chapter Four
ONCE . . . TWICE . . . FIVE TIMES A CHER
DRAKE had to admit this wedding had suddenly become a lot more interesting. That little caterer was definitely sexy and had fit perfectly in his arms and against his body. And she could kiss—damn, she could kiss. But she was also a spitfire. He could see it, even though he knew she’d been trying to remain calm and businesslike. But her blue eyes had flashed with fire.
A woman who gave as good as she got—now that was hot.
He glanced at the maid of honor, who now chatted with a man in a dog collar who looked ready to drop to his knees at the first flick of her wrists. Definitely a better fit for her. Just like Cupcake was a better fit for him. He liked giving as good as he got, but only when it didn’t involve whips, ball gags, or safe words.
Just call him old-fashioned. Plus you didn’t live for two hundred years and not learn what you like. So now he had something to distract him from the horror of this wedding. He was going to convince the caterer to have a little fling with him. Maybe he should tell Saxon he was going to try a cupcake after all.
Yeah, no. But it was clear that he did need to get laid. That was probably why he was so irritated with all his “in love” friends. And why he was so cranky.
So he was going to go apologize appropriately to the caterer, then work on taking her home for the night.
He smiled broadly just thinking about it, but his grin faded as he watched the kid who worked for the caterer push the slimy tuna around on the slate tiles with a broom. He did feel bad about the ruined food and the mess he’d created.
All the more reason to go give her a very sincere apology. Maybe several. In his bed. In the shower. Maybe even in this courtyard once the freak-show wedding was done.
Another grin curved his lips. Oh yes, he was having a lot more fun.
Then he realized the maid of honor was watching him from the other side of the room, studying him over the rim of her punch glass as she took a sip of the vile Lake Ponchartrain punch. And Dog Collar Boy appeared to be nowhere in sight. He looked at the ground in front of her. Yeah, nowhere in sight.
Great.
She lowered her glass and continued to stare at him, but now she no longer looked flirty and determined. She looked angry and determined.
Shit, maybe a spurned dominatrix was scarier than a horny one.
Yeah, definitely time to go talk to the cute caterer in the kitchen.
The brunette was easy to find. She stood at a stainless steel counter that was littered with dirty dishes, utensils, and trays of food in various stages of preparation. She swiped at her bangs with the back of her wrist, the movement tired and a little agitated, then she started dolloping some kind of sauce onto minicrepes.
He walked up behind her.
“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice low and gentle, not wanting to startle her. She seemed tense enough. But his strategy didn’t work.
A small, surprised squeak escaped her, and she dropped the spoon she held. It clattered against the metal mixing bowl, then disappeared into the creamy concoction.
“Damn it,” she muttered as she spun around to face him. Her startled expression quickly transformed to one of utter annoyance, but she quickly suppressed that look behind a mask of stoicism. Although her blue eyes still flashed with irritation.
Such blue eyes. The same bright, vivid blue as a clear summer sky. Or at least as he remembered it.
Shit, this woman was furious and he was thinking about her eyes. That was as crazy as everything else about the wedding. Or maybe it just further validated that he needed a little adult fun—with a woman like this. Adorable with big, blue eyes, pink lips, a pert little nose, and curves in all the right places.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said stiffly, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Sir? What happened to ‘sugar pie,’ cupcake?” he teased, but if the flash of irritation in her eyes was any indication, she didn’t appreciate his joke.
“Fine, sugar pie, I need you to leave. Only employees are allowed in the kitchen.”
“I understand, but I really wanted to apologize to you and explain my actions. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, but it was an impulse.”
“Well, I’m glad you cleared that up for me,” she said with feigned sincerity. “Otherwise I would have gone through my life thinking you had plotted that out for weeks. Now if you don’t mind, I really do need to work.”
Instead, Drake chuckled at her sassiness. “You’re funny.”
“No, I’m busy.” She turned back to the counter and reached for a new serving spoon.
