BCTS Publishers, Writers, Readers Party

BCTS Publishers, Writers, Readers Party

by Barbie Leeno copyright enjoy

The invitation I picked up in the mailbox kind of surprised me. It was an announcement from BCTS to attend a party the owners and staff decided to give for all those who surfed and or gathered on BCTS. The party was RSVP, the cover charge was a hundred dollars. The event was in Vegas in thirty days. Looking at my smartphone, opening up the calendar that date was open for me, I could make that. Reading on further down the notice it was a ‘come as you wish’ party. That was pretty explanatory, I didn’t need any brain power to figure that one out. It would give the girls and guys a chance to shine all on their own without any uncomplimentary comments.

The only problems I could foresee were some of those girls were drop dead gorgeous and could outshine me on their sloppiest days off. I started counting on my fingers who may or may not be there? Bru was in Czechoslovakia the last I heard from her when I asked to borrow her blue gown she wore to the Queen’s Ball. Not England’s queen, Sweden’s queen. Or was it the Russian Princess? Or…, never mind it was someone’s ball. Obviously another undercover job for one government or another. Damn girl was a double, double, triple, foreign agent for half a dozen different governments. The only thing keeping her alive was she could disguise herself as a hundred different people in a heartbeat. It was doubtful she remembered who she really was? Anyway she informed me she gave that gown to a charity of some kind. I think it was Broken Hearts, Wounded Lovers, Hearts Healed Charity or something like that. That leaves her out of the BCTS party. Thank God!

Humm, Jill, was headed to a business meeting in Taiwan to close in on a multi billion dollar contract with some company making air cars or some such. This is what she told me when I called her asking to borrow the blue gown she wore to the President’s Inauguration Party. She said it had acquired a non removable stain when red wine was spilled on it. Right! Well thank God she is going to be out of the country so she won’t be at the party. She’s going to lose her ass on that pie in the sky pipe dream some shyster sold her. Flying cars indeedie, hah, she’s been watching too many George Jetson cartoons and it fried her brain.

Number three, Daphne, oh yes another best girlfriend the lovely Daphne. When I called asking to borrow her gorgeous, sequined, turquoise gown she wore to the Texas Governor’s Oil Field Appreciation Day’s party, she claimed it had got lost between the party in Texas and her trip back home. She was headed to New York to Fashion Week and then California to Designer’s Spring Showing. From there she was headed to Paris and Affairs of Heart fashion show, then to Milan. She would end up in Monaco at the Fashion Splash Week.

The girl has designer gowns strung around her business, her home, and in storage worth millions and she wouldn’t loan me one? I’m questioning this girlfriend thing?

Who else? Nuuan of course, such a sweet lovely girl. It was her black dress she wore to the CMA I asked to borrow. Damn that girl looked hot. If that dress only did half that for me I’d be tickled pink. She’s on a six month tour with the Cowboy’s Dreams group, country western band. All them girls are pure country charm in looks and talent. Nuuan said that dress was back home and she was in Nashville at the time or she would loan it to me. Un huh, Surely she isn’t still pissed at me for selling her and Jill ocean front property in Oklahoma? I thought it was funny and I really didn’t get that much money from either one of them. Her and the Dreams are headed to Berlin next and then tour Europe for two months.

All the ones I knew personally who would look better than me were going to be gone and not be able to make the party. I decided I’d make the reservations. Erin would be there of course as one of the owners. She could look a lot better than me. If she was working up to and then making sure the party was on track she would look like ninety miles of bad road and a working girl. There was Piper, a real sweety, but she lived on the other side of the country and she too was a working girl. She’d probably stay home and make sure things kept running on her end. I could count her out, thank goodness. She was a real cutie whether she was in jeans and tee or all dolled up. One of those kind of girls who looked hot no matter what she was wearing.

The rest of the BCTS team I hadn’t met. I was sure with being able to count two of them out as, either not there or hotter than me, the percentages were really good the others wouldn’t be a problem looking better than me. This was going to be such a fun party! I’d show them what a real girl looked like when she’s painted up and ready to party. My gowns might not be up to snuff like those who aren’t going to be able to make it. But then again, they weren’t coming. Just call me Queen of the Party and give me my crown now. I mailed in my hundred dollar check. You bet your booties I was going!

Arriving in Vega a couple days ahead of the party, I made the casinos loosing some but not much. My main purpose was to be there and check out the competition before the party. The strange thing was, I didn’t recognize any publishers, writers, or anyone who might be the kind of person who would write or would read the kind of stories on BCTS. There were a lot of beautiful women and handsome men but the other kind wasn’t there. Maybe they planned on showing up for the party and leaving again? The day before the party new faces were checking into the Sahara. Still all good looking men and women of all ages. I was right. Everyone was going to show up for the party and then leave.

