into step. Kennedy told a very credible story about JB’s last visit to Merlotte’s, a visit in which he’d told her how worried he was about paying the medical bil s.
“With twins coming, he was scared that might mean more time in the hospital,” Kennedy said. She was making up most of this, but it sounded good. During her career as a beauty queen (and before her career as a convicted felon), Kennedy had mastered sincerity.
Tara final y seemed to relax just a smidgen, but I monitored her thoughts so we could stay on top of the situation. She didn’t want to draw any more attention to our table by demanding we al walk out, which had been her first impulse. When Hol y hesitantly mentioned leaving if Tara was too uncomfortable to stay, Tara fixed us al in turn with a grim stare. “Hel , no,” she said.
Thank God drink refil s came then, and the baskets of food soon after. We al tried hard to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and we were doing pretty wel by the time the music started pumping “Touch My Nightstick” to announce the arrival of the “policeman.”
The performer was a ful -blooded fairy; a little too thin for my taste, but he was real good-looking. You won’t find an ugly fairy. And he could actual y dance, and he real y enjoyed the exercise. Every inch of gradual y revealed flesh was just as toned and tempting as it could be. “Dirk” had a fantastic sense of rhythm, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. He was basking in the lust, the excitement of being the focus of attention. Were al the fae as vain as Claude, as conscious of their own beauty?
“Dirk” gyrated his sexy way around the stage, and a shocking number of dol ar bil s were stuffed into the little man-thong that had gradual y become his only garment. It was clear that Dirk was generously endowed by nature and that he was enjoying the attention. Every now and then someone bold would give him a little rub, but Dirk would pul back and shake his finger at the miscreant.
“Eww,” Kennedy said the first time that happened, and I had to echo her sentiment. But Dirk was tolerant if not encouraging. He gave an especial y generous donor a quick kiss, which made the hol ering rise to a crescendo. I’m good at estimating tips, but I could not even begin to guess how much Dirk had made by the time he left the stage—especial y since he’d been handing off handfuls of bil s to Dermot at intervals. The routine came to an end perfectly in time with the music, and Dirk took his bow and ran off the stage.
In a very short time, the stripper pul ed on his glittery policeman pants (though nothing else) and came out to wander through the crowd, smiling and nodding as women offered him drinks, phone numbers, and yet more cash. Dirk took only a sip of the drinks, accepted the phone numbers with a charming smile, and tucked the money in his waistband until he seemed to be wearing a green belt.
Though this kind of entertainment wasn’t something I’d want to experience on a regular basis, I honestly couldn’t see the harm. Women were getting to shout and scream and get rowdy in a control ed environment. They were obviously having a great time. Even if some of these women were enthral ed enough to come every week (a lot of brains were tel ing me a lot of things), wel , it was only one night. The ladies weren’t aware they were cheering for elves and fairies, true; but I was sure they were happier not knowing that (besides JB’s) the flesh and skil they were so admiring wasn’t human.
The other performers were more of the same. The angel, “Gabriel,” was anything but angelic, and fluttering white feathers drifted through the air as he apparently divested himself of his wings (I was sure they were stil there but invisible), and nearly every other stitch he’d worn, to “Your Heavenly Body.” Like the policeman, he was in wonderful shape and apparently wel endowed. He was also shaved smooth as a baby’s bottom, though it was hard to think of him in the same sentence as the word “baby.” Women grabbed for the floating feathers and the creature who’d worn them.
When Gabriel came out into the audience—wings again apparent, sporting only a white monokini—Kennedy seized him when he happened by our table. Kennedy was losing what few inhibitions she had as her drinks kept vanishing. The angel gazed at Kennedy with glowing golden eyes—
at least, that was what I saw. Kennedy gave him her business card and a lopsided leer, running her palm down his abs. As he turned away from her, I gently inserted a five-dol ar bil in his fingers, taking Kennedy’s card away as I did so. The golden eyes met mine.
“Sister,” he said. Even through the noise of the next performer’s entrance, I could hear his voice.
He smiled and drifted away, to my great relief. I hastily concealed Kennedy’s card in my purse. I gave a mental eye-rol at the concept of a part-time bartender having a business card; that was so Kennedy.
Tara had at least not been having a horrible time during the evening, but as the moment approached when JB would certainly be taking the stage, the tension inevitably ratcheted up at our table. From the moment he leaped to center stage and began dancing to “Nail-Gun Ned,” it was obvious that he didn’t know his wife was in the audience. (JB’s mind is like an open book with maybe two words per page.) His dance routine was surprisingly polished. I sure hadn’t known how flexible JB could be. We Bon Temps ladies tried hard not to let our eyes meet.
“Randy” was simply having a great time. By the time he stripped down to his man-thong, everyone—almost everyone—was sharing his elation, as the number of bil s he col ected bore witness. I could read directly from JB’s head that this adulation was feeding a great need. His wife, tired and pregnant, no longer glowed with pleasure every time she saw him naked. JB was so used to receiving approval that he craved it—however he could get it.
Tara had muttered something and left the table just as her husband came on, so he didn’t see her when he danced across the stage close to us.
The moment he was near enough to realize who we were, a shade of concern passed over his handsome face. He was entertainer enough to keep on going, to my relief. I actual y felt a bit proud of JB. Even in the arctic air-conditioning, he was sweating with his gyrations. He was vigorous, athletic, and sexy. We al watched anxiously to make sure he was getting just as many tips as the other performers, though we felt a bit delicate about contributing ourselves.
After JB left the stage, Tara returned to the table. She sat down and looked at us with the strangest expression on her face. “I was watching from the back of the room,” she admitted, as we al waited in suspense. “He did pretty good.”
We exhaled, practical y in unison.
“Honey, he was real y,
“You’re a lucky woman,” Michele chimed in. “And your babies are going to be so gorgeous and coordinated.”
We didn’t know how much was too much to say, and we were al relieved when a loud chorus of “Born to Ride Rough” announced the performance of the guy in leather. He was at least part demon, of a stock I
