I’m struggling to count their items from afar when Jane lets out an appreciative, “Oh, my.” I smile, assuming he’s caught a glimpse of my quarry, but it’s the blond Jane’s spotted. “Is that the one you were talking about?” he whispers.

“No, he’s the friend. Super cute, though.” Jane has always had a thing for the Scandinavian types, and the strapping blond is giving off a distinct Valhalla vibe.

“Hmm . . .”

I do a double take. I know that tone. That’s Jane’s “I probably shouldn’t . . . but” tone. It’s the sound of an indulgence being weighed, the one I get when I suggest we spring for takeout or buy the “nice” toilet paper. But Jane doesn’t indulge where boys are concerned. It’s self-preservation for him, too, but more a life choice than my Meryton-specific policy.

“I’ll feel him out at the break, if you’d like,” I offer.

Jane bats his lashes, feigning innocence. “Well, you’ll already be out here . . .”

I give him a playful bump of my shoulder and we watch the girls wrap up. The descent’s been choreographed to display their coordinating tattoos: a juniper bush along Ginn’s right side, and a fever tree adorning Tonic’s left. The ink work provides more coverage than the pasties and G-strings they’ve stripped down to, their lithe dancer’s bodies a testament to the hours they spend on the silks.

If only they’d pay as much attention to their peels, I think, noting a bra between a pair of wineglasses on a two-top. The couple doesn’t seem to mind the intrusion, however, and when I pick up the bra on my way off the stage, the husband is composing a photo of the arrangement. He beckons for me to get into the frame, and my fishnet-clad legs make a clever backdrop.

At the stairs, I pause to listen to the first few verses of Jane’s performance of “Corvette.” It’s a guaranteed crowd pleaser, and while it doesn’t do his talent justice, he’s putting a little extra energy into it. I wonder if it’s for Mr. Valhalla. A quick glance to his table shows me the blond in profile—he’s smiling as he watches Jane, which is good, but his head is blocking my view of his friend again, which I don’t appreciate.

I tote the Twins’ items downstairs and slip on the garter belt with the little bag I use for change, then grab my tray of goodies. When I return to the main floor, I approach the naughty-themed bachelorette party. “Ladies, may I interest you in some pasties? Handmade by the incomparable Ming DyNasty.” I hold up a sampling of pasties, the sequined and rhinestoned disks used to conceal nipples, and then the tasseled versions, which allow for more creative feats of boobery.