That evening I saw Erin in the dinning room with Piper. Erin didn’t look tasseled and Piper was…, both girls looked hot, hot. Damn! Those other women at the table couldn’t be BCTS staff or owners too could they? God I hope not. Get a grip Barb, only a couple beautiful women and you’re still in the running even if you are in third place now. Provided those other women aren’t going to the party.

Lunch was no longer looking that good. I made it to the bar and woke up in my room the next morning. Someone had steered me to my room after? I didn’t remember. What I do remember is I don’t drink. Okay, I never drank before. That one time in college doesn’t count. That was to get rid of the flu. Really.

Rolling off the bed where I had been face planted, I struggled to the bathroom, managed to shed my dress, nylons, panties, bra, and slip into the shower without bothering to look for a shower cap. The appointment at the Girls R Us beauty salon that afternoon before the party would take care of my hair. Fifteen minutes or an hour later, who’s keeping time, letting the water pulse down on me, I felt I might live. A note to myself, no more drinking anything with alcohol in it. Alcohol and me do not play well together. This was the second time in my life I learned that lesson. Which finally got me to wondering who the hell brought me to my room?

Finally dried off enough to face the next step and look in the mirror. Wish I hadn’t. I was looking at road kill. If that beauty salon didn’t have madges working there I was going to be toast going to that party this evening. Blood shot eyeballs, bags and dark circles under both eyes, a worn out non removable expression on my face where I would swear I had been working livestock for a week. Maybe thinking I looked like road kill was being kind? I was positive death didn’t look this bad. The beauty saloon was gong to be a make or break situation for me. I could always skip the party and go home if they didn’t have someone with a magic wand working there. Who put me to bed? That bothered me.

By the time noon rolled around I was looking a whole lot better. Makeup can hide a lot. Now I only looked like death warmed over. The appointment was at three with the beauty saloon. Jeans, blouse, big cowboy buckle, cowgirl boots, hat…, a lot can be hidden under a hat, and big mirrored sunglasses. I made the dinning room for lunch. People either mistook me for a crazy tourist or one of the comedy acts as every one was taking more than a passing interest in me. Maybe I should have left the mirrored glasses in the room? I thought Vegas was a cowboy, cowgirl town? Well, besides all the put your eyes back in your head stunning females who were everywhere. There were a few good looking men. Most of them were older, carrying too much fat, and should have remembered to take off their wedding ring while ogling the girls.

I might have been staring at the girls myself, but it was to check out the completion. Most of them could have been run a way models. I take that back, most of them were too well endowed to be runway models. They had been more than blessed by their mother’s DNA or a doctor’s skills. I placated my mind with the idea beautiful women were dime a dozen around here. See one beautiful woman and you’ve seen them all, right?

None of the BCTS members were in the dinning room, nor was there anyone else I recognized. Thus the girls I saw last night were the only real competition. You can crown me Most Gorgeous third runner up. I was still in. Provided the beauty shop had a Witch or two working there who could do spells and incantations. If that beauty shop has an old wizard wearing a robe, I’ll be outta there so fast no one will know I entered.

The Girls R Us beauty solon worked their miracle for me, or was that on me. By the time I walked out I felt like a heifer who had found the clover field. Still wearing jeans, I looked fantastic. By the time I slipped into my sleeveless, golden, satin gown decorated in swirls of beads and sequins on the bodice, the other girls would look like left over liver. Those other writers might be able to write better stories with more emotional impact. That’s not my opinion. I’m more beautiful than any of them. And that includes the girls I saw in the dinning room last night. Grab a saddle horn and hold on world, Barb has arrived. And that IS my opinion!

The invite claimed refreshments and hors d’oeuvres (why do they want to bring the French in? Call them mouth stuffers) would be served at six and until the party was over at two A.M. Naturally I was fashionably late and didn’t show up until six thirtyish or a tad later. When I walked into the banquet room where it was being held, it seemed the party was a bust. Besides the owners and staff of BCTS there were only six more ladies there. Of course I didn’t smirk as everyone looked at me when I walked in. Eat your heart out girls, the belle of the ball has arrived. Yes, you may all curtsy to me. I don’t think they got the message, none of them did.

Oh well I can be gracious this once and forgive the pheasants…, um peasants. I have trouble with that when I’m writing too. Gracefully walking over to the buffet table I picked up a napkin and dropped a couple shelled pickled shrimp on it along with one of those tiny little dainty forks which are great for stabbing the critters. Plastic cups for drinking? Really, how droll.

While I had my back to the door a dozen more women had come in sounding like a gaggle of geese, laughing, joking, and getting acquainted with one another. Slowly I turned around to impress them with my stunning beauty. And dropped my napkin upon which shrimp had been placed. I couldn’t believe it.

