Karaoke Night with the Romance Writers

Dinner and karaoke night with some Colorado authors is one of my favorite events. Four of us met at dinner first; the last one was going to meet us at the karaoke bar instead.


Being really cool erotica writers, I'd like to say we meet at fancy, classy restaurants. But alas, it was Applebees.


What made up for it was the adorable waiter we had. Now ladies, you can tell when a man's interested. They all have the exact same move: staring deeply into your eyes when they speak to you as if you are the only woman in their world.


I know I'm not crazy, I've never before noticed a female waitress do it.


But he was a cutie. A hottie. Stare-ably, lick-ably awesome.



Four erotica writers, you know what happened. Instant competition was unplanned as we all flirted with him. It's all fair in love and war.



I waved him over to the table for some instant attention.


“Yes?” he asked, staring into my eyes. Wow, he had eyes of dark chocolate. We matched.


Innocently, I bit the tip of my index finger. “Mmm. What's your fresh fish of the day?" My voice was breathy on the word "fissssh."


His eyes glazed over as he thought about it.


Across from me, Monica coughed.


“Oh, are you all right?” he asked her, his attention diverted from me to her.


“I think so,” she whispered delicately. “It's just so...hot in here.” How convenient it was that she used her napkin to fan herself off.


Over her Rocky Mountain cleavage.


Damn her. The waiter's eyes stayed glued to the spot.


The other three of us looked at each other and hurriedly yanked our necklines lower.


“Excuse me,” Trish said loudly.


“Hmm?” he mumbled, distracted. He tore his attention away and then focused on half the Victoria Secret bra that was exposed on Trish.


“I just have to ask...Are you pierced...anywhere? Any tattoos hidden?” she let her gaze wander down the length of his body.


“No, I'm clean,” he said, with the cutest smile at the brazen hussy.


“I love clean,” I cut in, licking my lips. “I'm not pierced or tattooed, either. We'd make a good match.”


From across the table, Helen snorted. “How old are you anyway?” she asked, as if she didn't care to participate. Yet, I saw the four inches of cleavage and her spine sitting a little straighter. Yes, she can argue, but on a normal day she only has three inches of exposed cleavage.


“I'm twenty-four.”


“Hot damn,” she muttered.


Monica interrupted, her voice still breathy as her finger trailed along her the tops of her exposed breasts. “What a coincidence! I'm only twenty-eight.”


The waiter smiled flirtingly. “How you doing?” he said in the Joey Tribbiani way.


I wanted to say something sexy enough to distract him. But instead I choked and Trish had to pound my back. “Did that tramp just say she was twenty-eight?” I asked, eyes wide.


Helen stepped up to the plate. “How's your health been?” she asked Monica. “Ever since the outbreak of the...itchies?”


Trish and I held our breath. Oh, that one was low. Way low. So low I was hoping the cutie didn't think we were all contagious.


Monica never blinked, she kept her attention focused on his face. I couldn't blame her, he was staring into her eyes and I wanted to reach out and feel the dark, sexy shadow lining his jaw too.



“Never take off your clothes and dance naked in the moonlight,” she told him. “Poison ivy lurks everywhere.”



Trish and I let the breath whoosh out. Nice save. That one deserved respect.


Another table flagged the cutie off and away he hurried, looking over his shoulder at us and licking his lips...


“Rats,” Trish mumbled. “They should assign the hot ones only one table. It should be ours. We're the babes of the restaurant.”


“I have to agree. But, we're kind of cougars,” Helen said.


“Yeah,” Trish agreed, her voice all excited.


“Back off. You got the last young'un, hussy. Let someone else have this one,” Monica said, glaring at her.


“Not technically,” Trish said, looking out of the corner of her eye at me with a smirk.

I kicked her under the table. What girlfriend holds your secrets over your head like that?


Both Monica and Helen looked at me, wondering who he was and itching for the excuse to disqualify me from this juicy little prize.


I knew a distraction was in order. “You're married!” I accused Helen, like it was a sin. “You're out of this game anyway.”


She pouted for a minute. Then a glimmer came to her eye. “Not if my husband wants a threesome.”


The rest of us snorted.


“Okay, okay. I'll settle this,” Monica said. “I'll write our phone numbers on the ticket. And a cute little message from each of us. It'll be up to him who he calls.”

She scribbled hurriedly.


“Hey,” I said suspiciously. “Pass it over here.”


Because I knew what I'd do. Make sure the other three numbers were illegible. I inspected her handwriting, and grudgingly admitted it'd pass.

Mon smiled innocently.

We tipped the hottie indecently, each of us wanting to outdo the others like a bidding war on Ebay. The guy was up to a $50 tip.

Philandra was calling, wondering where we were, so we had to leave the restaurant without talking to him or blowing him kisses, or anything.

I did make sure to do my special walk out of the restaurant, head straight, shoulders back, abs tight, ass swishing so hard it bumped the customers sitting at the tables around us. Just in case there were cameras he could watch later.

I looked over my shoulder at the other girls.

Ugh, the copycats were swinging their booties, too.

When we got to the bar, all four of us placed our cell phones up on the table. “What's going on?” Philandra asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” we all mumbled, looking at each other through the corners of our eyes. No one wanted one more in the line of competition.

Just then my cell vibrated madly, nearly jumping off the table. I looked at the caller ID. Unknown number! Started with 720. Bravo!

“Thank you, Jesus!” I yelled. “Ha! I win!” I gave the other grumblers a ha-ha smirk, grabbing wildly for it. I flipped it open.

“This is REEE-NAA!” I shouted, over the din of the bar. Wanting to make sure he knew he called the correct number.The one he meant to call. The one he'd singled out over all the rest, even against the signatures, and the little smiley faces, and cheap shots, and over-tipping him.

“That's NII-IICE,” said the familiar voice of my friend Sin.

“Sin! You got my hopes up, only to bring them crashing down!” I sobbed, aware that the other girls were staring intently and now knew the bet was still on and open for business.

“Apparently,” she drolled. “You're such a drama queen. Anyway, I was just calling to give you the number to my new cell phone. Cheerio.”