THE FIXER

Kayla smiles. “I am.” She tosses an arm around my shoulder. “We were in theatre together all four years. And we met these two doing promotions our junior year.” She indicates Sheri and Ashley. “We all lived together senior year. And this one is our replacement-Sasha.” She lifts her chin at Kimberly. “She’s our new roommate and also works for the promotion company.”

“There’s no replacing Sasha,” I say, spilling a few drops of my champagne as I hold my arms up for them to admire my figure. “No offense, of course.” I wink at Kimberly, even though I’m certain she knows I’m kidding.

“What promotions?” Maxim looks puzzled.Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

“We dressed up in skimpy costumes to promote new products at launches.” I shrug. “Like for new alcohol or energy drinks or meal replacement bars. It paid cash and was good fun.”

“I’ll bet you had fun.” This time I’m sure I detect indulgence in Maxim’s gaze. “A round of shots?”

Why is he being so nice to me?

It puts me on edge, waiting for the hammer to drop.

“Hell, yes!” my friends shout, and Maxim lifts another hundred dollar bill in the air to get us instant service.

“Six shots of Cazador tequila. With salt and lime.”

“Tequila!” my friends cheer. Their happiness is infectious. It makes me relax and forget my anxieties over Maxim.

It costs more than the hundred dollar bill, and he pulls out his wallet for another. While he’s talking to the cocktail waitress, Ashley mouths the words, he’s hot.

I steal a glance, irrationally proud that my friends think so.

He is hot. He’s in a crisp designer button-down, open at the collar, looking California-perfect. Like he’d known he’d be coming to a posh nightclub. But this is how he always dresses-at least in the week since we’ve been married.

“I like him,” Kayla says out loud, leaning forward over the bar conspiratorially.

“I like him for you,” Sheri concurs, pointing at me. She waggles her brows. “Make him work. I’ll bet he’s good.”

Maxim’s attention returns, and my friends all grin mischievously. He takes it all in with a smirk. “I’ll bet you ladies get into all kinds of trouble.” His gaze slides sideways, and he suddenly tugs my hand. “Come on, a table opened up.”

We launch into action to claim a perfect circular booth like the one we had before. Another group tries to move in at the same time but Maxim turns to face them, blocking them with his body.

“No way, buddy.” One of the guys in their group starts to give him shit. “We’ve been waiting for this table.”

I loop my arm through his and speak to the guy. “Don’t fuck with the Russian,” I say, letting my accent come out thickly. “He will clean the floor with you.”

Maxim doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just stares at the guy with an intensity that could cut glass.

“Come on.” The women with the would-be hero tug him away.

I slide into the booth with my friends, and Maxim takes the end seat, our protector.

“You do love drama, don’t you, caxapok?” He appears unruffled.

The criticism hits a little too close to home-it was what my father always accused me of-needing attention. Being a drama queen. “What?”

“Nothing. Just know when you get involved like that, you double the chances of me hurting someone.”

“How’s that?”

My friends are listening, and I get uneasy, thinking this might not be something I should air in front of them.

Maxim appears amused, though. He gives an easy shrug. “Because if they say something disrespectful to you, I have to kill them.”

My friends ooh over his comment. I guess it is sort of swoon-worthy. Especially if you don’t know he probably means literally kill.

I’m saved from responding by the arrival of our cocktail waitress-or I should say his because she is definitely all about him.

She sets a shot glass of tequila in front of each of us, along with a small plate of lime wedges and the salt shaker.

Maxim reaches for the salt shaker, beating me to it. “Body shots. I pick the location.”

I blink at him. I know what body shots are. I’ve done them before with stupid college boys. But never with the hot, virile man beside me. The guy I’m married to. The man my friends and the liquor I’ve already consumed has lowered my inhibitions with.

I hesitate, waiting to see where he’ll put the salt, but he chooses an innocuous place-the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. He licks it and sprinkles on the salt, then holds the lime in his teeth.

All the while, my friends watch, waiting to do their shots for the entertainment at hand to unfold.

He brings his hand to my lips. I lick, pound my shot and bite into the lime between his lips as my friends whoop and holler.

“Are you sharing, girl? Because I might want to lick some of that, too,” Kimberly says with a wink.

I know she’s kidding-probably swaying it to nudge me into having sex with Maxim, but I can’t deny the smack of jealousy that hits me square in the chest. It’s that, along with my newly-recognized exhibitionism, that makes me grab a lime and the salt shaker. “Come and get it, big boy.” I rub the lime across the top of one of my breasts where the skin shows above the dress, then sprinkle salt on top. I shoot him a do-you-dare? look, even though I have zero doubt he does, indeed, dare.

Yes, he makes a total show out of it, and I’m the center of attention-exactly the way I like it. He moves in slowly and drags his tongue across the salt. Then he swipes again, and a third time, before dipping his tongue below the top of my dress and teasing my nipple.

“Mmm.” He comes up and holds my gaze while he downs the tequila. He doesn’t suck the lime in my teeth. Instead, he kisses the fuck out of my mouth, twisting and torquing the lime between our lips while holding the back of my head captive.