But Drake wasn’t about to be dismissed so easily. This woman really did intrigue him. So instead he moved beside her, leaning a hip on the stainless steel counter.
She attempted to ignore him, probably hoping if she didn’t acknowledge his presence, he’d get bored and wander away. And often he probably would have, but he wanted this woman and as flighty as he could be about some things, he could be very tenacious when he wanted something . . . or someone.
The brunette finally stopped scooping the filling onto the crepes and turned back to him. “I accepted your apology, why are you still here?”
He smiled at her brusque words. She was an interesting combination, physically all sweet and soft looking, but her personality was brisk and blunt—maybe with a hint of sarcasm.
“I wasn’t actually done explaining why I behaved so badly,” he said.
“You know, your explanation worked just fine for me. I’m good.” She lifted the spoon again and returned her attention to her work.
“But I don’t want you to think I’m some creep who just goes around kissing woman unsolicited.”
“Too late.”
Drake chuckled again. She was a delight.
“I did have a good reason. I was actually trying to dissuade unwanted attention from that woman who was standing beside me.”
“You’re right,” she said, not pausing her work to look at him. “That totally makes me think you aren’t a creep. Why not just tell the woman you aren’t interested, when you can create an elaborate lie by grabbing a total stranger, kissing her and pretending to be involved with her, thereby dragging her unwillingly into your deceit? Nope, not creepy at all.”
“Well,” Drake said slowly, “when you say it like that, it does seem a little creepy.”
She shot him a sidelong glance, then ladled more cheese sauce onto a crepe.
“Ashley,” she said to the blonde who had been shooting curious looks at them as she struggled to inject pastries with some sort of filling.
“Please take this platter of crepes out to the buffet table.”
Ashley hurried over to do as the brunette asked.
“Watch where you walk,” the brunette added just as Ashley was about to disappear out the door.
Ashley gave her a muddled look.
“I dropped the skewered tuna on the floor,” the brunette explained. “Eric is cleaning it up, but it could still be slippery.”
Ashley nodded, but still looked confused as she left the kitchen.
* * *
JOSIE LYNN WASN’T sure she really wanted to be left alone in the kitchen with “sweet cheeks” here, but the food did need to get out to the guests and frankly, she didn’t like Ashley being here to eavesdrop on this bizarre conversation.
“Let’s face it, if anyone is going to fall on their ass, it’s going to be that one,” Drake said, shaking his head, still leaning on the counter, arms crossed over his chest, all relaxed as if he knew her well and it was completely normal for him to be there.
She scowled at him. Why didn’t he just leave? Good lord.
“Oh, don’t give me that look.” He said, again in a tone that implied they were old friends. “I know you know I’m right. That’s why you warned her.”
He smiled, a lopsided smile that was endearing and charming and altogether too attractive.
She sighed. “Do you plan to hover here all night?”
“Hover, huh? Well, I could help. You look like you need it.”
Oh, no he didn’t.
Josie Lynn knew what the kitchen looked like. It looked like a disaster, but that comment was the final straw. She didn’t need help. Especially from some pompous jerk dressed like he should be working a kiddies’ pirate ride at an amusement park.
She spun toward him, waving the cheesy spoon in the man’s face. “I absolutely do not need help. I happen to have everything under control.”
“Josie Lynn,” a tentative voice said from behind them. She turned to find Eric standing in the doorway, broom still in hand. God only knew where the dustpan was.
“What?” she snapped.
“Umm—some of the guests are asking for more rémoulade for the crawfish fritters.”
“Okay,” she said, some of her irritation fading. She was overreacting. She knew it. “It’s in the fridge over there.”
Eric looked reluctant to enter the room, but came in anyway, heading to the large stainless steel refrigerator that she pointed to with her spoon. Yeah, she didn’t look like she needed help. Totally in control here.
Eric located the bowl of rémoulade, without further guidance, and even moved rather quickly to exit the kitchen.
