Strip Search (Tap That)

“You have to bring it,” Sadie Spencer barked to Leighton Van Buren on the phone. “I need you to be on, do you understand me? On.”

Leighton stood outside a bar named Tap That and took a deep breath, nodding. “Bring it. Right. Got it.” Her stomach hurt because she really kind of sucked at bringing it. She could hear her mother yelling, “Sparkle, baby!” as she shoved her onto the stage at beauty pageants. That terror of having no clue at five years old how to sparkle.

She still didn’t know how to sparkle. She wasn’t even sure what it meant, exactly.

She could organize your spreadsheets.

Be on time.

Create an elaborate party theme.

Corral a pack of barking Chihuahuas.

All of which she had done, and excelled at, as her boss Sadie’s Creative Director for the hit bridal show, Wedding Crashers.

“I’m trusting you, Leighton. I really, desperately feel like you need to push yourself. I know you’re nervous, but you can do this. Our recent footage has just been dull and I have the producer on my ass. I need you to whip this bride up and get some outrageous footage before I get to wherever we’re going next week.”

“Beaver Bend, Minnesota,” Leighton said, her palms starting to sweat as she stood on the sidewalk outside of a classic bar. Like a roadhouse bar. A dive bar. Nothing like what she was used to in Los Angeles. There were no bouncers or doormen or lines to get in the club. Not that she ever went to clubs at home, but she saw them. Here the Tap That sign was fluorescent, glowing in the darkness of a Minnesota summer night. The parking lot was crowded with trucks and motorcycles and what seemed odd to her, minivans. She was expecting a biker gang to burst out at any moment or maybe a Patrick Swayze lookalike to strut out and call her “little lady.”

“Oh, that’s right, Minnesota. God, why do they send us to these places?” Sadie asked with a groan.

“Everyone loves a small town, Sadie. It’s

good TV. Most of America is not LA and New York City and people want something relatable. I should go meet up with the bride though. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Fun, Leighton. Give good face, seriously, or we’re going to have to talk about your future at Wedding Crashers.”

Wait. What? She was going to be fired? Oh, my God. Leighton didn’t even know what she said as she mumbled her way through a goodbye. She could not lose this job. She couldn’t. Like, she really couldn’t. She had signed a non-compete contract so no one else in LA would hire her in the industry. Which was her only skill set, unfortunately.

On a day-to-day basis she loved this job. Florals and lace and organization made her happy. Her parents were already disappointed in her and if she got fired from the job they had gotten her an interview for, she had no idea what she would do with her life. She was the two things that did not fly in LA—introverted and not a size zero. Not even close. It had been an annoyance her whole life, which was frustrating because she happened to like herself. She was smart, she was thoughtful, she was creative. And she was short and curvy and all one hundred percent natural because she was content with the way she looked.

Her mother and Sadie might beg to differ, but Leighton felt no need to change who she was.

Besides, she was good at this damn position. She was. Why did she have to “bring it?” Which she thought was code for being a person who talked a lot at a high volume. That was Sadie’s job. Her responsibility was to do everything else. And side note, she didn’t do the casting for these segments. If the bride wasn’t excited enough, she wasn’t sure how that was her fault, but whatever. There was no use arguing with an egomaniac of a boss.

Dropping her phone into her clutch, she rubbed her palms down the front of her peach cocktail dress. She was fairly certain she had dressed wrong for this venue. Appropriate dress was always her goal and she might have missed the mark this time. But it was the bride-to-be’s bachelorette party and she had envisioned dinner and cocktails. That’s what the bride had said. Dinner and cocktails.

More like beer and cock.

That was the horrified thought that entered Leighton’s mind when she yanked open the heavy wood door and stepped into a crowd of women clapping and cheering for male strippers. She actually heard herself gasp before she quickly pressed her lips together.

Oh, no. This was not her arena. She was Sunday brunches and botanical gardens. Quiet events, where she could fade into the flowers and pretend she didn’t have social anxiety. Not loud raucous bars with beer and…booty.

“Holy…” She swallowed hard as she studied the four men on stage in various state of undress, hip thrusting and dancing and winking.

She was used to buff men in LA. They were everywhere, wearing plunging V-necks and golden tans. But they were polished, high-maintenance, attention seeking. These guys were manly men. Manly, like they legitimately strolled in from their day job and started stripping. They looked real and like they were having a blast, not making a buck.

One was a hockey player. Another was wearing a suit. The third was in a mechanic’s work uniform and tool belt.

Then there was the cop.

Leighton swallowed hard as she took in the sight of him. Black pants, shiny black shoes. No shirt, displaying a muscular chest, with a faint farmer’s tan. A tan from the sun, not the salon. Handcuffs swirling around his finger, mirrored sunglasses covering his eyes. He had black short hair, tidy and trim. But it was his expression that really did her in. He did not look suave or charming or amused.

He looked like the kind of man who would pick a woman up, throw her against a wall, and make her scream with pleasure.

How she knew that, she had no idea. She’d never been thrown against a wall in her life.

Flustered, Leighton fanned herself and tore her gaze away from the strippers. She needed to find the bride and “bring it,” not get a tingle in her vagingle for a total stranger in Beaver Bend. Ironic name, that was. Her beaver would bend over backwards for that cop. There were groups of women of all ages, and a few men. The bartender was shaking his head as he watched the act on stage, like he found the whole thing ridiculous.