Page 38 of Due South

He smiles, a tired lift of a corner of his mouth. He’s about to speak when I hear something eerily familiar, the strange corporeal noises only a human body can make.

“Apparently, my stomach concurs with your stomach. What’d you have in mind?”

There are visions of food dancing around in my head like a Midwestern nutcracker suite: ears of corn with butter dripping off the golden kernels, a platter of bacon with the meat just crispy enough, fried chicken with the breading that perfect shade of brown speckled with pepper, Dutch letters with their sweet almond frosting and flaky crust… But what I really want, more than anything is, “Chicken wings. I want spicy, dripping-with-sauce wings. You know, the kind that gets all over your face, and you have to lick it off your fingers. The ones that’re so hot you practically drink the ranch dressing that comes with it. I’d even eat the celery to cool my mouth off.”

He laughs at how my nose has wrinkled up because he probably realizes those are the only circumstances under which I would eat celery.

“Lucky for you, I know where to get the best wings in town. I used to go there with my brother.”

Evans’s face turns bright red and shutters. Clearly there’s something about this place. Maybe something happened there? Or maybe it’s just that he used to go there with Darren? When Evans talked about Darren before, it didn’t seem as though they had the greatest relationship.

“If you don’t want to go because—well, if you don’t want to go there, we can go someplace else. I love wings, but not so much I’d—”Want you to be uncomfortable so I can get my sticky-fingered fix.“—anyway, we can go someplace else.”

He shakes his head and his gaze gets pulled to the side, as though he can’t look at me. “It’s not…it’s not bad memories. Good ones, actually. But the reason I—”

If it’s possible, his face gets even redder.

“Jeez, Evans, what?”

“It’s—it’s a—” He lowers his voice and honest-to-god looks around as if there might be someone spying on us from somewhere in his tiny office. “It’s a strip club.”

He’s said strip club as though it’s some kind of house of ill repute, which I guess it sort of is, and heaven knows Pastor Elijah would’ve thought so. But it’s not as if it’s a brothel or an opium den. And though the idea of women strutting around on a stage, displaying their bodies and wearing items that can barely be called clothes, makes the blood rush to my cheeks, it’s not with disgust. If anything, the idea is hot. Sitting in a corner booth with Evans, watching some lithe woman move provocatively against a pole, gyrating and spinning, showing off her breasts and her buttocks, with some sexy music playing? I could reach under the table, unbuckle and unzip his pants and—

“Luce?”

“Sorry.” My face is so hot it might burst into flames. “Um, that’s okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes, his eyes wide.

“Yeah. I mean, we won’t be there for that long. And I want some good wings. Like, really bad. Hella bad.”

He snorts at my California girl impression and shakes his head. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. I can handle some half-naked women dancing in the background while I stuff my face full of wings.”

“If that’s what the lady wants…”

*

Evans

I am onmy way to a strip club to eat chicken wings with the most gorgeous, coolest girl in the world. I feel like a lot of women would not be down with going to a strip club (not that I would blame them) and the fact that Lucy is game—it’s cool she’s secure enough not to worry about her body being compared to the dancers. Which I’d tell her not to even worry about because she has a phenomenal body, but the fact that it hasn’t even occurred to her is awesome. Or maybe she wants wings that badly. Note to self: Lucy loves chicken wings. Which is also awesome.

Pulling into the Hen House, I suck air between my teeth and cringe because I forgot what a dump this place is. Strip clubs usually are, and it’s not as though I’ve been here recently. Maybe it was better when I’d come here with Darren? Or maybe I was so excited about the prospect of seeing mostly naked women he could’ve taken me to a literal garbage dump and I still would’ve remembered it as “not that bad.” Whatever the case, I’m regretting this. It’s a total shithole, and Lucy deserves better than this.

“Luce, we don’t have to—”

My apology and backpedaling is cut off by her vaulting out of the car. She bends down through the open door. “Evans, I can smell the buffalo sauce from here. It took us fifteen minutes to get here and there’s no way I’m leaving without eating something. So come on, before I take a bite out of your arm.”

Then she slams the door and walks away. I can either go after her or drive away without her, and let’s face it: there’s no real choice.

I get out of the car and jog after her, admiring the purposeful way she strides through the parking lot, a woman on a mission. When we get to the entrance, there’s a flyer on the door announcing it’s Amateur Night, with a prize of $100. I have to wonder how many women they actually get, but I don’t have much time to contemplate it because Lucy’s practically ripping the door off its hinges.

The inside is even worse than the outside, dark with low ceilings, the lingering scent of stale smoke emanating from the walls of the place. It’s…not nice. And yet Lucy’s not turning tail, not turning on her heel and marching out of the godforsaken place. Instead she hightails it over to the hostess.

“Table for two please, a booth if there’s one free, and don’t bother bringing a menu. We’ll take four orders of chicken wings and a couple of Coronas with limes.”

The hostess seems amused by Lucy’s take-charge attitude, as am I. She’s normally so mild-mannered, almost skittish sometimes, but I like this in-command Lucy very much. And what’s a guy to do but follow her to a booth on the side and slip onto the cracked vinyl upholstery next to her? This guy? I’m not doing a thing.

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