September 3, 2008

An excerpt from Georgie Cracks the Case by Jay Lygon
Available now as a Bareback Angels Sip

Some people find love at weddings. Jack and Georgie find each other, and a hottie bartender who flirts with both of them. Maybe it isn’t an official date, but there’s nothing typical about this intrepid duo.

***

We’d just met, and already Jack and I were Nick and Nora Charles. Or maybe we were David and Maddie from that old TV show Moonlighting, but without the fighting. Either way, we had the witty banter going with just a hint of sexual tension, which had my gaydar pinging between and he isn’t and is he?

Ten feet away, the bride was doing the chicken dance with her nephew. Jack and I were on our third martinis. Mine was more mussed than dirty; his was blueberry.

“To open bars, darling.” Jack clinked his glass against mine.

I leaned forward, my elbow on my knee, chin resting on my hand. There was another question I wasn’t drunk enough to pop yet, so I asked, “How did a dashing urbanite like you get stuck at the reject table?”

“Dashing urbanite? Is that the new euphemism for men who watch Project Runway, Georgie?”

Was that an answer to the question I didn’t ask?

“Why are you seated at the back table? Please tell me you did something scandalous.” Jack wriggled his eyebrows.

“It’s a sad tale, really. Full of woe. I was supposed to be a bridesmaid.”

He sipped his martini. “Do tell.”

“I refused to wear the hideous bridesmaid dress.”

We cast glances at the head table. Really, only a sadistic bride would make her friends wear lime chiffon hoop skirts. It was a nightmare mash up of the 1970s and Gone With the Wind.

“If she’d meant it as an ironic ugly dress, I would have been game, but I’m afraid she was serious about it. I suggested white floppy hats and gloves to make it totally kitsch. She had the nerve to tell me that was tacky. So I told her I’d have to decline the honor of being one of her bridesmaids. Apparently, that effed up her usher/bridesmaid ratio, so I got banished to the leftover table.”  

Jack turned his attention to my beaded champagne silk sheath. “Good call.” He keep looking, letting his gaze linger over my bare shoulders and plunging neckline. “Very good call.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Dance with me.”

“Of course, darling.” I was a little wobblier on my feet than he was.

One arm looped over Jack’s shoulder, I moved into the crook of his arm. The heat of his hand seeped through my thin dress at the small of my back. We were slow dancing even though the DJ was out to exhaust everyone. I glanced around the room while I sipped my drink.

As we glided out of the path of other dancers, Jack brought me around so that I could see the bar in the far corner of the room. The bartender, a delicious Latino with flirty eyes, grinned at me from across the room. “Looks like I’ll be taking home a favor from this party after all.”

Jack swung me around. Half my drink spilled on the dance floor. “Who?”

“That absolutely divine bartender. We’ve been committing eye adultery all night.”

Jack laughed. “You’re a little off. He’s flirting with me.”

“All bartenders flirt. That’s why his brandy snifter is stuffed with bills.”

“Maybe that’s why he flirted with you--”

I waved away his explanation. “That wasn’t a tip I offered him earlier.”

Jack’s eyebrow rose. “Funny you should mention that, because when I bumped into him in the men’s room, I offered to stuff my tip in… Well, anyway, I have a date with him after this reception.” He sipped his martini.

I stopped dancing. “Why that little whore. I have a date with him too.” And, just because I was afraid Jack might be right about the bartender, I added, “You might want to slow down on the drinks, love. There’s nothing sadder than whiskey dick.”

Jack choked on his drink. “Whiskey dick?”

It was hard to manage cool bitchiness, but I channeled Bette Davis and did all right. “You know – you want it, but you’re too drunk to get it up.”

“That, Madame, would never happen to me.” He was equally haughty.

“Why not?”

Jack looked at his glass. “Because I’m drinking vodka.”

He was so sincere that I burst out laughing. Then he was laughing too, and we were slow dancing again in a close embrace. “You’re lovely,” I told him. “Truce?”

“Absolutely.” He put his hand on the back of my head and leaned down to my mouth. His hand slid to the nape of my neck as his tongue pressed between my lips. Perfection. Gentle art with a healthy dollop of persuasion. “And that seals it.”

I dragged the tip of my tongue slowly over my upper lip. “Mmm. You taste like blueberries.”

He leaned down again, this time brushing my earlobe. “I’ll bet you taste like the ocean. I’d love to take a dip.”

Pleased, I laughed. “Cad. I’ll bet Fred Astaire never said things like that to Ginger Rogers.”

Jack’s hand slid down to my ass and pulled me to his groin. “Only because Ginger was making eyes at the hottie bartender all night. How could he compete?”

“You’re making eyes at the bartender right now, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Incorrigible flirt.”

“Is that the new euphemism for slut? I thought we had a truce.”

I drained my martini. “Oh, we do, darling, but you keep letting the bartender come between us.”

Jack grinned down at me. “Now that’s the most brilliant idea you’ve had all evening.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, but he had me puzzled. “What idea?”

He guided me in a slow turn so that I could see the flirty bartender. Jack’s cheek pressed to mine. “Have the bartender come between us”

***

Do they or don’t they? Oh, you know they do. With the bartender. In the staircase. Eat your heart out, Colonel Mustard. Buy the Sip to read the rest of the caper. As Georgie tells Jack at the end of their wild night, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

***

Today's clue: Jay's clue is best Left Unsaid.