Impulse Buy

Today’s post refers back to an oldie but a goodie, this one here. It’s also a two-parter. The results will be posted next week, or Thursday if there’s enough demand.

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Serenity Miller tugged at her bra strap. She never should have worn a bra tonight. Sure, it made her boobs stand up like puppies begging at the table, but the underwire was cutting a line into her skin and the one strap kept slipping down. All the perspiration wasn’t helping. She reached up to fuss with her hair, caught the action and forced her hand back down.

Of all the places to get dumped, a freaking shifter bar. God only knew how many “I’m lost, helpless and afraid” signals her sweat was blasting out to the clientele. The predators would sniff it and start circling. The herbivores would smell the predators and leave her to her fate. Just like Roger had, a half hour ago.

Of course he’d taken the car.

Now here she was, alone in a club in the middle of nowhere in a skimpy skintight dress and an ill-fitting bra, surrounded by wild animals and sweating up a storm. How would they fit all that on her tombstone? She’d need a billboard, at least.

Or a cab. But when she went to the bar to ask, the bartender told her, “No cabs, not at this time of night. We can rent you a room, if you like.” He glanced at her sagging bra strap and winked.

Serenity shivered. No thanks. She took refuge in the ladies’ room and locked herself in a stall. She sat on the throne while her mind raced and her heels clacked a rhythm on the tiles. She forced them to stillness. After a second one toe started tapping again.

No doubt about it, Mom must have been soaring on pain meds when she picked the name “Serenity” for her newborn. Maybe “Jitters” hadn’t looked pretty on the birth certificate.

She knew she couldn’t stay in here forever. Neither could she leave without a car. The exit from the Pleasure Club—the name right there should have tipped her off—led through the bar upstairs, where a visible bra strap would act on the rowdy clientele like an engraved invitation. There had to be a way out of this, one that didn’t involve meshing body parts with something inclined to sprout fur.

The restroom door opened. Serenity froze. Some female something, likely not human, in four-inch stilettos paused in front of a sink. Serenity held her breath. After a moment the door opened again. A woman’s eager voice shrilled, “C’mon, Jill, the auction’s starting!” The stilettos clicked rapidly over the floor, and the door thumped shut.

Auction?

Oh, duh, she thought a second later, once her brain finally registered the notice taped to the stall door right in front of her. The Interspecies Pleasure Club presents our Charity Bachelor Auction, with details in smaller type she didn’t bother to read. She vaguely recalled seeing it advertised both in the bar upstairs and in the club itself. She’d been too concerned with fussing over Roger to pay the advertisements any attention.

Who the hell brings their girl to a shifter bar to break up with her, and then leaves her there? The asswipe who’s already found someone else, that’s who. Triple bonus asswipe points to him for timing their date to coincide with the end of his new paramour’s work shift. The two had bolted out the door while Serenity was still processing his hasty, “We should see other people.”

At least they hadn’t ordered yet. He’d only left her paying for the drinks.

I hope she gives you rabies, Serenity thought. I hope she bites your nuts off. I hope you get fleas.

Beyond the door an amplified voice boomed something that was greeted by a thunder of feminine cheers. The show must have begun.

Suddenly she thought of a way she could get a ride home. One she could ditch without trouble or qualms once he delivered her to her door. Paid escorts had to do what you told them, right? One of those men parading around on stage had to be an herbivore or something equally harmless. A hedgehog or whatever. And anyway, the poster said the money was going to charity. She’d be doing something positive for the community.

Abandoning the sanctuary of the stall, Serenity gave her bra strap a last, desperate tug and burst out of the ladies’ room. She sucked in a full breath and headed for the stage.

Oh, runny eggs. That was one huge crowd of females packed around the stage. More predators than she was comfortable being downwind of, and quite a few of those firmly ensconced in the cougar age ranges. Even the herbie girls were eyeing the line of potential dates like Eve had the apple. Serenity swallowed hard and clutched her little clutch purse. Her $47.32 in cash wasn’t going to get her very far.

She let the first two men go without bidding because they were wolves. She could tell by the way they stalked across the stage, with their tight butts wagging like tails. She did not want to be in a car with a wolf. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

A pair of brunettes who looked like sisters snapped up bachelors #1 and #2. The four left the club in a pack, heads together and hands in each others’ back pockets. Hey, Serenity thought, whatever floats your boat. She returned her attention to the stage.

The third one came out shirtless. He had to be a horse. He had hair past his shoulders and shook it a lot. He also pawed the stage with one booted toe. Definite ride home.

Serenity bid up to $200—they’d take plastic, right? They’d better—but chickened out when a blonde in a cowboy hat started hissing at her. The horse-man went to the hissing blonde, and Serenity went into another spiral of despair.

C’mon, she told herself. Don’t let them intimidate you. You want to be stuck here all night? These bitches won’t do anything to you in public. You’ve got pepper spray.

The next one, she promised herself. Bid on the next one no matter what he is. Get him and get the hell out of here. Please please please let him be something harmless.

Okay, this was promising. Unlike the previous flannelphiles, #4 had a suit on, with the jacket and shirt open to reveal a smooth, firm-looking chest. He prowled to the center of the stage and stood there stiffly, squinting against the lights.

“Now here’s a sporty number,” the auctioneer said with an open leer. It appeared to be a woman in a sequined evening gown with pink hair teased into a ‘60s beehive, but the voice revealed “her” as a man. “Who wouldn’t want to put this racy tiger in her tank? Do I hear one hundred dollars?”

Serenity’s hand shot up before she could talk herself out of it. “One hundred.”

TO BE CONTINUED