Page 32

TWO

Lula

Oh Jesus. I dig in my bag for the little blue capsules, mumbling, “Hooray. Being an only child is lonely.”

“Lula.” She snaps. “I’ve not met him, but from the little Larry says, he’s…well, the apple doesn’t fall far, I guess. I think his name is Whiskey or…” She squints at the ceiling, then her eyes her eyes widen as if a bell chimed between her ears. “No! Scotch. Isn’t that clever?”

I nod, wondering what fresh hell is simmering in Satan’s caldron for me next. “Sounds charming.”

“He’s ruthless. Like Larry. A man’s man. Oh, and maybe he did some time for something. Assault?” She flutters her hand again, turning back towards the lady’s room. “Anyway, like I said, I want us to be a family. So, when he gets here, you two should try to bond. Larry said he’ll be here, but probably late. He runs several businesses.”

She leaves that last part hanging like some brass ring as she walks away. A new song and a new introduction to a young lady that can barely stand vibrates through the sour air.

Deciding there might be a sad, snarky song to be written from this experience, I glance around settling my eyes on the long bar in the back. Neon flashes along a mirror with a sign taped in place about rules for lap dances.

Then, I see him and the way my nipples pebble, they see him too. Through the throng of bare asses and married men waving dollar bills, holy shit-storm.

I swallow the ping-pong ball lodged in my throat as my eyes latch on to the bad-boy 101 masterpiece standing at the bar.

My pulse ticks in my ears, which is wild because although I have a distant admiration for the male form and the potential attractiveness they possess, this has never happened.

I curl my toes inside the new-to-me chunky black heeled Michael Kors boots I scored at my favorite thrift shop. There’s a squeezing down in my core that is also new to me as I battle back the saliva gathering under my tongue.

I take a long moment and ravage James Dean-2023 throwing back a shot with my eyes.

He’s talking to a guy in a suit, neither of them showing the least bit of interest in the practically naked girls. They’re close to the same age and stand eye to eye. Both are, I guess, what I would have previously described as attractive, but, holy ever-lasting-gob-stoppers, the one with that scruff along his graphite looking jawbone and perfectly out of control hair is making my belly burn and my lady nips tingle.

A couple dancers drift by them, offering cutesy-finger waves to which his response is…nothing. They seem to know him though, which makes my stomach drop to my toes because that would mean he’s more than likely a regular.

Still, the way he’s wearing those loose-fitting Levi’s is next level, not to mention the way the simple gray t-shirt stretches over his chest and his shoulders blades shift under the cotton fabric as he moves. His arms that are just the right amount of buff are decorated with indigo ink in swirls and loops that make me dizzy.

Suddenly, there’s a hand around my upper arm jerking me out of my lust stupor.

“Lula,” my mother says as I look up, the excited lilt in her voice telling me the squat, balding man next to her snapping his tongue and giving my mom’s ass a squeeze is Larry.

“Say hello to Larry. Larry, this is Lula.”

“Hi.” I extend my hand as he smiles, biting his bottom lip, the glint of a gold tooth peeking out.

“Pleasure,” he says in a grumbly, Pal-Mall’s with no filter, sort of voice. “You’ve got your mother’s eyes.”

Mom giggles, leaning in to kiss him on his puffy cheek. “Everyone says that ever since she was little, that and people always think we are sisters,” she adds, giving me a conspiratorial wink.

I nod. “That’s true.”

I purse my lips as Larry ignores my hand, leaving me hanging.

He evidently not up for the handshake, so I withdraw, rubbing my sweaty palm down my shoulder as my eyes dart back to the bar. I take in the perfect stubble along that masculine, sort of angry square jaw, swooning at the way he brushes back the messy lock dark sandy-brown hair that keeps falling onto his forehead.

“It’s karaoke night,” Larry says as my mother grabs the top of my head and spins my eyes back toward them.

I swat her hand away. “Stop it,” I hiss, then squint toward Larry, “I’m sorry?”

He’s somehow lodged a toothpick in the corner of his mouth without me noticing completing his stereotypical club owner costume. His shiny dark suit is matched with an open collar shirt which shows off a thick gold chain and crab pendant hanging in a rug of graying chest hair.

“Karaoke.” My mom chirps on a wobbly little bunny hop. “I told Larry you were a singer, so he said we would do karaoke tonight.”

“Oh. No…” I shake my head, “no, no, no, no, no…” Every nightmare I’ve ever had is coming true right now.

Karaoke, horrible.

Karaoke in a strip club? Horrible squared.

Karaoke in my new stepfather’s strip club with my mother clapping in the audience?

Where’s the hemlock? I’m taking it all.

“Yes.” My mother stands up straight, shoulders back, silicone out. Her wide eyes stick on me, eyebrows raised. “He set it up just for you to sing.”

Jesus mother Mary, this isn’t happening.

I open my mouth to protest as Larry waves at the guy in the plastic booth next to the stage who returns a two-finger salute, stepping onto the little stage, waving off Tabitha or Tiffany from the silver pole, handing her a spray bottle marked 90% isopropyl alcohol.

I’m shrinking under the table when the guy on stage points at me and every head in the room turns.

“Next up, for the happy newlyweds, it’s Luuuuuuuula Laurence. Come on up here, Lula. You’re opening act at The King’s Palace’s new Karaoke night. Tell me what you’re going to sing for us…”

There is nothing in this world that could make this moment any worse.

My mom violently nods toward the stage with that don’t-screw-this-up look in her eyes.

I wobble out of the chair, the floor mushy and the room spinning. Then, my mother drops one last morsel of horror into the hemlock, leaning in with that conspiratorial whisper again.

“That’s Scotch over there at the bar in the gray t-shirt. I’ll introduce you when you’re done singing.” She nods toward the focus of my lust who is oblivious to the end of life as he listens to the guy in the suit. “Sing your heart out, Lula. Don’t embarrass me.”

If there was ever a moment for the alien ships to arrive and beam me up for some anal probing, I pray for it now.