Page 83 of The End of Summer

“There’s been a violation here,” I reply, in an exaggerated, deep voice. “I’m afraid we have a search warrant. Let us in, little lady.” She smirks. I definitely sound like I’m channeling my inner wild west, which is ridiculous. I wink at her as she steps to the side. Indigo kicks on the music as soon as the door shuts behind Big Mike.

And there she is, just as Gretchen expected.

Miranda.

The girl who, in another lifetime, actually mattered enough to hurt me and who, in this current lifetime, has become something of a nuisance.

We walk up onto the stage as the KRS-One song fills the air. The lights cut to blackness and the girls all scream as we kick on the flashlights, waving them around as we get into a V-formation. It’s reminiscent of the lights on a cop car, which is kind of cool – Max and Tommy, who are on either side of me, each have a red tinted light and a blue tinted light and the rest of us have regular, white lights. Wave, wave, wave until the beat drops, the purple lights come back on, and we begin to dance. Our moves are smooth, we weave in and out through one another into a variety of formations, then begin to strip off our outer layers as singles, fives, tens and even twenties begin to fly at us from the dance floor.

Miranda, I notice, is wearing a barely there, white mini skirt with an extremely tight white tank top that reads “Bride” in neon pink. Several of her friends are wearing a pink version of this same outfit with white writing, each touting their position in the lineup: Maid-of-honor, Bridesmaid #1, #2, and so on. It’s been done. They’ve each got a dick-shaped pacifier hanging from a string around their necks, which I find hilarious. The maid-of-honor tries to tongue it down while she watches us dance, and it looks like she’s trying to suck a micro-penis. I try not to gag and instead keep my eyes on Gretchen, who’s setting the next round of Jell-O shots out on a table in the back. She looks beautiful, as always. Her hair has faded to a pinkish blonde, and she’s wearing a rhinestone covered bikini top with fringe across the bottom, paired with black pleather hot shorts that leave most of her booty on display. I’m upset that I’m not allowed to dance with her tonight, and I swear if any of the other guys go near her, I’ll sic Big Mike on them.

My plan with Miranda is as follows: I’ll finish my dance on stage with the guys and then the clock will start ticking. I only have to stick around for 45 minutes more after the number ends. I’ll do a basic rock move side to side with my ass sticking out so she can’t grind herself up on my junk. I’ll hold her hands if I have to so that I create natural space between us – and I’m wearing gloves, so it won’t even be skin to skin contact. I’ll two step and dance some of the other routines in the space in front of her when the music picks up and is a little faster, essentially dancing withmyselfinstead of her, but facing her. And I will limit the conversation to an absolute minimum.

I don’t know why she even wants me here. She’s gettingmarried, for Christ’s sake.

The group number ends, and I take a deep breath, give Gretchen a wink, and begin to keep up my end of the bargain for this paycheck. I approach Miranda, reach out to take her hand, and begin to two step with her. Admittedly, this comes off a bit like an eighth grade boy-girl dance move. But she doesn’t really have much of a choice. She asked to dance with me, and here I am.

She leans in and puts her face next to my ear. “I want to talk to you, Brady.”

“Sorry, no can do,” I reply. “You’re paying me to dance, not to talk.”

“I just want to clear the air. Can youpleasejust step outside with me and give me two minutes to explain?”

I sigh and look at the clock. 44 minutes to go. “I’m not leaving,” I say. “You want to talk, go ahead.”

She shakes her head, frustrated. “Fine,” she says, then takes a heavy breath as I continue to two-step. “Can you hold still for a sec?”

I do. She looks at me and nods. “I never slept with him.”

“Who? Stacks Phillips?”

“Yeah.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Then explain the pictures.”

She shakes her head. “They were Boudoir Shots. You know those pictures you can take for, like, your soon to be husband?”

I shrug. “Not really.”

“Well, Stacks was representing a client who was trying to sue the photographer for a personal injury claim. The client said the place was unsafe. I wanted to secure a spot in the firm beyond my internship, and I figured if I went in and checked it out for myself, I could testify as a witness in the case and then maybe he’d promote me.”

My obvious confusion must be evident in my expression, because she continues to explain.

“So, I did the boudoir shots and I sent them to Stacks in an email with the subject lineinfo for your case. But then his wife saw them and, well, you know the rest.”

“And that was all?” I ask.

“Yes – but it all escalated so quickly that I could never really explain it to you. My parents took away my phone when they sent me to California. They didn’t want me to be in touch with anyone.”

“So, what brought you back?”

“The holidays. We always celebrate at our Cape house, and after missing a few years of Christmases, I wanted to come back home. My sister set me up on a blind date with a cop here – figured, if I was home, I should at least have a little extra protection – anyway, now we’re getting married.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because, Brady. I always felt bad about how we ended things. Plus, I don’t think I ever really got over you. And now, seeing you like this, I felt like it was the universe giving me a second chance to make it right with you.” She bites her lip coyly. “Or maybe, it’s just the universe giving me one last hurrah before I go off and get married.” Miranda places a finger on my abdomen. “I mean, you don’t think this is all just a coincidence, do you?”

I remove her digit from my stomach. “I do, actually. And I have a girlfriend.”

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