Terry Banerjee was great about suggesting topics and themes, then helping Woody find his own way of phrasing things so that the words and emotions were genuine.

  Yeah, he was prepared. He was even prepared for seeing Georgia.

  Or so he thought until he glanced through the doorway into the ballroom, elegant and glittering with the light of chandeliers and candles. There she was across the empty room, talking to a bartender.

  She was stunning.

  Women often wore black to these events. It was supposed to be sophisticated, but he thought it made them look like a flock of crows. Georgia would never be taken for one of a flock.

  She looked so classy, he couldn’t believe this was the same woman who’d moaned and writhed with pleasure as he plunged his tongue deep inside her. Her evening gown was the warm gold of a sandy beach, a color that made her skin look even creamier and her hair even fierier. He guessed Viv had persuaded her to accept Christopher Slate’s assistance, because her hair was fancied up, some pieces held away from her face with sparkly clips while other curls tumbled free to caress her neck and shoulders.

  A neck and shoulders h
e’d explored in such detail that he knew exactly where to lick, exactly where to suck, to make her moan.

  Deep in conversation with the bartender, she hadn’t seen Woody yet, where he hovered outside the door. He didn’t move, not wanting to draw her attention to him.

  Right now, anything was possible. He could imagine that, when her gaze lit on him, she’d beam, hurry across the room to meet him, and throw herself into his arms.

  And he wanted that. Damn it, he wanted that. The realization sank into him, deep and certain and terrifying.

  He wanted it as much as—maybe even more than—he wanted the Stanley Cup.

  His heart raced and his stomach did a somersault. Shit. So much for trying to convince himself Georgia was just another woman.

  He’d fallen in love with her.

  He’d never been in love before. No wonder it had taken him so long to understand the symptoms.

  Hell, he didn’t want to be in love. Love made people vulnerable. People did crazy things in the name of love. Like his mom staying with his dad all those years. If you loved someone, they had the power to shatter your heart.

  That was why he’d felt like there was something missing. A hole, an ache. When Georgia had said she didn’t want to get back together with him, she’d taken a chunk of his heart.

  What had she said? That she had everything to give a man, but that man wasn’t him.

  Sorrow sliced through him, a blow to the gut, a whack that bowed his aching back.

  But then he straightened. Damn it, why not? Why the hell couldn’t he be that man? Okay, he didn’t have university degrees like her; he wasn’t an intellectual like her deceased husband; he wasn’t all suave like Marco Sanducci. But he was a decent guy. He might not know much about love, but he learned quickly. Georgia knew that. She could teach him.

  He had to make her want to.

  Determination strengthened and focused him. He had a goal now. The most important goal in his life. Taking long strides, he stepped through the doorway and crossed the room toward her.