unless you consider perfecting his golf drive a miracle.”
“Ooo, lookee here,” he squeals, black eyes flashing. “We have ourselves a rare and endangered beast: a jaded conservative.”
“Hardly!” I snort.
“You’re not a jaded conservative, then?”
“Jaded? A little. Conservative?” I tip more champagne into my flute, toss it back, and fix Mister Bishop Sexy Raine with my naughtiest expression. “Only out of the bedroom.”
He chuckles.
What the Jesus, Mary, and Gyrating Stripper am I doing? Am I really flirting with Kitty Kat’s ex-boyfriend?
Poppy arrives, glowing and breathless.
“Bishop, darling,” she says, pressing a kiss to his whiskered cheek. “How are you? Have you been introduced to my friend Vivia?”
Bishop’s lips turn up in a mischievous grin. “No, actually, not formally.”
“Bishop, this is my soon to be dear friend, Vivia Grant.” Poppy leans against the banquette, inadvertently giving the entire posse a peek down the front of her silky black jumper. “Vivia is from San Francisco.”
“So, Vivia from San Francisco, what are you doing on this side of the pond?” Bishop asks. “What brings you to Londontown? A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker?”
“Vivia is a magazine writer,” Poppy says. “A brilliant writer, in fact.”
“Really?” Bishop leans forward. “How splendid! Did you feel that palpable shift in the atmosphere? Vivia from San Francisco just elevated the IQ level of the room. Perhaps this evening won’t be an endless parade of vapid nitwits ensconced in ignorance and glitter.”
As if on cue, two beautiful blond barmaids wearing little more than British and American flag pasties on their nipples approach. The one wearing the American flag pasties holds a smartphone.
Bishop ignores them.
British Flag Pasties clears her throat. Bishop looks at the barmaids. The barmaids burst into piercing squeals.
“Yeah, I know.” Bishop fixes them with a toothy grin. “I feel it too.”
I snort.
“Um, Mister Raine,” American Flag Pasties says in a breathy Marilyn Monroe-esque voice. “Can we take your photograph for the Boujis Blog?”
“For the blog, you say?”
American Flag Pasties giggles again, and the tassels hanging from her nipples sway back and forth. British Flag Pasties flutters her glitter-encrusted false eyelashes.
“Well then,” Bishop says, leaping to his feet, “of course you may take a snappy. Anything for art.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me up to stand beside him.
“You may steal my soul with your smartphone device, but only if Vivia Grant is also in the photo.”
British Flag Pasties flutters her bovine falsies at Bishop again, but I can tell she’s pissed. If there were a thought bubble hovering over her head right now, it would read, “Ohmygod, like, we only take snappies of, like, famous people.”
American Flag Pasties hands her smartphone to Poppy before positioning herself beside me, lips pursed duck-like, hand on hip, breasts thrust forward. British Flag Pasties drapes herself over Bishop.
“On three,” Poppy says, her voice barely carrying over the ear-throbbing electropop. “One…two…three…”
Poppy pushes the button and a bright flash of light momentarily blinds us. She hands the phone back to American Flag Pasties.
“Would you mind sending me a copy of that photo?” I ask American Flag Pasties.
“Absolutely,” she says, smiling. “Type your e-mail into my phone and I will send the photo to you right now.”
I take her phone and type [email protected] .
“Thanks.” I hand her phone back. “I really appreciate it.”
An electropop beat later, the Patriotic Pasties have melted into the crowd.
“We are living in a sequin-encrusted virtual prison,” Bishop says, sliding onto the booth beside me. “A sequin-encrusted prison where the economic elite hog along in plump luxury—destroying the planet as they go—and the destitute starve for sustenance of edification. We must
“Ooo, lookee here,” he squeals, black eyes flashing. “We have ourselves a rare and endangered beast: a jaded conservative.”
“Hardly!” I snort.
“You’re not a jaded conservative, then?”
“Jaded? A little. Conservative?” I tip more champagne into my flute, toss it back, and fix Mister Bishop Sexy Raine with my naughtiest expression. “Only out of the bedroom.”
He chuckles.
What the Jesus, Mary, and Gyrating Stripper am I doing? Am I really flirting with Kitty Kat’s ex-boyfriend?
Poppy arrives, glowing and breathless.
“Bishop, darling,” she says, pressing a kiss to his whiskered cheek. “How are you? Have you been introduced to my friend Vivia?”
Bishop’s lips turn up in a mischievous grin. “No, actually, not formally.”
“Bishop, this is my soon to be dear friend, Vivia Grant.” Poppy leans against the banquette, inadvertently giving the entire posse a peek down the front of her silky black jumper. “Vivia is from San Francisco.”
“So, Vivia from San Francisco, what are you doing on this side of the pond?” Bishop asks. “What brings you to Londontown? A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker?”
“Vivia is a magazine writer,” Poppy says. “A brilliant writer, in fact.”
“Really?” Bishop leans forward. “How splendid! Did you feel that palpable shift in the atmosphere? Vivia from San Francisco just elevated the IQ level of the room. Perhaps this evening won’t be an endless parade of vapid nitwits ensconced in ignorance and glitter.”
As if on cue, two beautiful blond barmaids wearing little more than British and American flag pasties on their nipples approach. The one wearing the American flag pasties holds a smartphone.
Bishop ignores them.
British Flag Pasties clears her throat. Bishop looks at the barmaids. The barmaids burst into piercing squeals.
“Yeah, I know.” Bishop fixes them with a toothy grin. “I feel it too.”
I snort.
“Um, Mister Raine,” American Flag Pasties says in a breathy Marilyn Monroe-esque voice. “Can we take your photograph for the Boujis Blog?”
“For the blog, you say?”
American Flag Pasties giggles again, and the tassels hanging from her nipples sway back and forth. British Flag Pasties flutters her glitter-encrusted false eyelashes.
“Well then,” Bishop says, leaping to his feet, “of course you may take a snappy. Anything for art.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me up to stand beside him.
“You may steal my soul with your smartphone device, but only if Vivia Grant is also in the photo.”
British Flag Pasties flutters her bovine falsies at Bishop again, but I can tell she’s pissed. If there were a thought bubble hovering over her head right now, it would read, “Ohmygod, like, we only take snappies of, like, famous people.”
American Flag Pasties hands her smartphone to Poppy before positioning herself beside me, lips pursed duck-like, hand on hip, breasts thrust forward. British Flag Pasties drapes herself over Bishop.
“On three,” Poppy says, her voice barely carrying over the ear-throbbing electropop. “One…two…three…”
Poppy pushes the button and a bright flash of light momentarily blinds us. She hands the phone back to American Flag Pasties.
“Would you mind sending me a copy of that photo?” I ask American Flag Pasties.
“Absolutely,” she says, smiling. “Type your e-mail into my phone and I will send the photo to you right now.”
I take her phone and type [email protected] .
“Thanks.” I hand her phone back. “I really appreciate it.”
An electropop beat later, the Patriotic Pasties have melted into the crowd.
“We are living in a sequin-encrusted virtual prison,” Bishop says, sliding onto the booth beside me. “A sequin-encrusted prison where the economic elite hog along in plump luxury—destroying the planet as they go—and the destitute starve for sustenance of edification. We must
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