“You might want to leave the broom here,” the pirate commented when Eric passed.
Eric looked slightly startled that the pirate had spoken to him, but then he leaned the broom against the wall and left.
“You might want to consider a little bit sharper staff down the road.”
Josie Lynn glared at him. “Why the hell are you here? Honestly? Can’t you see that I have a lot to do?”
She raised her hand to stop him as he opened his mouth to answer her.
“You know what, that was a rhetorical question,” she said. “I don’t give a rat’s rear end why you are here. And I know I have a lot to do here. I know I could use more staff. Better staff. But I can do this, and frankly, I don’t need or want your help—aside from you just leaving.”
He didn’t respond for a moment, and just when she wondered if he’d just chosen to completely ignore her, he finally nodded.
“Okay,” he said, calmly. “I know you are busy.”
Thank God, he was finally just going to go away. Yes.
“But—”
Josie Lynn fought back a groan. Really? Was this some kind of joke or something?
“I still don’t feel like I’ve given you an appropriate apology. So let me take you out for a drink when the wedding is over. Then you can relax and we can just talk.”
She gaped at him . . . clutching a cheese-caked spoon straight up in the air in front of her. Was he really that thick? Didn’t he see she was annoyed with him? Beyond annoyed. She was a woman perilously close to the edge.
But instead of saying any of that, she simply said, “No.”
He still remained rooted in the same spot, ass to edge of the counter. “Really? Because I think we’d have a great time.”
“No.”
“Not even just one dri—”
“No.”
He stood there a moment longer, then shoved away from the counter. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
He studied her for just a few seconds longer, then he bowed. The gesture should have looked silly, or patronizing, but Josie Lynn found his movement oddly elegant. Oddly appealing.
He straightened. “I do wish you would reconsider, but I also realize I overstepped proper etiquette and put you in an awkward and unfortunate position, and for that, I am truly sorry.”
Josie Lynn stared at him. He looked sincere—and even stranger than that, his way of speaking seemed from another time, yet utterly natural to him. And maybe stress and anxiety had taken what was left of her mind, but had he suddenly acquired an English accent?
Then he smiled, that mischievous, roguish grin that she was already far too familiar with, and Josie Lynn immediately felt like a fool for being sucked in by his charm—even for a moment. It was an act. Like all men’s charms.
The costume made total sense. He was dashing and dangerous and totally out for himself. And she wasn’t about to let her emotions get ravished again. Even by a very pretty pirate.
“Great,” she said with forced detachment. “Now please leave.”
“Okay.” In that one word all of his affected gallantry disappeared. In fact he sounded as if her rejection didn’t matter in the least to him, and even though she didn’t have any intention of going out with him, she was still hurt by the idea that he’d come on so strong, then was ultimately so apathetic about her rejection.
Don’t worry about it, Josie Lynn. He did you a favor. He just reminded you why you are out of the dating scene for now—and possibly forever.
The pirate gave her another nod of his head and then sauntered out of the room.
She watched him leave, willing herself to not feel bad.
She refocused on her work. She needed to finish up two more platters of appetizers. She immediately went to the large fridge to pull out the spinach-and-feta turnovers that needed to be put in the oven now. And she needed to get the yogurt-dill dipping sauce into a serving bowl.
She checked the oven temperature and slid two baking sheets full of pastries inside. Then she returned to the refrigerator to get the sauce.
Where was her help? Eric was moving at the pace of a drowsy snail, no doubt. And God only knew what Ashley was doing. Probably flirting with one of the wedding guests.
An image of the pretty blonde smiling sweetly at the pirate popped into her head. She stirred the yogurt sauce with a little too much force, and some of the white mixture slopped over the side of the mixing bowl.
Okay, she needed to let this go. Who cared if the man was out there flirting with half the women in the room? Better them than her.
Yep. Better them than her.