Bru was there in her stunning beauty wearing an iridescent blue gown, showing off every abundant curve. Gag! The girl made supermodels look like farm hands. I hated her! I hope she dies next assignment she is sent on!

Jill, was that sweet little Jill? What in the hell was the color of the dress she was wearing? Is silver, pearlesent white even a color? She had to be cheating! I don’t remember her having a figure like that? Problem was that dress she was wearing wouldn’t let her cheat, too much of her was exposed. I hate her!

Francesca? She told me she wasn’t coming. Is she wearing the red cocktail dress I asked to borrow last month? She is! I hope she breaks her neck wearing those five inch heels. She must have went to Girls R Us too. Her makeup brought out all her natural beauty. I hate her!

It can’t be. Daphne the fashion model who “had” a dozen fashion shows on her schedule is here? And her dress has to be a Marceni Original. Crap, a forty thousand dollar gown! It would make a goat look beautiful. On Miss Fashion herself she looks delicious, good enough to eat. Which is what the press does every time she steps out on the runway. Wonder they get any pictures salivating on their own cameras. I hate her!

Crap, Nuuan, walked in behind them looking like the Prima Donna of the country and western set. The brocade dress she’s wearing has enough beads and sequins to make Porter Wagner jealous. Girl was smoking hot. Her talent with the banjo, guitar, violin, and every other instrument she picked up made her the star of every concert. Her beauty fanned the flames. I hated her too!

Over a period of a couple hours the banquet room filled up with publishers, writers, readers, and groupies. And how in the hell did groupies get invited? My opinion of the owners and staff of BCTS had taken a hickey. Publishers and writers were talking about their next book. Readers were talking about the stories they loved the best. The only real attention I received was from the damn groupies who wanted to know who I was? Who I was? That hurt. They didn’t even know me. What hurt even more was no one asked for my autograph even though everyone else was being asked. Some of the readers asked who I was and if I was a writer or reader. When I mentioned some of the stories I wrote they would politely nod as if they had heard of it and move on.

By twelve I was thoroughly chastised. With my tail between my legs I left the party and headed back to my room. Once there I undressed and repacked all my clothes. By the time I finished it was the next day. Maybe only one thirty but still, I was to be checked out by noon anyway. Dragging my suitcases I head out. My swelled ego had been deflated in a big way. Among all the owners, staff, writers, and readers on BCTS I wasn’t the Queen Bee like I thought. Not even sure I ranked as a worker bee? Well, maybe? They contribute to the honey supply and I make small contributions to the stories. I’d settle for being a worker bee.

I couldn’t stay mad at the girls. They were all beautiful, talented writers, and good friends. It was me who had taken advantage of that friendship. In the lobby when I dropped the room key on the check out counter, the lady looked at it and then turned her attention on me. “Miss, there are several dresses, gowns we have been holding for you. Some of the other ladies dropped them off and said they were yours.”

“What?” She obviously had the wrong person.

“Over there by the dinning room entrance. We put them there for our other guests to admire them as they passed by. They are all so beautiful and I bet cost a small fortune for each one. Each lady gave us explicit instructions to not let Miss Barbie Lee leave without taking the dresses and gowns with her.”

It was a miracle unto itself I found a settee and sit down before I fell down bawling my eyes out. I had thought such hateful words and acts against each one of the girls only an hour before. Now who was really the false girl friend? It was me who tried to use each one of them. How low is a snake’s belly? I felt lower than that. I finally found an end to the water works. Walking back over to the lady I shook my head. “Tell each one of them I love each and every one of them more than words can express. I’m driving a big Ford diesel pickup and don’t have room for the dresses. Even if I did, I don’t have room at home for them. You understand don’t you? I live in an old farm house. It’s small and old. I can toss the cat out the door or the window without opening either. I have nowhere to go in one of those dresses. I’m positive the livestock would appreciate me dressing up for them. I’d look better than anyone ever has out on the tractor wearing one of those dresses.”

“No, those dresses are so beautiful they must be worn and shown off by those who can do them justice without being over shadowed by the dresses themselves. That is the ladies who left them here. Each one of them are beautiful in their own unique way. They have a heart of gold and better friends seldom ever come along in a lifetime. I’m going home with some of the happiest moments of my life going with me because of what those dresses meant, not in dollar value but in love value.”

Picking up the handles to my suitcases I headed for the parking garage rolling the suitcases along behind me. Everyone has their world where they belong. I realized where mine was. Erin, Piper, all the owners, staff of BCTS, all the writers, readers, and those who surfed through had their world. Maybe those who stopped to read some of the stories were whisked away on a magic carpet made of imagination but they always returned to their world after a few hours of pleasant escape?

To all those who pass through BCTS, this story is fiction…? Or possibly maybe not. You’ll have to decide.