“Are those pussies on your skirt?” I asked, stopping a foot or so away.
“Abstract pussies, yes. I’m surprised you caught that,” she added. “Prudish Hope missed it entirely.”
“I’m not a prude just because I don’t want to go to pelvic floor therapy with you, Billie,” Hope shot back as she tied off a balloon Gracie was making her blow up. Along with a bunch of the club guys.
“Listen, it’s not just for women who’ve had babies, you know. Your pelvic floor is a vital part of satisfactory lovemaking.”
Over by the bar, Seth let out a pained groan.
It couldn’t be easy, no matter how used to Billie’s craziness they were, to hear someone who was like a sister or cousin to you talk about her pussy floor.
“Besides,” Hope said, changing the subject because she likely knew someone would poke fun at her for being married to work and having no sex life to speak of, “the only reason Dezi picked up on it is because he’s seen like every vag on the East coast.”
Except, of course, the one I wanted to see the most.
“Oh, see, there it is again,” Billie said, reaching up to pluck at the air around me. Like she was pulling things out of the aura she’d been talking about.
I didn’t know what the fuck I believed in life when it came to shit like religion and spirituality, but I figured that if it was possible she could make me stop obsessing about a certain bartender, then it damn sure couldn’t hurt for her to cleanse my aura.
“Come here, Dezi baby,” Billie said, motioning to the space at her feet, between her legs.
Normally, I wouldn’t fuck with sitting between the legs of a princess who was also an old lady, especially when she was wearing a skirt.
But this was Billie.
And the skirt was down to her feet.
Lots of room for those abstract pussies of hers.
So I dropped down on my ass on the floor, ignoring the annoyed look Brooks was sending in my direction since I’d taken three hours to “arrange the fridge” so I didn’t have to help with the decorating.
“Come on, tell me all about it, honey,” she invited as she started to tap on my face.
Emotional freedom or some shit like that, that was what she called it. Tapping on certain spots over my face, chest, and under my armpit over and over.
I didn’t give a shit what it was called, it was relaxing.
“Tell you all about what?” I asked.
“Don’t lie to me. There’s something on your mind.”
“That isn’t deep fried or frosted?” Hope asked. “Unlikely.”
“Don’t say that. He’s allowed to have feelings other than hunger. You know that, right? Your feelings are valid,” Billie said.
I swear to shit, spending a couple of minutes in the hippie-sex-goddess’s presence was like a year in therapy.
“The only thing he’s feeling is horny since he hasn’t got laid in almost a week,” Voss rumbled in that barely decipherable voice of his as he walked past with a giant-ass glass punch bowl he’d just brought up from the basement.
“Hey, horny is a valid feeling too,” Billie agreed in that ever-patient voice of hers. “Dry spells can be hard on the body and even our self-confidence.”
“Yeah, ask Hope,” Finn said, and I opened my eyes just in time to see her grab a full bottle of water and wail it at his head. “For fuck’s sake,” he hissed, rubbing his face.
“Now, children,” Pagan said, walking in from the kitchen where he’d been dropping off ice. “We all know that violence is only the answer when Uncle Pagan is in the room to bear witness to it. Hope, do you need something that packs a little more punch than a water bottle?” he asked, reaching for a glass bottle of beer.
“Savages, all of you,” Billie said, exhaling hard. “Dezi, tell me what’s got you so worked up.”
“I’m not worked up,” I insisted, but my tone was just a tad too defensive. And Billie had really fucking good hearing.
“Is it a girl?” she asked in a whisper down close to my ear.
“Oh, Dezi, did you tell Mrs. Peace Love and Light about the chick you paid to smack the shit out of you at the bar last week?” Finn asked.
“Dezi!” Billie said, shoving my head with her fingers, likely disappointed in me.
“It was a shot,” I insisted.
“Explain that one,” Pagan said, looking at me with furrowed brows.
“It’s called a SlapShot,” Seth explained. “You pay to take a shot, then get slapped across the face by the hot bartender.”
“Oh, so that’s it,” Billie said, lowering her voice so only the two of us could hear it. “Listen, Dezi, I understand sometimes that you have learned to show your affection for others through acts of unmentionable violence,” she said, making me have to fight to keep a snort in. “But it’s not healthy to equate violence with love or even affection.”