“What?”

“You-not going to a gentlemen’s club with your hammered brethren.”

Matt folded his arms. “You’ve got something to say about it?”

“I don’t believe it, that’s all.” I shook my head. “The eternal boy is all growed up.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “Again with the ‘eternal boy.’ ”

“Would you rather I use the Latin?” I couldn’t help needling him-just a little. “Puer aeternus? A man stuck in the adolescent phase of his life.”

“I’d rather you get off my back. Believe me, on any other night, I would have gladly gone out with Koa and the guys, but…” He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck.

“But?”

“But the sight of that fake Breanne put the fear of bridezilla into me, okay?” He shook his head. “It simply occurred to me that one wild night isn’t worth the hell storm that could come down on my head. I’m looking forward to my wedding on Saturday, the Barcelona honeymoon. Why do I need trouble this week?”

“Sounds like a reasoned, mature decision.” I smiled then lightly elbowed his six-pack. “Not bad for a man who’s chugged as many beers as you have.”

Matt finally laughed. Then the pendulum clock on the wall began to bong the hour. “It’s eleven already. Let’s get out of here.”

The front barroom was much busier now and much louder. Tables and chairs were occupied by a mixed group of college kids and older drinkers. As we moved through, I tapped Matt’s shoulder.

“Give me a second, okay? I want to use the restroom.”

“Yeah, me, too. Chugging beer has its consequences. Meet you at the front door.”

I waked past the Dylan Thomas shrine again and into a small, adjoining back area that held an alcove to the ladies’ room. That’s where I spotted the attractive young dancer again. I froze when I realized what she’d attracted.

The obnoxious jerk in the black motorcycle jacket had left the crowded bar and slipped back here, trapping the dancer in an isolated corner. The girl was giving the punk a tense smile, shaking her head prettily, gesturing to her cell phone. He snatched it away from her. She reached for it, but he held it higher, stepped closer.

I hurried back to the bar, waited the few seconds for Matt to return. “I need your help.”

“What’s the matter?”

“A drunk gave me trouble earlier. He’s cornered the Breanne dancer by the ladies’ room. We should do something to-”

Matt was already moving. I followed in his muscular wake. The dancer was still standing there and still attempting to be polite to the harassing drunk.

“No. Thank you, kindly, mister. But I don’t want no drink…”

The girl’s backwoods twang was at odds with her hyper-polished Breanne facade. And her little voice was as slight as her figure: down off the stout table, her performance bravado gone, she projected all the sturdiness of a porcelain ballerina.

“Aw, come on,” the guy replied with an oily smile. “You musss be thirsssy after all that sexy dancin’…”

“I told you, no thanks. Now, can I please have my phone back?”

“Not till you give me that private dance I asssked you for. Jusss turn around now, an’ you won’t get hurt. We’ll use the john-”

The scumbag reached out a grease-stained hand for a clumsy grope, but he never got it. Matt grabbed the guy’s arm, tightening his fingers around the man’s wrist.

“What the hell!”

“Didn’t you hear the lady?” Matt said, twisting the guy’s arm just enough to make his point. “She doesn’t want to drink with you, and she didn’t come here to dance for you.”

Without shifting his gaze from the jerk’s face, Matt pulled the phone out of his grip and handed it back to the dancer. The man stared blankly at Matt. I held my breath as the two remained locked together. When Matt finally released his grip, the other man stumbled back.

“Screw you,” he muttered, rubbing the arm Matt had twisted.

Like all bullies, this guy was obviously brilliant at pushing around a weaker opponent. A head-to-head challenge was another matter.

“The lady’s with us, okay?” Matt said. “And we’re leaving.”

“Lady?” The punk snorted. “She’s a ho, asshole!”

Matt stepped uncomfortably close again. “Unless you want to experience a world of hurt, I suggest you stay here, have another drink, and stay the hell away from this lady.”

Matt took the dancer’s arm, then mine, and guided us quickly through the exit. We didn’t slow down until we reached the next street corner.

“Lordy,” the dancer said, staring up at Matt with wide blue eyes. “Thanks for your help. I thought I could charm my way around that horndog, but he was a real A-hole, wasn’t he?”

“Don’t you have a driver?” Matt asked. “A guy to watch your back?”

She vigorously nodded. “Normally, I do. But he’s down with the flu.”

Hearing more of her accent, I placed it as possibly West Virginian-a twang I’d heard when I was raising Joy in New Jersey. A big, friendly family had moved onto our street from a small town outside of Wheeling.

“What about transportation?” I asked.

“The agency’s car service is supposed to send a limo over.” She held up her cell phone. “All I have to do is call for it. But I kept gettin’ their dang voice mail!” She sighed theatrically. “That happens sometimes. I guess there just aren’t enough cars in this big ol’ city. Anyway, I don’t have much cash on me. Not enough for a cab to Brooklyn. I guess I should just take the subway.”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “At this hour? With those expensive clothes and high heels? You may as well shout, ‘Mug me.’ ”

The girl scratched her head. “Think so?”

I exchanged glances with Matt. “Why don’t you walk with us,” I told her. “We’re headed back to our coffeehouse just down the street. You can straighten out your car service problems from there. At least you’ll be safe from half-drunk rapists.”

“That’s a fine idea,” she said. “And it’ll be my pleasure, too, with this hunky hero here watchin’ out for me!”

I rolled my eyes. Matt grunted. Then the girl wrapped her arm around my ex’s biceps and we were off.

The weather had turned colder by now, and Hudson Street was practically deserted. We strolled through the shadows on the empty sidewalk, past closed storefronts, parked cars, chained-up bicycles, and the redbrick fronts of restored Federal-style town houses.

The girl continued to coo what a gentleman Matt was. He didn’t say much, but I could see he was soaking it up. Her flirting was cute and innocent, nothing like the sophisticated temptress persona she’d projected while performing back at the White Horse. She seemed naive, too, but also funny and open, and (unlike the woman she’d been paid to impersonate) easy for me to like.

She told us she’d been living in New York for only about six months, something I could believe, given her bubbly optimism. The city usually beat it out of girls like her in a year or two.

“I came here to become a Broadway star,” she said, “but the only steady work I could get was dancing at a club uptown. These side jobs with an agency pay a lot more, though.”

“Agency?” I asked.

“It specializes in look-alike strippers. Funny, huh? They’ve got guys doin’ it, too. There’s a Matt Damon and a Brad Pitt. They even got a Mel Gibson, but he’s so old, I can’t imagine anyone wanting Mel to strip for ’em, can you?”

Matt shot me an exasperated look. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

Curious, I couldn’t help asking, “Have you ever done the Breanne act before?”

“Only once, for some guy’s birthday party at the New York Journal.”

Hearing that, Matt grunted and gave me the I-told-you-so look.

“I’m usually tapped to do Uma,” the girl said.

“Uma Thurman?” I asked. “The actress?”

The dancer rolled her eyes. “Who else? How many girls named Uma do you know?”

“Well, I-”

“For Uma, I keep my hair blond like tonight for Breanne Summour, but instead of the suit and briefcase I wear this sweet li’l yellow jumpsuit and carry a samurai sword-”