Excerpt of Last Dance by Jeffe Kennedy

The problem with martinis is, although they look and
taste fabulous—plus low carb, if done right—the steep
slope of the glass makes them easy to spill. Disaster in
the making.

Particularly on the second round.

Being a cautious sort, if only in this arena, I sipped at
mine before taking another step and used the opportunity
to survey the club’s offering of masculine company. And
to let them get a good look at me. Take the spotlight
when you can because there’s always someone meaner ready
to upstage you. The bright bounce of lights glanced off a
good set of shoulders here—and ooh, a very nice ass in
black jeans there. A table of guys gave me a long look as
I passed and I pretended not to notice, though the dark-
haired one could be a possible.

“Any likelies?” Amy asked, taking the fresh drink from me
as I got to our table, blowing me a kiss of thanks. She
wore a lacy black sheath she’d designed in her spare time
and made from remnants at her job—and she made it look
like couture, the talented bitch.

I set down my own glass. “Nobody stands out as fabulous.
But the table over your right shoulder might have
potential.”

“The night is young,” Ice observed, scanning the dance
floor below with dark eyes. She’d refused another round,
as had Julie. Both of them still nursed their first
drink, though Ice—Anaisa, though only her professors
called her that—was theoretically not supposed to drink
alcohol. She made a regular practice of doing all the
things her family disapproved of, which was fairly easy
since most of them lived elsewhere, some of them in
India. Marcia didn’t drink at all and she clutched her
seltzer, clearly wishing to be at home. It was a rare
Friday night that I didn’t have a show, Julie wasn’t
slaving in her restaurant, and everyone else was free,
too, so we’d talked Marcia into coming out with us
instead of staying behind in our empty house. But no one
could force her to have fun.

Believe me, I’d tried. My own personal sacred mission.
Saint Charley, that’s me.

“I gave the bartender Marcia’s number though,” I added,
because I couldn’t resist. The girl needed poking. “He
said he wanted a virgin sacrifice for some shamanistic
ritual.”

“Oh, ha ha.” Marcia at least transferred her black look
from the seltzer to me. “There’s nothing wrong with
saving myself.”

“Saving is economical.” Amy nodded, making a serious
face.

“A virtue, even.” Julie licked off the end of the plastic
gecko tail the Lizard Club used for drink stirrers.
“Unless you count hoarding. Then it turns ugly.”

“Oh my god. That show is riveting.” Ice shuddered. “I’m
horrified but I can’t look away. Even in reruns.”

“It’s a disease.” I deflected Marcia’s glower of warning
with my best Julia Roberts angelic smile. It’s a good
one. I’ve practiced it. “You can’t judge people like that
—just give them your compassion and try to help. Or refer
them to social services.”

“Charlotte Emory, I’m going to crawl across this table
and strangle you if you don’t shut up,” Marcia growled.

I batted my lashes at her. “What? I’m just trying to
help.”

“Well, you’re not. I’ll find the right guy sooner or
later.”

“Sooner is more likely with you pried out of the house,”
Ice noted.

“And later than anyone we know,” Amy toasted her with a
martini already half gone.

“Than the rest of the known universe.” Julie poked Marcia
with the gecko tail, which at least diverted Marcia’s
attention onto her.

“I hate all of you.” Marcia folded her arms. “Why don’t
you go dance already?”

“Hello, ladies.” Ooh, right on cue, Mr. Dark Hair had
come through. His gaze fell on me and I returned his very
charming smile. “Wanna dance?” he asked me.

Yes. Yes, I did.