She had just reached for a sponge to wipe up the glob of sauce on the counter, when she heard a sharp rap from across the room. She paused, surprised by the sound. Someone was at the back door.
She wasn’t expecting anyone.
Another knock sounded. This one louder than the first.
She grabbed a paper towel, wiping her damp hands as she headed tentatively toward the door. This was New Orleans, after all, and she wasn’t sure if she should even answer it. Who knew what unsavory character could be on the other side? She paused, listening, not that she could hear anything over the din of voices, laughter, and the beat of “Gangnam Style.”
Josie Lynn glanced back toward the kitchen door, wishing Ashley or Eric would come back so she wouldn’t be alone. She was probably being too dramatic.
She jumped as the back door shook under another knock.
Or not.
She hesitated a moment longer, then reached for the doorknob. The truth was, she didn’t have time for another distraction, and she needed to get rid of this one, too.
She jerked the door open, preparing herself for an unruly wedding guest, or maybe a vagrant coming to beg for food. She even considered someone shadier. So she wasn’t at all prepared for . . . Cher.
Five Chers, to be exact. And to be more exact, they were five transvestites dressed as Cher in different stages of her career. At least, Josie Lynn thought they were transvestites. She had to admit they looked pretty good.
“Can—can I help you?”
The one closest to her was dressed as Cher from the sixties with long, straight hair, a fur vest and red, orange, yellow, and green striped pants.
She flipped her hair and said, “Hi. Sorry to interrupt you, but we have a favor to ask.”
Wow, she/he even spoke like Cher.
“Okay,” Josie Lynn said uncertainly.
“We are friends of the bride,” Sixties Cher said.
“And we wanted to come in through the back to surprise her,” said Half-Breed Cher.
Sixties Cher glared at the Half-Breed one, clearly not appreciating the help explaining. Half-Breed Cher shrugged, the feathers of the elaborate headdress she wore bobbing, and Believe Cher blew one of the errant feathers out of her face.
“We wanted to come in through the back to make a dramatic entrance,” Bob Mackie Cher added, the thousands of sequins on her evening gown glittering in the light from the kitchen.
Josie Lynn looked at If I Could Turn Back Time Cher’s huge, curly hair, studded leather jacket, stockings and garters, and a mesh and V-shaped bodysuit that just barely covered her breasts and vajayjay. Did she/he have a vajayjay? And how on earth was she/he hiding the additional . . . junk, if she/he still had it? Either way, all these Chers couldn’t help but make an entrance no matter where or how they entered a room.
“We would be happy to pay you for your help,” said Sixties Cher. Bob Mackie Cher ran a pointed tongue over her top lip in signature Cher style, then pulled something out of her cleavage. She held it up. A hundred-dollar bill.
Josie Lynn frowned. Why would they feel like they had to pay her to be allowed in? Especially if they were friends of the bride’s?
Believe Cher seemed to see her concern, because she quickly said, “We know you’re busy working and just wanted to pay you for your time.”
“After all, we are all working girls here, right?” said Believe Cher, using an index finger to brush her black-and-red highlighted hair away from her face.
Josie Lynn hesitated, looking at the money. Then she thought about the sushi that had ended up on the floor. That money certainly would help with the loss of that. And given what she’d seen of the wedding guests, a gaggle of Chers certainly seemed like a natural fit as the bride’s friends.
“Okay,” Josie Lynn said as she took the money. She stood back opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
* * *
DRAKE SIGHED AS he walked back into the reception. It looked as if there would be no distraction tonight. Cupcake was not only a spitfire, she was tough. He’d seen that there was no way he was going to charm her into going out with him. Much less fall into his bed for the night.
“Which just blows.”
“What blows?”
Drake turned to see Obsidian beside him. He couldn’t convince Cupcake to give him a chance, and apparently he couldn’t convince the persistent maid of honor that he was not interested. But at least now she no longer carried her riding crop. Instead she held two champagne flutes of the wretched-looking punch.
