Chapter 4
Late February. It was Cary's birthday. Once again Jack and I found ourselves dressed up for a party; this time it was in our Mountain Man re-enactment duds. Her husband had decided to throw her a big surprise party at one of the fancy restaurants in town. It was an old pioneer-era coach house that had been converted into a five-star fine-dining "experience." To our surprise, Jack and I had been invited to do some flashy knife-fighting demonstrations and a little axe-throwing. The other guests had been encouraged to dress up as well.
"Gotta admit," I grunted as I pulled on my buskins and double checked the laces on my jacket for the third time, "I wouldn't have expected her jackass husband to spring for this whole thing."
Jack nodded, looking around. "Yeah, it's weird. I think we're only here because we're free. Do you recognize any of these people?"
I shrugged. "Must be her friends. She has other friends than us, you know."
Jack shot me an exasperated look. "Duh. But none of these people were at her exhibition a few months ago."
The thought of the exhibition made me angry at her husband all over again. Almost as much as the recollection of Cary's slipped dress strap and torn pantyhose aroused me. To distract myself, I looked back and forth at the guests. They were all dressed in pretty awful Wild West costumes. Here and there I caught sight of somebody in a slightly less-terrible Davey Crockett getup, but
none
of them looked familiar. I didn't see Cary's friend Lori anywhere. "Yeah, you're right. I bet none of Cary's other friends would even give Eric the time of day."
One of the men sauntered towards us and tipped his ridiculous bright red costume ten-gallon hat. "Howdy, gents. Guess you're the entertainment."
"Sort of." I smiled and made a show of pulling out the stage-fighting Bowie knife I had brought. It was made of metal and would sting if it hit--it might even break fingers--but its edge was rounded. Jack and I were perfectly safe as long as we kept our cool. "We're friends of the birthday girl. Just doing a favor."
"But tips are appreciated," Jack added with a smirk. "College isn't going to be free."
We high-fived. The cowboy looked momentarily confused. "Oh, right. Birthday party. Eric's wife, right?"
Jack nodded. "Yeah. She's into early American and pioneer-era history. She does knife-fighting with us and our Mountain Man group."
"Sure, sure." The man was already losing interest. "I mean, obviously I've met her at company parties. Pretty gal--dressed as slutty Catwoman for Halloween. I guess I thought she was still trying to make that painting career work. She could model if she wanted to."
As he wandered away with a genial wave, I frowned. Cary would have been mortified that her husband's coworker remembered her as
slutty Catwoman
. "Did her husband just invite a bunch of
his
friends and coworkers to this party?"
Between setting up the straw targets for axe-throwing and getting into our historical clothing, I hadn't really had time to pay attention to the rest of the guests except in passing. Now that we had a moment to mingle, I realized that Jack was right--there wasn't a single person that I recognized from Cary's art gallery party. But they all looked like they would fit right in with a regional distribution office for a mid-sized retailer, which was where her husband worked.
"They're coming down the driveway!" somebody shouted. We all trundled into the foyer to hide behind various pieces of furniture. There were too many of us to be hidden, but at least Cary wouldn't see a bunch of us all milling around out front. I glanced around with mild interest at the rest of the attendees' costumes; the men's array of cowboy and pioneer garb were pretty unremarkable. To judge by the women's getups however, every costume store in the area was sold out of its "sexy cowgirl" and "bordello barmaid" sets. A smaller handful of the women were wearing what could be best described as Old West prostitute outfits, with incongruous gold anklets.
The crunch of gravel beneath car tires announced the arrival of Cary and her husband. We could hear car doors closing and hesitant shuffling footsteps. Cary's voice carried uncertainly through the air. "This way? Don't let go." She sounded both excited and suspicious.
As their silhouettes filled the doorway, I could see why she said that. She was wearing a blindfold and her husband was leading her with his hands on her hips. Of course, it was the rest of what she was wearing that caught my attention. A flouncy maroon dress that looked like it belonged on a saloon girl doing can-can dances clung to and accentuated every curve. The bodice of her dress squeezed her breasts together and up with a notched open V loosely laced between them halfway down to her belly button. A glittering golden-and-crystal necklace wobbled on top of them with her every tentative step. She was wearing a feathery headdress, black silk stockings held up with garters, a ruffled skirt not quite to her knees and split on each side all the way up to her hips, and a golden anklet. Decidedly modern high heels hampered her every step in the gravel. She was blushing faintly.
"What the hell did he put her in?" Jack whispered, annoyed.
I couldn't answer. I was pretty sure that if I stood up, I'd impale the lady squatting in front of me. How on Earth could Jack be immune to how hot Cary looked? It seemed like more than half of the men there were fucking her with their eyes as she stumbled unwittingly into their midst.
