Regina
“Alright!” I slammed my purse down on the table and glared at my friends. “Which one of you bitches told Jeff about my OBGYN appointment?”
Belatedly, I realized there was an extra person at our booth. The ballet-dancer-turned-stripper was sitting there, wearing a pair of snakeskin-print pants with a matching vest, and nothing else. He gave me a big smile and extended his hand. “Hi. We haven’t officially met. I’m Floyd. I hope you don’t mind that I crashed your clique.”
Feeling a bit flustered, I shook his hand. His fingers were long and delicate, yet strong at the same time. “So,” he leaned forward, “Are you preggers?”
“Oh my god,” I groaned, shaking my hand loose from his and moving around to the other end of the semicircular booth. I used my hip to shove Grace over.