She offered one to him and he accepted, seeing no way to deny her—at least if he didn’t want her to head back and retrieve her crop.
She lifted her glass in salute. “Yo ho ho, blow the man down.”
Drake lifted his glass in return, but didn’t take a sip.
“I have to say, your girlfriend surprises me.”
He frowned, just briefly confused by her statement. Then he understood whom she was talking about.
“Oh? Why is that?”
Obsidian pursed her dark red lips as if considering the right answer, which he highly doubted she needed to. He was certain she’d formulated her opinion about the caterer right away.
“She seems a little too—pedestrian for you.”
Pedestrian? Really? Were they looking at the same woman? He considered asking this woman—who as far as he was concerned was trying far too hard not to be pedestrian and was only managing to be a bit of cliché—how she had come to that conclusion, but he realized she would answer him. And he didn’t feel like hearing it.
So instead he simply smiled and said, “Don’t let the ruffled shirt and breeches fool you, I’m a pretty average guy myself.”
She raised a dark, thinly arched brow. “I don’t see that.”
He found it hard to believe she saw much of anything with the amount of black eyeliner she had caked around her eyes.
“Yes, well in some cases, looks can be deceiving,” he stated, then without thinking, took a swallow of the disgusting-looking punch.
Holy shit, it tasted even worse than it looked. He forced the slimy, sort-of-clumpy concoction down, even though he really wanted to spit it out on the ground. Dear God, he needed a real drink more than ever.
“Will you excuse me?” he said to Obsidian, not managing to keep the disgust off his face, and frankly he didn’t care if she thought it was directed at her or the drink.
He registered that she again raised an eyebrow at him, but she said nothing as he walked back toward the kitchen.
Drake knew Cupcake wouldn’t be any more impressed to see him back than Obsidian had been to see him leave so abruptly, but he had to see if the little caterer had any sort of alcoholic beverage.
Tonight really had him out of sorts, and at this point even a few swigs of cooking sherry might take the edge off this weird feeling inside him. And truthfully, as he headed back to the kitchen, weaving through the crowd of guests, he felt even stranger.
But he ignored the almost dizzying feeling, blaming it on the circus sideshow feel of the wedding—the crazy clothing, the decorations, and the bizarre dance that many of the people were doing that looked like they were pretending to ride horses while spinning invisible lassos over their heads.
So weird. So almost surreal.
He just wanted to get to the kitchen. And hopefully get some booze. He’d grovel to Cupcake if he had to.
He giggled—yes, actually giggled. So not pirate-y. It was funny, because he suddenly felt kinda—good. Well, loose at least.
When he entered the kitchen, the light was glaringly bright, more so than he’d recalled from the last time he was in there. He paused, leaning against the doorway, having to blink several times to get his bearings.
Then he saw Cupcake, God she was so sexy. He was going to go tell her so, again, right now. But then he noticed she was holding the back door ajar and she was talking to . . . he blinked again, his vision seeming to swim in front of him. He gained a little control and squinted, trying to see clearer.
She was talking to several . . . Chers? He blinked again, and actually rested his head against the doorjamb. Was he seeing double? Or would that be multiple? There were a lot of Chers.
He giggled again. Funny, he didn’t usually giggle.
Damn, he felt weird. What was happening? He took a few steps into the room, then had to catch himself from stumbling on the edge of the counter. From his vantage point, now he couldn’t fully see the people she was talking to, and because of this odd underwater-type feeling, he wondered if he’d just imagined that.
But she was talking to someone and as he watched, still bracing himself on the counter, he saw Cupcake reach for something. He squinted again, the wooziness in his head growing. But he could still make out what she’d taken. Money.
Yes, money, he thought, proud that he’d had enough focus to make out that. But the lightheadedness intensified. The kitchen started to feel as surreal as the courtyard.
