First Chapter: Man Cuffed
Renaissance Strippers
“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”
Ernest Hemingway
Meg
My long skirts swish around my legs as I stride toward the king’s throne, a bottle of wine in one hand, a silver chalice in the other.
I’ve wanted to be an actor since I was four years old. I love shiny lights, passion, and costumes. So you’d think that the Renaissance era wench’s costume I’m wearing—with my boobs hiked up to my chin—might possibly be a highlight of my career.
But no. I’m not dressed like this to meet a knight, or wrestle dragons. This isn’t a low-budget Outlander knockoff. This is my day job. I’m a serving wench at Ye Olde Tavern.
Five nights a week, I lace the tight bodice up over my puffy-sleeved blouse and sell tankards of beer. Some days it’s fun. When I’m in the right mood to play the bar wench, I bring out my Enlish accent. Or Scottish when I’m feeling extra feisty.
Tonight, though, it’s just a chore.
My thirtieth birthday has just come and gone, and I’m still waiting for my big break. Acting is a hard profession, and I’ll admit that I’m a little depressed. My agent called today to let me know that I was passed up for another role.
At least this job pays well. Ye Olde Paycheck has bought me some time to figure out what I’m going to do with the next act of my life. I’m in the midst of a wicked midlife crisis. Pre-midlife crisis? Let’s just say, a crisis. And it doesn’t help that my sister suddenly has her entire life figured out. She’s married to a knight in shining armor. Am I jealous?
Hell, yes.
I’m also a little sick of rejection. I’ve been this close to landing role after role for a decade now. I’m starting to take that shit personally. And that’s no way to approach a career that you love.
“Wench!” calls an aggravated voice from the private room.
I’m a little sick of that, too. Ye Olde Tavern is particularly rowdy tonight. And not the good kind of rowdy. It’s the bad kind, where the kitchen is slow, the bartenders are in the weeds, and chaos reigns freely. There’s a bachelorette party going on in the private room, where a dozen young women are getting drunk and crabby in equal measure.
I grab some Ye Olde Pretzel snacks and a couple more pitchers of beer. Then I gird my loins and head back there.
The bride-to-be is your basic definition of a bridezilla. I can easily picture her stomping on all the tiny townspeople around her. She zeroes in on me right away. Here we go. Smile, Meg. You’re an actress. Pretend you give a shit.
“This is a disaster,” she sneers, getting up close and personal. I set the beer and pretzels on a table and prepare to take whatever she’s about to throw at me. I’m hoping it’s not a punch. “We’re starving and we’re supposed to have turkey legs and all we’ve got is pretzels and bar cheese and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have that in the Renaissance. And my strippers are late!”
It’s time to whip out the British accent.
“Oh! Don’t play the daft cow! Pretzels pre-date Christianity,” I say with a giant smile, so she won’t realize I just insulted her. “And I know those skivers will turn up before you know it!”
The truth is that the strippers are usually late. They like to get baked before they turn up with their old-fashioned boom box and cheap costumes.
A half hour from now, Bridezilla won’t care, though. All will be forgiven as soon as they rip those costumes off and gyrate their backsides.
Also? I’m pretty sure they didn’t have male strippers in the Renaissance. Not that I’m going to point that out.
“There’s an event at the arena,” I point out. “Your gents are likely stuck in traffic. And your turkey legs have just arrived.” Thank goodness. My coworker has just entered the room with the platter. He’s quickly swarmed by the bride’s drunk and starving girlfriends. Legs are grabbed, and elbows are thrown. It’s Ye Olde Feeding Frenzy.
As I watch one of the women rip into a turkey leg, I have a brief flashback to working as an extra on a popular zombie TV show. I was a highlighted extra. And I can still taste the intestines.
“Finally,” Bridezilla growls. “You ought to at least comp those legs for me.”
“I’ll give you a free dessert,” I counter, sans accent this time. “And the bar cheese.”
She glares at me. Her green eyes hot and angry. I have the sudden impulse to wrestle her to the ground, pin her arms behind her back, and make her cry for mercy. This costume is starting to affect my personality. And I’ve always been impulsive.
But that has to end. I’m the new thirtyish Meg. The responsible Meg. The younger me would’ve tackled this bitch already.
Thankfully, the beaded curtains part again, and three guys in cop uniforms step into the back room.
Hooray! I’m saved by the strippers.
And I must say they’re looking fine tonight. Holy shit. Rent a Gent has hired some new talent. These cops...they’re fucking hot. Especially the one in the middle. His blue shirt can barely contain his muscles, which I’m pretty sure are rippling. They’re either rippling or the collective lady-sighs are causing a warm breeze to drift over him. He’s got sandy hair, cool gray eyes, a strong jaw and shoulders that I could sit on.
I’m not the only one who notices, either. Moments ago the room was a cacophony of drunken screams and turkey gnoshing, but a startled silence claims the room. The air is suddenly heavy with anticipation.
