Fangs for Nothing (The Fangover #2)(39)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Can you tell us who was with us?”

“A tall, very attractive woman in nothing but a bra and panties and thigh-high boots.”

Oh, dear God, he was describing Zelda. He had been in the sex room with them.

“Another woman in some sort of black leather catsuit and high heels.”

Zelda and that woman Drake had been using Josie Lynn to get rid of. At least that seemed like to the two most likely women.

“And,” the man added with any unnervingly excited grin, “your lady here was not happy with the catsuit gal. They got into quite a shouting match.”

Josie Lynn gaped at Drake. She’d got into a fight? With that woman? Why?

Drake’s expression wasn’t one of shock, but rather intrigue.

“Really? What did they fight about?” he asked the man.

“Well, your lady here didn’t like that Catsuit was hitting on you,” the man said, then looked at Josie Lynn. “In fact, you can be quite a spitfire when angry. The bouncer made the woman in the catsuit leave.”

Bouncer? Oh, wait, the man was talking about a Goth bar called The Dungeon just off Bourbon on Toulouse. But Josie Lynn’s relief that this man hadn’t been in Zelda’s sex dungeon was short-lived, as her gaze inadvertently fell on his weirdo polyester-covered crotch, which was unfortunately at eye level with where she sat.

She made a small, appalled noise and shifted her gaze to Drake, although his expression wasn’t any more comforting. He looked highly amused.

She squeezed his hand again, this time very tightly.

Drake chuckled. “Oh, she is definitely a little spitfire. You should see her wrassle a gator.”

“Really?” The man looked even more titillated, although she didn’t check his trousers to see how much more so. Damn Drake.

“Oh yeah,” Drake said with feeling. “So my cupcake here didn’t like the other woman’s attention, huh?”

Josie Lynn shot Drake a dirt look. He was enjoying this far too much.

“Not at all,” the man said. “In fact, she popped the woman. Probably blackened her eye in good shape.”

This time, Josie Lynn’s mouth dropped open. She’d punched that woman? No. No.

Beside her, Drake laughed out loud. “Wow. Popped her, huh?”

The man nodded, grinning, too. “Socked her good.”

Drake chuckled again.

But Josie Lynn managed to gather herself. “What happened after—I hit her?”

“The tall woman in her bra and panties left with the catsuit woman. You wanted to follow them, but your man here found some other ways to distract you.” The creeper licked his lips again.

Josie Lynn tried not to vomit in her mouth, and definitely not about what she might have done with Drake, but because this freaky dude had watched them. Probably not unlike he was watching her now.

“Did anything else happen?” Drake said, his tone sharp and thick with warning. He clearly didn’t care for this man’s look either.

“Then the bra-and-panties woman returned. She was upset about something. I’m not sure what. But you all left together.”

“Donald.” Another voice snapped from the other side of the table, startling Josie Lynn. “Stop pestering the guests.”

Josie Lynn turned, relieved to see the person they’d come to see had finally joined them.

Renee posed before them, in all her primped and painted glory. She’d changed from her peignoir and robe into a glittery gold evening gown. Josie Lynn’s first thought was that she was much taller and more intimidating up close.

Clearly Donald agreed, because he immediately backed away from their table.

“I wasn’t pestering, Renee,” he said, his tone somewhere between wheedling and worshiping. “I was just talking.”

“Well go talk somewhere else,” Renee said, clearly unimpressed with his sycophantic behavior.

The man didn’t say anything more as he scurried away.

“Sorry about that,” Renee said, collapsing dramatically into one of the worn, red velvet chairs. “Donald is a regular here. Such a strange little man. He’s relatively harmless, but his attention can become a bit too much. Even for me.” Then she smiled.

Then her heavily made-up eyes shifted to Drake, clearly done with the topic of Donald. She leaned forward to give Drake an air kiss on either cheek. Drake accepted the greeting comfortably, which Josie Lynn found kind of cool. Many men would not be comfortable with another man dressed as a woman being affectionate—even in such an affected way.

“So why are you here, rock star?” Renee said, lounging back against her chair.

“Do you know of a group of female impersonators who dress as Cher through the decades?”

Renee rolled her eyes, disdain very clear in her face. “Cher. So cliché. All female impersonators imitate her at some point in their career.” Then she acknowledged Josie Lynn for the first time. “Not me, mind you. I was always too old to imitate her. But then you know I never went for the easy applause anyway.”

Josie Lynn found herself nodding, although she didn’t really understand why it was any easier to dress up as Cher than any other female. In fact, Cher seemed like she’d be pretty hard to imitate. God knows, she couldn’t pull off that “If I Could Turn Back Time” getup. That took some serious balls and a really great tushy. Not to mention, in reality, Cher couldn’t be much younger than Renee.

“So you don’t know of any impersonators working together,” Drake said, trying to keep Madame Renee on track. “There would be five of them.”

Renee sighed. “Not working together, per se, but I do know several here and there. But if I had to guess what place might be doing a Cher Extravaganza, it would probably be the new club down on Royal. Queen Mary’s.”

Queen Mary’s on Royal, there was something apropos about that.

Although it was clear Renee did not think highly of this new place. Probably because it was competition. Josie Lynn glanced around, not that any place would have to be much to be competition for this place.

The waitress who’d been helping them came over and placed a three-olive martini in front of Renee, who didn’t even acknowledge the gesture. Apparently when you were Madame Renee, it was assumed your needs would be met without having to ask.

She took a ladylike sip, her ring-clad pinky extended, then she patted her ruby-red lips with a hankie she discreetly—or what she thought was discreetly—pulled out of her cle**age.