Maybe he should go find the others. Something was really wrong with him and he needed to find Cort or Wyatt. Even Johnny.
Johnny would probably tell him just to go with it. Saxon, too. Maybe he should; it wasn’t unpleasant exactly.
He set down the glass he still held, not even realizing he had, until he slid it awkwardly onto the stainless steel. He looked back over to where Cupcake stood, debating if he should just call to her.
No, he’d already made a terrible impression on her. Acting like this would really convince her he was a loser. Not to mention, she’d probably just think it was some lame ploy to get her attention.
He had to find the others. He staggered back to the doorway, stopping again to catch his balance. He glanced back at Cupcake once more to see her opening the back door wider and allowing the Chers into the kitchen.
He stumbled back into the dim light of the courtyard, only making it a few feet, then he decided he couldn’t face that crazy room of strange people. He turned to go back to the kitchen, and that was the last thing he remembered.
* * *
JOSIE LYNN WATCHED the Chers ready themselves for their grand entrance, adjusting their clothing and fluffing and flipping their hair. She looked down at the hundred-dollar bill still clutched in her hand, that same sinking feeling deep in the pit of her stomach.
Maybe she shouldn’t have let them in.
But as If I Could Turn Back Time Cher gave her a wide smile and a salute, then turned her thong-exposed ass toward her as they all left the kitchen, Josie Lynn decided it was too late to worry about that now.
She had to worry about finishing this party with a bang.
Bang, bang, he shot me down.
Wasn’t that a Cher song? Well, she sure as hell wasn’t getting shot down. She headed back to the counter and her work. The turnovers should be almost done.
When she approached the workspace, she noticed a glass of punch that hadn’t been there earlier. Had Ashley or Eric brought it for her? She looked at the frothy, oddly colored mixture, hating to admit, because she’d made it, that it looked awful.
She tucked the money into the pocket of her black work pants, then reached for the glass of punch. Maybe it tasted better than it looked.
She took a tentative sip, then grimaced.
Nope. No better. It was sweet and slimy. With a strange, bitter aftertaste.
Oh well, she couldn’t take the blame for that one. She’d made it to the groom’s specifications.
She set the glass aside, smacking her lips again in aversion, then reached for the mixing bowl of yogurt sauce. But she misjudged and stuck her hand right into the white dip.
“Oh my God,” she muttered. What was wrong with her?
She extended her clean hand toward the paper towels, but when she was sure her fingers should connect with them, they grabbed air. Frowning, she really focused her eyes on the roll and tried again. Again she missed them.
What the hell? She moved her gaze from the towels to the rest of the room. The whole kitchen seemed to swim before her eyes. She felt instantly dizzy and had to steady herself against the counter.
Panic filled her chest, making it hard to breathe. What was wrong with her? She needed to get help. She started to head toward the courtyard, but paused to lean heavily against the counter again. She couldn’t go out into the wedding weaving and confused. That would be the end of this job for her.
But she needed help. She forced her disobedient fingers into her pocket and tugged out her cell phone only for it to slip out of her hand and to the tile floor. She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself as she bent down to pick it up, but just as she would have fallen face-first on the floor, someone caught her.
She looked up at her savior. The pirate. Damn, he was so good-looking.
“You are so good-looking.” Crap, did she just say that aloud? She thought she had. The words might have been thick and slurred in her mouth, but she did think she’d said them. And he understood, because a big, almost lazy smile turned up his lips.
“So good-looking,” she repeated as if she couldn’t control herself.
She couldn’t control herself. She leaned heavily against him. His arms moved tighter around her.
“Thank you, gorgeousth,” he said, his words sounding as slurred as her own. She felt his hands on her back, sliding downward. And his lips on her neck, warm and wonderful.
She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, loving the feeling of him against her, kissing her. She opened her eyes, focusing just briefly on the industrial fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Then everything swirled and blurred, except the pirate’s pleasurable touch. Then she drifted, lost in a confusing haze.