As they crossed the threshold, her husband pulled the blindfold off. "Surprise!" we all shouted, springing from our hiding places. Cary stood in mute shock for a moment, and her blush deepened. A smile worked its way uncertainly onto her face, but as soon as she caught sight of me and Jack, it settled firmly there. I could tell by the way her eyes scanned the group that she didn't recognize a lot of people, either.
Then as she scanned, her eyes widened and a stricken expression shot across her features. It was only there for a moment, but it looked like somebody had just told her that her kids had been hit by a bus. It was a look of anxiety, panic, and betrayal. As soon as it had come, it was gone, replaced by a pleasantly neutral expression. I frowned. Where
were
her kids? Surely her husband hadn't thrown a surprise party for her and then left her children somewhere else?
"Happy birthday, babe," her husband said. He looked very pleased with himself.
"Wow," she answered, her tone falsely bright. "This must be
everyone
from your office!"
For the next half hour, I found myself distracted enough by Cary's barely-concealed bouncing boobs in the dress that when it was time for Jack and I to do a demonstration fight I almost got a finger broken by missing a backhand parry. Cary gasped audibly as I hissed and switched the knife to my left hand. I got a chance to pull off the hat-blinding-and-kick move from the practice that Jack had missed while screwing Jenna. A few of the other spectators cheered, booed, and got theatrically into the moment as if they were at an old-timey melodrama.
Cary came to hang out with us as we set up the axe-throwing targets. Once in a while, she would shoot a glance towards one of the women in the group, and then back towards her husband. The woman was dressed in a costume fairly similar to Cary's, although even more revealing--as if somebody had told the costume designer "saloon girl but only use half the fabric, and put more sequins on it." I noticed that she had a little gold anklet as well. I would have bet my entire meager savings that Eric had chosen the dress code so he could ogle all the women. In this case, I almost didn't blame him, since it meant I got an eyeful of Cary every time I turned around.
The other woman and Cary were standing far apart, and I didn't understand what Cary was looking at. After a bit, we had the straw bales backed by plywood tied together. Folks started lining up to take a shot at the target with one of our tomahawks. A procession of middle-aged office workers in Old West costumes gamely hurled our axes at the target with widely-varying results. One guy even managed to get the axe stuck handle-first into the straw bales, blade protruding out towards the direction from which it had been thrown.
The woman that Cary kept sneaking glances towards took a shot and bounced the throwing axe off the straw, halfway back towards us. A couple of people ducked needlessly, and everybody laughed. "Better luck next time!" called Cary's husband, clapping encouragingly. Cary looked furious. Wordless, she retrieved the axe and hurled it at the target, burying it expertly square in the center. One of her boobs nearly popped out of her sequined satiny dress as she did so, and I found myself trying not to stare so obviously. The guests all cheered as she strode away purposefully into the restaurant.
"What was that all about?" Jack murmured.
"Starting to get the idea that Cary doesn't like that lady," I answered, gesturing vaguely in her direction so as to not make it too obvious. Jack turned and looked directly at her. The lady in the skimpy costume caught his glance and leaned forward, blowing him a melodramatic kiss. "Whoever she is, she's lucky Cary didn't throw that thing at
her
, from the expressions I've been seeing. That was a skull-splitter throw."
"Classic Cary," Jack smirked. "Zero or sixty, and no in-between."
"It's what makes her cool," I responded, before waving another contestant over to take a shot at the much-abused straw bales.
Dinner wasn't bad, although it wasn't great either; I began to think that maybe Cary's husband had gotten a good deal on this package. It certainly wasn't five-star worthy. A small band led by a decent but not fantastic harmonica player had gathered in the corner and started to play some passable saloon-style tunes. I found myself tapping my foot a little even as I noticed every sour note and thought that my bluegrass band could have done a better job of it. Ty and Randy wouldn't have fumbled the opening to
Old Chisholm Trail
.
It was about that time that I also noticed a few of the guys paying Cary special attention--more than even her dress and stripper-heels could explain. One or two of them always seemed to be in her vicinity, and looking for excuses to touch her shoulder or leg. She kept smiling, but it was a frozen, dismissive sort of smile as she flicked their hands away or shrugged away from their touch. Even across the room, I could tell she was sort of uncomfortable, but they seemed immune to picking up on even the most obvious cues. Jack and I wandered over towards her, and one of the older attendees in snakeskin boots blocked our way.
"Sorry boys, this game is for the adults," he drawled drunkenly. He looked like he was leering.
I smiled, feeling mildly creeped out. "Then we're both in. Personal friends of the birthday girl. Excuse us." We half-pushed our way through. Another guy--I thought it was the one who had asked about my knife earlier in the evening--looked sourly at us. "Hey, you've got plenty of girls your own age back at school. Why don't you bug off?"
Jack gave the guy a "what the hell?" look, and we moved over to Cary.
