least I'm trying. Why do you think I wanted to go out tonight?” she said.
At the club entrance, we flashed our pink VIP cards to the gatekeeper. Rodman's freaky face was nowhere to be seen, but it was only 11:30—still early. We weaved our way toward the bar. The music pumped and a melding of bodies bumped together rhythmically on the tiny dance floor.
Jaimee squeezed between the mass of people waiting at the bar to flag the bartender. Several guys turned to check her out.
I watched a parade of twenty-something hoochies pass. The mandatory attire for the evening seemed to be thong underwear pulled high enough to pass for a back brace and breast implants the size of geography globes.
I'm old and grossly overdressed. Now I remember why I never go north of the Y.
A gorgeous nightclub panther appeared from behind my right shoulder. “What're you doing here all by yourself?” he asked. His dark hair stood up, perfectly gelled into dangerous-looking spikes.
I couldn't help but notice the size of his arms. The curve of his biceps strained against the armholes of his black knit shirt. A tribal band tattoo ringed one arm. My eyes followed the shirt stretched smooth across the square muscles of his chest and down to the outlined bars of his abs.
Maybe twenty-five years old—max.
When I dragged my eyes back up to meet his, he smiled. It was a smile that said he knew exactly how good he looked.
With our gaze locked, he flicked the tip of his tongue out just enough to show off the silver toggle pierced through it. He caught the toggle between his front teeth and jiggled it slightly before letting it retreat back inside.
Did he just make a blatant offer of oral sex?
A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. His eyes slowly roved over my frame, coming to rest solidly on my lips.
I felt my body flush and tingle.
“Finally!” Jaimee stepped beside me, a glass of cranberry juice in her outstretched hand. “I swear that was the slowest bartender.”
“I'll be right back.” I motioned toward the bathroom and launched into the crowd.
I stepped into the dim shoebox and took a deep breath to shake off the encounter with Junior the Tongue Stud; I definitely wasn't ready to go down that path. I leaned toward the mirror to touch up my lipstick and see how the Botox had settled in.
My Achilles Heel: I don't want to be old. In South Orange County, visible aging is considered a serious affliction. Inside the Newport Beach city lines, I'm pretty sure it's against the law.
Jaimee heard Botox called a miracle cure for wrinkles and she twisted my arm to get me to go with her to the dermatologist a week ago to try it.
Okay, so maybe she didn't have to twist too hard.
There is definitely something to be said about a woman who will actually pay hundreds of dollars to have a doctor inject a deadly bacterium into her face just to avoid having wrinkles.
I'm not a needle person, so it took a rubber stress ball squeezed in one hand, and Jaimee's hand in my other, to keep me from taking a knee-jerk kick at the doctor's nuts. The needle pricks didn't really hurt, but every time he pierced the skin, my forehead squeaked like a sautéed onion. I could hear it inside my head and the sound made me shudder.
When the Botox started to kick in, my left eyebrow sat a quarter of an inch higher than the right. I had an involuntary perplexed look on my face for two days. During which time, I contemplated sneaking into the dermatologist's house and killing him in his sleep. Then it evened out.
I finished applying lipgloss to my peach-colored masterpiece and leaned closer to the mirror to touch up my lashes. I lifted my eyebrows and went slack-jawed in the typical trout-mouthed application of mascara. Then my forehead seized up.
What the hell?
Both eyebrows were stuck in the upright and locked position like an airline tray table. I looked like someone had just surprised the shit out of me.
“No! No! No! No!” I smacked my forehead with
At the club entrance, we flashed our pink VIP cards to the gatekeeper. Rodman's freaky face was nowhere to be seen, but it was only 11:30—still early. We weaved our way toward the bar. The music pumped and a melding of bodies bumped together rhythmically on the tiny dance floor.
Jaimee squeezed between the mass of people waiting at the bar to flag the bartender. Several guys turned to check her out.
I watched a parade of twenty-something hoochies pass. The mandatory attire for the evening seemed to be thong underwear pulled high enough to pass for a back brace and breast implants the size of geography globes.
I'm old and grossly overdressed. Now I remember why I never go north of the Y.
A gorgeous nightclub panther appeared from behind my right shoulder. “What're you doing here all by yourself?” he asked. His dark hair stood up, perfectly gelled into dangerous-looking spikes.
I couldn't help but notice the size of his arms. The curve of his biceps strained against the armholes of his black knit shirt. A tribal band tattoo ringed one arm. My eyes followed the shirt stretched smooth across the square muscles of his chest and down to the outlined bars of his abs.
Maybe twenty-five years old—max.
When I dragged my eyes back up to meet his, he smiled. It was a smile that said he knew exactly how good he looked.
With our gaze locked, he flicked the tip of his tongue out just enough to show off the silver toggle pierced through it. He caught the toggle between his front teeth and jiggled it slightly before letting it retreat back inside.
Did he just make a blatant offer of oral sex?
A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. His eyes slowly roved over my frame, coming to rest solidly on my lips.
I felt my body flush and tingle.
“Finally!” Jaimee stepped beside me, a glass of cranberry juice in her outstretched hand. “I swear that was the slowest bartender.”
“I'll be right back.” I motioned toward the bathroom and launched into the crowd.
I stepped into the dim shoebox and took a deep breath to shake off the encounter with Junior the Tongue Stud; I definitely wasn't ready to go down that path. I leaned toward the mirror to touch up my lipstick and see how the Botox had settled in.
My Achilles Heel: I don't want to be old. In South Orange County, visible aging is considered a serious affliction. Inside the Newport Beach city lines, I'm pretty sure it's against the law.
Jaimee heard Botox called a miracle cure for wrinkles and she twisted my arm to get me to go with her to the dermatologist a week ago to try it.
Okay, so maybe she didn't have to twist too hard.
There is definitely something to be said about a woman who will actually pay hundreds of dollars to have a doctor inject a deadly bacterium into her face just to avoid having wrinkles.
I'm not a needle person, so it took a rubber stress ball squeezed in one hand, and Jaimee's hand in my other, to keep me from taking a knee-jerk kick at the doctor's nuts. The needle pricks didn't really hurt, but every time he pierced the skin, my forehead squeaked like a sautéed onion. I could hear it inside my head and the sound made me shudder.
When the Botox started to kick in, my left eyebrow sat a quarter of an inch higher than the right. I had an involuntary perplexed look on my face for two days. During which time, I contemplated sneaking into the dermatologist's house and killing him in his sleep. Then it evened out.
I finished applying lipgloss to my peach-colored masterpiece and leaned closer to the mirror to touch up my lashes. I lifted my eyebrows and went slack-jawed in the typical trout-mouthed application of mascara. Then my forehead seized up.
What the hell?
Both eyebrows were stuck in the upright and locked position like an airline tray table. I looked like someone had just surprised the shit out of me.
“No! No! No! No!” I smacked my forehead with
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