“Why yes, there are,” his brother says with a wink. “Lord Number Ten, reporting for duty!”
He stands, dramatically whips off his jacket, and saunters to the center of the room to join the rest of the group.
“Oh my god,” Wyatt says to Liv. “Did you know he was performing?”
She points a warning finger at him.
“Don’t you ruin this for me,” she demands. “You’re basically my brother-in-law, but if you get in the way of my man coming out of retirement for the night, it won’t just be CJ who wants your balls roasted by an open fire and hung near the chimney with care.”
She whips back to the dance floor, and I pat his knee reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to remove your balls with a sharpened candy cane anymore.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Unless, of course, you’re going to sulk all the way through the show.”
He sighs in resignation.
“As long as one of the lords makes his way over to Howard’s table to make it super fucking weird, I don’t care who’s doing the ass shaking.” Then he leans back and cheers with the rest of the crowd as the Crimson Lounge lords rip open their tear-away shirts to reveal their waxed and oiled chests.
As they shimmy their way through a dance number, the room’s inhabitants divide themselves into two groups. Half of the partygoers whoop and clap along with the performance, while the other half dart their eyes around the room in discomfort.
“Best night of my life!” Liv shouts, waving her arms over her head with a fistful of cash.
She’s not the only one getting into the spirits of the ten lords a-grinding. When the dancers tear off their pants to reveal thongs and booty shorts and start to work the tables like it’s a busy Saturday night at the club, a huge chunk of the room joins her.
Then again, more than a few stick-up-their-asses stand and head for the door. That exodus includes people I recognize from the Beaucoeur community, but several are strangers to me, meaning they’re supporting players in Howard’s bid to take Sounder public: accountants, junior associates, and corporate counsel for the possible investors.
“Hate to see ’em go, love to watch ’em leave,” I whisper, and Wyatt chuckles softly next to me.
Jonesy materializes at our table and spins Liv’s chair around, resting his hand on the back so he can wrap his leg around her to shake it for her up close
“You know,” I say to Wyatt, “for somebody who retired from dancing a year ago, he’s still got it.”
My man—my boyfriend? The love of my life? We should probably define the actual terms of our relationship at some point—just shakes his head. “You try to raise them right, you know?” But he’s laughing as he says it, and I know this is another instance of him loving his family out loud, regardless of their quirks, conflicts, or rippling ass muscles.
His lightness falls away when Deke spots me and grooves his way across the floor.
“CJ!” he calls happily. “Merry Christmas!”
“Back atcha, Diesel! Got anything good in your sleigh tonight?”
He winks and gets ready to drop it like it’s hot, up close and personal, but Wyatt turns the full force of his glare onto the poor beefcake.
“Keep it moving,” he growls. “The only person dancing for my girlfriend tonight is me.”
Deke slaps a beefy hand over his heart, beaming at us both. “Aww, I didn’t know! That’s so great, you two. Congrats.”
I barely hear him. Electricity rolls through my body at Wyatt’s unapologetic claiming of me.
“Relationship fucking defined, huh?” I say.
He looks at me incredulously. “I thought it was obvious.”
I bite my lip around a smile. “Okay. Good.”
Once I’m able to tear my eyes away from Wyatt—my boyfriend—I glimpse the woman who was filming the jugglers earlier in the night. She’s got her phone out again, recording away with glee. I’m about to point her out to Wyatt when he draws my attention instead to Howard’s table.
“Uh-oh,” he murmurs.
The older white couple is sitting stone-faced, both of them with their arms crossed, while the rest of the table looks at the stripper hijinks with various degrees of confusion, disapproval, and bemusement. But it’s Howard himself who’s making moves.
