Bloody hell, I hope not. That sort of behavior reminds me of Rory, my older brother who makes rules for every ruddy thing.
"Never mind," she says, and flings the door open, gesturing for me to go inside.
Women's voices erupt in wild whoops.
Something about their shouts makes me freeze. They sound…ravenous.
Mhac na galla. What sort of orgy is this lassie dragging me into?
"He's here!" someone hollers, and louder whoops erupt.
I stagger backward half a step.
The siren who'd lured me here lays a hand on my back and pushes. I stumble across the threshold.
Women scream and whoop and whistle.
Holy heaven. My eyes fly so wide I feel a breeze drying them out. Across the room, a blindfolded woman holds a paper shaped like a penis—and painted like one too—while she flounders around, moving in the direction of a board that holds a cartoon-like image of a man without a dick. The woman stabs her paper cock onto the image, pinning the appendage to the man's groin.
I wince. The lad might be made of paper, but I sympathize with what this mob of lunatic women has done to him.
The woman whips off her blindfold, pumps her fists in the air, and shouts, "Woo! Time to get the party started!"
A mob of screaming women barrels toward me.
"Take it off, baby," one says. "Show us what you got."
I flail backward, smacking into the redhead behind me.
"Shit!" she yells, as she tumbles to the floor.
Faced with a throng of crazed women, I shed all my masculine pride and hurry backward out of the room. Hercules himself would've fled from this onslaught. I trip over the redhead's legs and hop sideways to avoid falling onto her. My weight would crush the little siren. I fling out a hand to halt my own fall, my palm slapping on the wall.
Inside the room, someone shrieks. A tiny woman rushes to the doorway, eyes wide, face blanched, her attention on the redhead. "Calli, are you okay? What happened?"
The woman of my dreams pushes up onto her elbows and blows hair out of her face. "The exotic dancer trampled me."
Exotic dancer? I feel my brows pinch together, tightening my forehead.
The tiny lass offers a hand to the redhead—Calli, the other one had called her—and helps lever her off the floor. When my dream girl's foot contacts the linoleum, she winces and hisses, grabbing the doorjamb for support.
She frowns at me. "What's wrong with you? A stripper ought to be used to being pawed by salivating women."
The other girl aims a chastising look at me and slips an arm around Calli's waist. "Yeah. What's your damage, Kilt Boy?"
With my palm still flat on the wall, I gawp at these women. I might be horribly confused, but I know one thing for certain. I hurt Calli, and though it had been an accident, I worry I've ruined my chances with her.
"I'm getting a refund," the tiny one says. "I don't want a nutso stripper, even if he is wicked hot."
"Refund for what?" I ask, glancing from one bampot to the other. "Did you call me—You women are cracked. Ahmno a stripper."
Chapter Two
The tiny lass huffs. "Of course you're a stripper. We paid for you."
"Paid?" I move away from the wall, straightening to my full height. "I donnae take my clothes off for money."
"Who else but a stripper would wear a kilt?"