Cat Scratch Cleaver

of a first responder.
Georgie, Juni, Macy, and I all pause outside the mirrored doors and inspect ourselves from head to foot before heading on in. The night air is so humid you’d think it was blowing straight off a boiling pot of water. The music from inside vibrates the walls outside of the establishment, and if I’m not mistaken, the smoke from a funny cigarette is lighting up our senses.
“Them silver foxes better be worth it,” Juni grunts as she tugs down the pleather, ultra-tight-fitted mini skirt that looks as if it’s cutting off her blood supply.
“They will be.” Macy blows her reflection a kiss before giving her blonde bob a quick flick. She’s opted for a red wrap dress that ties off to the side and matching heels that add a stratospheric lift of about six inches to her height.
Juni starts in on an odd little dance, trying to get comfortable in her own clothes, and Macy smirks her way.
“How on earth did you get that rubber band you call a skirt up onto your hips?” My sister has never been one to mince words.
Juni snorts. “The same way every other American girl gets her pleather on—with bacon grease.”
Georgie tips her head back and howls at the full moon for seemingly no good reason.
“Georgie, what are you doing?” I squint her way as the sequins on her navy kaftan reflect pink and yellow as the lights from the entry to the club strobe over us.
“I’m resetting my energy fields.” Georgie flips her hair upside down before straightening and repeating the dizzying motion three more times like a woman possessed. She turns toward the street and lets out one riotous roar that sends cars and people alike screeching to a stop.
Macy gives her a tug on the sleeve. “Would you knock it off? You’ll have us arrested before we ever get inside, and I’m dying to see the caliber of silver foxes this place is housing.”
“That’s right.” Juni whips out her lipstick and gives her mouth another ring of Riot Red. “This place is crawling with wealthy retirees just looking for some arm candy to cruise the Mediterranean with. How’d you think I found my last husband?” She gives her reflection a cheeky wink. “Of course, I’m not talking about your daddy.”
Macy and I exchange a glance. It’s so easy to forget that Juni was once our stepmother, brief as that union might have been.
Juni shakes her head. “No offense, but he turned out to be a dud. No yacht, no limo, no mansion, equals no Juni. Don’t get me wrong. That boy has all the right equipment he needs on his person, and believe me when I say he knows how to use it.”
Macy and I gag and retch in unison.
“All right, Juni.” Georgie pulls her close. “Remember, two drinks is all you get. Any more than that, and you can’t count the zeros in their bank accounts.”
Juni gives a sober nod. “And that’s how I came to live with Sal. That man fed me nothing but ramen and boxes of Captain Crunch cereal for six months straight.”
Macy shakes her head. “Hey. What’s wrong with that?”
I shrug over at them. “That happens to be the strict dietary regimen Macy has adhered to since she was eleven.”
We head inside the club, where the sound of Dean Martin blares at deafening decibels and the faint scent of a medicinal form of menthol permeates the air.
It’s dim inside, save for the pink spotlights giving everyone an unearthly rosy glow, and each table set out around the periphery of the room has a trio of candles flickering on it.
Georgie grasps me by the arm. “So what do you girls think?”
Macy shrugs. “The lighting is flattering if you’re going for that I’m-healthy-enough-to-see-another-decade look.”
Juni nods. “And the candles give it that let’s-talk-to-our-dead-loved-ones look.”
Georgie waves her off. “Everything is done in threes—for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. They’ve got a priest, pastor, and a rabbi stationed at the bar in the event we run into a spiritual emergency. In fact, Darby had me paint the logo to this place right above entry.”
We turn, and sure enough, in bright blue letters it reads when you’re here, you’re right next door to heaven!
I’ll admit, there’s something endearing about it, but then there’s something equally off-putting about it as well.
I turn to Georgie. “So how many casualties is the place up to so far?”
Macy leans in. “They’re obviously not meeting their quota if they invited you.”
“Casualties smasualties.” Georgie sways to the music. “Let’s get these hips moving until we fall and we can’t get up.”
A man in a bright blue Hawaiian shirt dotted with pineapples shuffles his way over, jabbing his thumbs every which way and tossing his feet around so erratically I’d say they could be classified as deadly weapons.
“Guess who showed?” Darby plants a wet one right on Georgie’s kisser. “Bates Barlow is here sweatin’ to the oldies with the best of them.”
Juni cranes her neck toward the dance floor. “That would explain the steady influx of young, hot cuties. I’d better go throw my skirt into the ring if I want to end the night on my back. Sorry, girls, but duty calls. I’ll see you on the flip side.” She snaps her fingers over her head as she trots on over like a woman on a man-eating mission.
Macy cinches her dress tight and fluffs out her hair at the temples.
“Sorry, Juni. Bates Barlow is coming home with me tonight. If anyone’s bedroom is equipped to have that much star power in it, it’s mine. I’ve got a taser, an assortment of bungee cords, and a pair of sterling silver handcuffs Santa himself tied me to my bedpost with last Christmas.”
“Macy”—my chin dips a notch—“it sounds as if you’re ready to stage a hostage situation.”
She shrugs. “You say inmate, I say playmate. Potato, poh-ta-to. I’ll eat ’em up either way.” She slinks off into the crowd, body jousting her way through the throngs