What the Heart Thinks

Chapter 1 With half a dozen paper leis around his neck, Katy Perry blasting from the speakers, and enough estrogen in the tiny apartment to keep the Golden Girls out of menopause until well into their nineties, Joe Salinas decided only one thing could make this night even more of a disaster. “Stripper’s here!” That was it. At least four girls rushed to the door, leaving him alone in the kitchen with Stacy, his best friend and the bride’s maid of honor. She was also the only reason he had agreed to come at all, though she’d couched it under the pretense of helping her decorate and set up the stereo equipment. Joe should’ve been done and out the door before the first guest arrived, but there was no way he could let the crap she called her speakers be the center of their musical world for the night. Bachelorette parties were supposed to be memorable, and he actually liked the bride, so he’d made a quick run over to his place to pick up his gear to use instead. Unfortunately, that meant he was still in the apartment when the guests started arriving, at which point nobody would let him leave. “You’re practically one of us,” came from one of the other bridesmaids. “Just with a p***s,” someone with the most unfortunate orange streaks he’d ever seen chimed in. “It’s a party,” the bride had said, hooking her arm through his. “Everybody loves a party.” Everybody, that was, but Joe. He didn’t know half these women, though that didn’t seem to stop any of them from seeking him out to pick his brain about men. “Do I look like I’m a boy magnet?” he wanted to snap. But of course, he didn’t, because that would mean speaking his mind and he only ever did that to Stacy and when he was on the air. Stacy looked at him in sympathy. “You can hide in here while the stripper’s on,” she said. “Nobody will even notice you’re not around.” Joe winced. “Thanks.” “You know what I mean.” A burst of laughter came from the living room, prompting Stacy to twist and peer out. Her button nose wrinkled. “Oh, my God.” “What is it?” Joe asked. “You don’t want to know.” She was right, but she also wasn’t looking away. Curiosity got the better of Joe and he edged closer to peer around Stacy’s shoulder. “Oh, my God,” he muttered. Amidst fifteen giggling women stood a man in buckskins and a coon skin cap, with a plastic rifle thrown over his shoulder and the biggest, most beautiful Colgate smile Joe had ever seen outside of a dental commercial. Blue eyes, dimples, and a fall of blond curls slipping from beneath his hat to flop across his forehead completed the package. His clothes were too baggy to tell, but the body was probably perfect, too. He was a stripper, wasn’t he? That was practically a job requirement. “Not that I don’t appreciate such a hearty welcome,” Mr. Perfect said. “But I can’t get the party started for real until I talk to someone named Stacy.” More than one helpful wannabe turned and pointed toward the kitchen. Joe ducked out of sight before he was spotted, retreating to the farthest corner as he prayed fervently for a hole to open up in the floor so he could disappear for real. Stacy shot him one last apologetic glance, but as she started to step out to intercept the stripper, he showed up and blocked the doorway. “Hi,” he said. “A whole bunch of little birdies say you’re Stacy.” “That’s me. You’re the guy from That’s Strippertainment?” “Yep.” He touched his finger to his cap, the very model of politeness. “They call me Davy Cockett, ma’am.” Joe barked in amused disbelief, then quickly covered his mouth and ducked his head to stifle the sound. “Cute,” Stacy commented. “What do you need from me to get the show going?” “Some way to play my music. You got someplace I can dock this that’ll give me some decent sound? I like for everyone to be able to feel the beat, if you know what I mean.” Could this guy get any cheesier? At least Joe would have plenty to talk about tonight—wait, King of the Wild Frontier here was looking for a sound system. That meant only one thing. “You need our resident genius, then.” Joe looked up in time to come face-to-face with the model of his future mockery. Right now, though, he had to settle for his cheeks erupting in embarrassment. “That you, dude?” The stripper held out an iPhone in a woodgrain case. “Just plug me in, and I’ll be good to go.” Joe plucked the phone from his fingers before the heady scent of his cologne—no wonder the girls were going crazy when he walked in, he smelled as mouthwatering as he looked—reduced Joe to a walking hard-on. “Sure thing. Give me five minutes.” As he brushed past the stripper, grateful at least that he would be in the outer room and could make a better getaway, he heard a distinct, “Holy shit.” That didn’t stop him. Neither did the second set of expletives. It was the, “You’re Joe Salinas,” that did the trick. Joe swiveled around and stared at the stripper. The Colgate smile was gone, the square jaw slack, blue eyes now wide with amazement. “I’m sorry,” Joe said. “Do I know you?” It took a moment for his question to sink in. The stripper blinked once, then shook his head as if coming out of a stupor. “s**t, no. I listen to your show. Every night. Well, almost every night. When I can’t listen to you live, I stream it the next day. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” His earlier embarrassment changed hues, from being seen to being recognized. That never happened. First of all, his midnight radio program broadcast out of one of the smallest stations in Chicago, one specifically aimed at the gay community. Second, the music he played wasn’t the bubblegum crap that inundated the charts. He focused on local bands looking for airtime, anybody with a fresh voice or a message to be heard. Third, he never talked to anyone he didn’t know if he could help it. When he wasn’t at the radio station, he was usually buried in research and classes for his doctorate in bioethics from Loyola. Besides, he had a tendency to blend in most of the time. Where the stripper would’ve stepped into the Bradley Cooper role of The Hangover, Joe more closely resembled the funny, furry guy. Except taller. And a little less hairy. And only amusing when he was hiding behind a microphone. The stripper took his continued silence as permission to keep talking. “Of course, you’re the resident genius here. You’re, like, the smartest guy I’ve ever heard. What’re you doing at a bachelorette party?” “I’ve been asking myself that all night,” Joe said dryly. The stripper laughed. “I guess it doesn’t matter if it means I got the chance to meet you. I mean, seriously, dude, you have no idea what a treat this is.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Fess Kedley, by the way.” He took the guy’s offering, but his brain had tripped over the introduction. “Fess? Is that another stage name?” “Nah, that’s having a mom with an unhealthy obsession.” With a grin, he tugged at the tail on his cap. “But it did help coming up with a gimmick.” Joe’s sweaty palm reminded him of his mission. He didn’t need to short out the guy’s phone on top of looking like a fool because he felt like a yeti standing next to him. And he wasn’t even the one wearing all the fur. “I better get this set up for you,” he said, backing up toward the door. “Are you going to watch the show?” In that moment, the very last thing he should’ve done was looked at Fess’s crotch and thought about the striptease to come. It was rude, out of place, and completely not his style. It was also impossible to stop the impulse. Because in spite of everything else, Fess was still the model of male beauty, buckskins or not. Without a word, he whirled on his heel and bolted for the stereo equipment in the corner. He hadn’t been blushing before. That had been nothing compared to the inferno currently scorching his cheeks. As soon as the music started, he was out the door, ignoring Stacy’s frown, the tilt of Fess’s head as his gaze followed him out, and his own loathing for his personal cowardice.