Borrowing a Bachelor. Karen Kendall

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      Adam shot the guy an evaluative look. “Pete, you couldn’t drive a Big Wheel right now. You’ve had half a bottle of tequila. But thanks.”

      “I got you covered.” Another member of the bachelor party pushed his way forward, this one with a gold chain around his neck and enough gel in his hair to grease down a Siberian husky.

      Adam outright laughed. “We took a cab here, Devon. Remember?”

      Devon stopped talking midprotest and looked sheepish. Then he said, “I’ll drive Pete’s car.”

      “No way,” Adam said. “Who here hasn’t had at least four or five drinks already?”

      The bowlegged guy squinted and started counting on his fingers. The one Adam had called Pete turned redder than he already was, and the groom burped sheepishly.

      “That’s what I thought,” Adam said. “I’m the only sober one here—apart from Nikki. So I’m afraid, gentlemen, that the talent comes with me.” He put his arm protectively around her shoulders, and she could have kissed him.

      Pete frowned as he swayed back and forth, looking owlish. “No, no, no. Talent gotta stay. I have a cell phone!”

      “Congratulations,” Adam told him.

      Pete blinked. “Thank you.” He hiccupped. “I have a cell phone, so I can call a cab. To take you to the ’mergency room. C’mon, bro. Talent stays.”

      Horrified, Nikki looked at Adam to see if he had an answer for that one. He didn’t seem to.

      “Wait!” she said. “The talent should go…because I have no talent. Really!” Not to mention the issue of that jumbo bag of M&M’s she’d eaten yesterday. She was sure that they’d already adhered in sugary little lumps all over her hips and backside.

      But the idiots didn’t seem to be listening. They stood gawking at her as if her breasts were two NFL announcers debating the last play at the Super Bowl—and they each had a thousand bucks riding on the outcome.

      The bowlegged guy they’d called Gib said hoarsely, “We don’t care about talent, sweetcakes. Just get out there and wobble around for us. Shake it like you mean it.”

      Nikki gulped and looked at Adam. “Please get me out of here,” she mouthed. “I’ll make it up to you.”

      “Guys,” he said, “let her drive me. I’ll pay for the next round and I’ll get you two other strippers. Just let me take this one.” He dug some cash out of his pocket and slapped it into Gib’s hand.

      The general consensus among those who could still employ rational thought was that two was better than one, and free booze wasn’t something to be turned down. So, feeling a little like a piece of traded livestock, Nikki tiptoed into the dressing room behind the stage, thankful that there was no sign of Yvonne. She fell on her belongings like a vulture, not even taking the time to dress, and scrambled out as fast as she could.

      Then she took Adam’s arm and tottered toward the door with him. She’d bet her feet in the high heels hurt almost as much as his nose.

      The humid South Florida air washed over her nearly naked body as they left the bar. She inhaled the scents of auto exhaust, sweetly decaying vegetation and fast food, but none of them made her feel as sick as the idea of dancing in there for the wolf-whistling, howling crowd of men.

      “Thank you,” she said to Adam.

      “No, no. Thank you,” he said. Oddly, he seemed to mean it.

      She flushed. “I’m really sorry that I’ve ruined your good time.”

      “You didn’t. I hate those places. Cheap booze, cheap wo—” He broke off, but she knew he’d been about to say cheap women.

      She looked down at her current get-up and couldn’t really argue. Only the vitals were covered, and just to remind her of it a stinging insect bit her on the backside. “Ow!” Nikki exclaimed, slapping at it.

      Behind the cocktail napkins, Adam’s eyes widened slightly, and he swallowed hard, averting them.

      “I’d offer to pay for the, um, other talent and the round of drinks,” she said, “but I’m dead broke, which is why I even considered doing this.”

      “Don’t worry about it,” said Adam.

      She led the way to her car, a powder-blue Volkswagen Beetle. “Where’s the nearest E.R.? Or minor emergency center? Do you know?”

      “I’ll be fine. Really.”

      Nikki looked at him doubtfully. “What if I broke your nose?”

      “I don’t think it’s broken.”

      “But it could be. And I’ve heard of all kinds of freak things that can happen—a bone fragment could pierce something in your brain, and boom! You’d be a vegetable.” She shuddered.

      Adam laughed. The sound was reassuring but also annoying—he wasn’t taking her seriously. He was treating her like the dumb blonde she appeared to be.

      “I’m serious. Look, you’re not a doctor,” she said in reasonable tones.

      He cocked an eyebrow at her but didn’t argue.

      “So why don’t we make sure that you’re okay?” she prodded.

      “Not necessary. They’ll tell me to elevate the nose, keep an ice pack on it and take a couple of ibuprofen for the swelling. If a shard of bone had pierced my brain, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you. So really, you can drop me at my hotel.”

      Nikki gulped. She owed him a private dance in his hotel room, and she was none too eager to pay up. Any delay was a welcome one. “I’m sorry, but I insist that we get you checked out, if only for my peace of mind.”

      Adam sighed. “Fine,” he said. “But it’s a waste of time.”

      Wasting time sounded very good to her, especially if she could do it clothed. She dug her keys out of her purse and unlocked the Beetle. She opened the driver’s-side door, tossed her things onto the seat and found her shirt. She slid on a bra—red, of course—pulled the shirt over her head and tugged it into place as Adam rounded the car and got into the passenger seat.

      He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she held her white denim miniskirt in front of her, and she could have sworn she heard a swift intake of breath as she raised her leg to step into it. She pulled it up over her hips and buttoned it at the waist.

      There. Now she felt better. She still wore the skyscraper stilettos, but every woman in Miami wore those. Nikki tossed her purse into the backseat and slid behind the wheel. “Should I take you to Jackson Memorial?” she asked.

      Adam shuddered. “No—the E.R. there will be full of gunshot wounds, auto-accident victims, ODs and God only knows what else. We’d wait all night.” After some thought, he gave her the name of a minor emergency center close by, and directed her to it.

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