Except for one big problem. The hottest stripper I’ve ever seen is apparently new at this gig. The newbies forgot their boom box. There’s not a bad 80s rap song in sight.
But it’s all right. I got this. There’s something to be said for improv training.
I make a beeline for the sound system and crank it up, then head over to the hunk of man and his two buddies. Clearly, Mr. Square Jaw is in charge. Alpha just rolls off him in waves.
Leaning in close, I say, “You’re a little buttoned up for tonight, aren’t you?” Then I undo the top button of his shirt. I feel something hard against my leg. Hard enough to turn me on. But then I realize he’s got a walkie talkie radio strapped to his hip.
I wonder what else he’s packing.
“Can you guys dance to this?” I ask, demonstrating with a bump of my hips. Although they don’t really need to dance. They just need to take their clothes off. Right now, preferably. “The woman in the white spandex unitard is the bride-to-be,” I add.
His jaw clenches. Gosh, he is the strong and silent type, isn’t he? But he just isn’t moving. Neither are his buddies.
This is going to get awkward fast if they don’t find their groove. So I decide to show them how it’s done. “All right ladies! Are you ready to get hot?” I scream.
“Yeah!” they scream back.
“Are you ready to get wet?” I call to them.
“Yeah!” they say.
“Who here is a bad girl?”
They all raise their hands. It’s a fucking frenzy of estrogen. Someone in the back actually passes out.
“Then check out these hard bodies!” I reach up to rip off Mr. Square Jaw’s pants. They’re velcroed up the sides, so they should come off really easy.
Only they don’t. So I give another tug.
Huh. That’s weird.
And that belt he’s wearing? It looks awfully heavy. That must be the problem. I start to reach for the belt to undo it, and a realization starts to creep over me.
This uniform is not a costume.
This dude is not a stripper.
This dude is an actual cop.
And I’m about to be arrested.
* * *
Luckily, I avoid arrest. I’m saved by two things. The first is the immediate arrival of the real strippers, striding in with “Baby Got Back” blaring and their sequined cop-pants sparkling under the disco lights of Ye Olde (Not Authentic At All) Tavern.
The second is the debilitating laughter of the other two real cops, doubled over, struggling for breath. “Maguire? A stripper?” one of them gasps as if it’s the funniest thing on the planet.
I realize my hand is still resting on his belt buckle. Oh, if only…
“Knock it off,” Maguire snips. “I’m not a stripper. No.” Then he does something I’m not expecting. He leans close to my ear and whispers, “At least, not for hire. Only when I volunteer.”
And now I’m frozen, in what I’m pretty sure is a spotlight, that declaration reverberating through my body.
That’s when Officer Maguire and his buddies move into cop action. “All right! Everybody out! There’s a main gasline break down the block, and we need to clear the premises!”
Bridezilla, who’s sitting in a chair, one turkey leg in each fist, surrounded by four gyrating sets of, uhm, junk, suddenly looks crazed. “I’m not leaving until this lap dance is done! I’m getting married and I earned a lap dance! And I demand that I get these turkey legs for FREE!”
That’s when my patience for her finally dies. Did she not hear that our lives are in danger? I’m about to pounce on the bitch with: “I’ll give you a free turkey leg and put it right up your…”
When Maguire squats down next to her and lifts her chair right into the air. Then he heads for the exit.
Once again I’m not the only one who notices how incredibly impressive this guy is. There’s a frenzy of iPhone camera activity punctuated by the heavy breathing of drunk women swooning over a very sexy cop. Maguire’s muscles pop and strain as he strides outside carrying Bridezilla as if she weighed nothing more than a turkey leg.
I hate Bridezilla.
I want to be his turkey leg.
These are my thoughts as I find myself standing alone in a room that was crowded only moments earlier. I’m still frozen in place, a little breathless from that show of pure manliness, and possibly experiencing an adrenaline crash from my close call with being thrown into the hoosegow for molesting a police officer.
A deep, burly voice shakes me awake. “Hey, serving wench.”
My head swings toward the doorway, where Maguire is standing. “I don’t like being addressed that way,” I hear myself say. But it comes out breathy and weird.
“Then maybe you should put something different on your name tag.”
“Well, sure. If you want to be technical about it.” My hand covers the nametag in question. Moving home to Michigan was supposed to help me become a grown-up. Only I don’t feel like one right this second.
“Come on,” he says in that gravelly voice. “It’s not safe here. You gotta vacate the premises too.”
This probably means the Tavern will clock me out early, those bastards. But hearing the news from Maguire’s sexy lips, in that deep voice of his, makes me feel like it’s almost worth it.
I follow him outside. No wonder I thought he was an entertainer. Ordinary people don’t have muscular asses and long legs like those. I’d be willing to follow him anywhere at this point.
But this is real life, and not a movie set.
So it’s another six months before I see him again.
There’s an important thing I’ve learned through my years of acting. Comedy or drama, it doesn’t really matter...but the impact of a line depends on the perfect timing of delivery.
My timing with men is already terrible.
My timing with Maguire will prove to be even worse.