Learning Curves - By Elyse Mady Page 0,2

for the white picket fence and a ticket to forever-forever land. She had her career to get underway and goals to meet, but was any relationship really worth it without trust and mutual respect? Without those crucial elements underpinning it, being single wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

She could fantasize about finding some hot, anonymous guy in a bar and dragging him off to a dark corner for spontaneous, no-holds-barred sex, but in real life things didn’t work like that. She liked to think she had standards for starters. And the chances of a man being overcome with lust for a woman whose looks rated as “pleasantly average but should get to the gym more” were about a zillion to one. Not with the Gillians and Tamaras of the world to catch his eye first.

Handing over some cocktail napkins so Leanne could clean herself off, Gillian smiled in pseudo-sympathy. “I forget how difficult this must be for you, listening to us go on and on about our sex lives. After all, I’m getting married, Jessi just got engaged and everyone else has someone to bring to the wedding.”

Gillian looked across the room as the dancer reached the climax of his striptease. Down to his g-string, muscles glistening with sweat, he moved acrobatically to the increasingly frenetic calls of the women pressing around the stage. “I mean, Aunt Sandy said you’re not even dating right now. Not since what’s his name…Stewart?”

“Steven,” Lee corrected tightly. She hadn’t been heartbroken when her former boyfriend decided to put his career ahead of their lukewarm relationship and moved to Arizona for a shot at a coveted teaching position. Heck, he’d never even once entertained any of Leanne’s suggestions for spicing it up in the bedroom. Disappointing though it was to admit, their sex life had definitely been vanilla. All the same, being forced to endure Gillian’s triumph at her most recent romantic failure pained her.

“It must be so difficult,” Gillian went on undeterred, “knowing that at your age, your chances of meeting someone are like, totally next to zero.”

“Because once women reach a certain age, they’re more likely to meet a terrorist on an airplane or something than get married. It’s a statistic,” Brittany said solemnly, slurring the words.

“Do you even have sex?” Tamara asked, her face bright with curiosity. “Like, with a man?”

Since the chauffeur picked them up nearly five hours ago, the entire bridal party save Leanne had been drinking steadily, their inhibitions lowered by the fruity umbrella drinks they’d knocked back. Now, five sets of unfocused eyes looked at Leanne from around the table, waiting with bated, blurry breath in the hopes of a salacious and titillating confession.

Desperately seeking an escape, Leanne glanced wildly at her watch and prayed for deliverance.

11:53 p.m. Where the hell is Tony?

God damn it, when he got his hands on him, Brandon was going to throttle Tony with his own frigging thong. He needed to be onstage in less than ten minutes and was nowhere to be found. The applause and whistles escalated, and Brandon glanced down at his clipboard. At least T’Shaun was right on time. But Christ, what if Tony didn’t show up? He was their headliner for the week and by the raucous sounds coming from the house, he knew the ladies out front were in the mood to celebrate.

Moments later, T’Shaun hurried backstage. Pulling the bills from around his lean hips, he counted them out.

He whistled. “Man, it was a good night.”

“Jay said the bar and the door were both steady.”

“It’s the broads getting married. There’s four or five groups here and they’re definitely gunning to enjoy themselves before they get all cozy with the groom.”

T’Shaun grinned, flashing a set of even, white teeth, and sat at the makeshift dressing table, where he began to wipe away the makeup from his face and chest in preparation for his walkabout. Suddenly he stopped and looked around the green room.

“Yo! Where’s Tony?”

“No goddamn idea.” Picking up his two-way, Brandon beeped June, the owner of the Foxe’s Den. Since he’d been promoted to floor manager two years ago, she usually didn’t come down from the offices upstairs and onto the floor, not unless there was an emergency. He figured the no-show of their Saturday night headliner qualified.

“June…come in.”

A click and a burst of static came from the handset.

“What’s up, doll face?” June Fox’s voice was rough and gravelly with nearly sixty years of hard living, but behind the tough exterior lay a marshmallow softie who’d