Page 50 of Panty Dropper

He eyed me suspiciously again, and apparently I was able to pass the test a second time.

“Good,” he said, with a note of finality. “So that means Jimmy, you’ve gotta keep the drinks under control.”

“What?” Jimmy protested. “You mean we gotta pay for the entire neighborhood to drink at this thing, but I’m not allowed?”

“You’re allowed. Just keep it reasonable,” I said. “You know how you get when you’re liquored up.”

Jimmy shrugged, defeated. “Fine. I’ll give you that one.”

“And you,” Hank said, his voice flat as he turned his attention to me.

“Don’t worry, boss, I can handle my liquor.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I don’t want to find you in the supply closet off the church foyer about to get your knob slobbed by some waitress or secretary.”

“Again, you mean,” Jimmy piped up, then dodged away from me instead of taking his rightful lumps, the coward.

“Right. Again,” Hank said flatly

I knew that there was no danger of that happening at the funeral or reception, and it wasn’t because I respected the solemnity of the occasion so much, although I did.

The reason was simple. Reagan.

Before I met her, I’d been scared I’d lost my mojo. Now it was back but it was focused on one person and one person only. I was still the Panty Dropper. It was just that there was only one set of panties in this world that I was interested in dropping.

“Billy.”

I turned my head at the sound of Hank’s voice. “Yeah?”

Hank stared at me silently.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep it in my pants.”

And it would stay there unless Reagan was willing to renegotiate her terms. Which I planned on discussing with her sooner rather than later.

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