Читать книгу A Bitch Named Karma - Stephanie Haefner - Страница 6

Chapter 2

When the clock struck five on a Friday afternoon, it signaled the end of the hectic workweek and start of weekend bliss. I walked to Cosmos, where each week I met Marcus, Brenda and Rachel, for happy hour, and I swore I heard the entire city breathe a sigh of relief.

Outside the bar, a strange woman stood nearby wearing a long patchwork dress fusing together hideous mismatched fabrics, one appearing to be burlap or something else equally coarse. Her long reddish-orange hair flowed past her behind and she ranted about something. I ignored her screeches as I walked by until her pale hand shoved a photocopied paper in front of my face.

“Change your destiny!” she screamed. “Karma will destroy your life if you don’t change your ways!”

“Yeah, okay lady.” I pushed the Karma Kronicle back at her.

“You’ll be sorry…” I faintly heard as I continued on.

Whatever. I had much more important things to deal with than loonies on the street.

I entered Cosmos a little after five and Marcus waved me over to a table. Smiling at him, I snaked through the crowd.

“Hi!” I kissed his cheek and waved to our usual waitress, who winked and told me she’d be over in a second.

“Late, as usual?” I asked, referring to the two empty seats at our table reserved for Brenda and Rachel.

“Would it be normal if they were actually on time?”

I’d met Brenda a few years back when in desperate need of a dye job. In order to save a few bucks, I came up with the brilliant idea to do it myself at home. Wet hair, apply dye, let sit—it couldn’t be that hard. I couldn’t have been more wrong and somehow managed to turn half my head a bright crimson and the other half black. After tucking my disaster into a hat, I’d bolted to the nearest salon.

A rare cancellation put me in Brenda’s chair that day. Her look scared me a bit but I’d figured my situation couldn’t get any worse. As she’d surveyed the damage known as my hair, I wondered how someone covered head to toe in Goth could possibly know how to dye a normal person’s hair. But even with her spiky hair-do in a bright blue shade—her chosen hue of the month—and patent leather bustier, she was my salvation and I felt indebted to her for the rest of my life. She became the only stylist allowed near my locks, including myself! We’d been the closest of friends ever since. There is a special bond between a woman and her hairdresser; in some ways it’s more serious than a marriage.

Rachel and I met through Brenda. They’d been friends since their training bra days and couldn’t be more opposite. Rachel embodied the sweet girl-next-door persona, with never a mean word to say about anyone. Her glistening all natural blond locks were set off by ocean blue eyes. She looked like a GAP or Abercrombie and Fitch model, but prettier. Brenda and I begged her for at least a year, though she would never even consider pursuing a career where people ogled her. Always filled with modesty, Rachel wore the simplest clothes to hide her perfect body and kept her hair plain and long. So many times Brenda wanted to drag her to the salon and strap her down, forcing her to get some foil highlights and a hip cut. But even with their numerous differences, they always remained close. I had my theory why. Rachel kept Brenda in line and sane.

Then there was Marcus. Our moms became best gal pals during their pregnancies, bonding over pickle cravings and stretch mark artwork. Marcus and I became attached at the hip while still in utero. We share quite a long and somewhat twisted history that started with shared naps in either my crib or his while our moms played cards and drank iced tea. It continued though playground fights and puberty and the four years of teenage drama known as High School. Marcus and I played doctor as kids and he gave me my first French kiss when we were pre-teens. We tried the boyfriend-girlfriend thing once at the beginning of high school. A gorgeous guy even at the awkward age of fourteen, he had dark dreamy eyes and a Beverly Hills 90210 hair cut. I reveled in being the envy of a majority of the female freshman population but everything changed when he tried to round second base with me. I envisioned my brother groping my 32AA’s and it grossed me out. We called it quits but our friendship continued and I knew I could count on him for anything, anytime.

Marcus, Brenda, Rachel and I were often found working out together, doing lunch or having all-night margarita gab fests. They were great inspiration for my books, many of which stemmed from topics discussed during our drunken nights together. I always traveled with a notebook so I could jot down anything remotely interesting. The tough part was deciphering the intoxicated scribbles the next morning.

The girls finally arrived and completed our happy little foursome. We immediately flagged down the waitress and started our Friday celebration.

“So Brenda,” I said after we received our drinks. Brenda and I had ordered the specialty of the house, a bright pink cosmopolitan. Marcus held a glass of merlot by the stem and breathed in its aroma while the ever conservative Rachel sipped a glass of diet cola through a straw. “I found a guy for you!”

“Lex, don’t even think about setting me up!”

“Why? This one is perfect! He even has green hair!”

“Ewww!” Rachel squealed. “Green hair?”

“Wait, you’re fine with Brenda having pink hair,” Marcus chimed in, motioning toward Brenda’s head. “But a guy with green hair is disgusting?”

“I never said I was fine with it!” Rachel giggled, pushing her own shimmering blond tresses from her face.

“So anyway, back to Slade!” I continued.

“Slade? That’s the guy’s name?” Brenda asked.

“Yes. I like it. It’s unique. Who wants a Bob or a Dan? Snore! You need someone with a strong, sexy name. Slade is a tattoo artist, photographer and newly published author. His book is being released in a few weeks. It’s called Tat- A Gallery of American Tattoo Art. You’ll love it. I met him at my publisher’s office and I think you two would be perfect for each other. As soon as I saw him, I just knew. I got his number and we should call him and invite him for drinks.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why? You haven’t gone out with anyone in months!”

Rachel began hacking and grabbed for a napkin, covering her mouth. She cleared her throat as we all stared at her.

“Um, went down the wrong tube.”

I shook off her inability to drink like a normal person and looked back at Brenda.

“So, I’m gonna call and invite Slade for Happy Hour next Friday.”

“I’m not looking right now,” she said and suddenly became engrossed with her cocktail napkin, folding it into some kind of origami creature. Brenda’s nails, which were always done in some funky color with airbrushed designs, were a simple black with silver glittered tips. She’d recently began learning nail design and practiced on herself constantly.

“Come on! You have to meet him. At the very least, you’d get a couple good fucks out of him!”

“Lex, for the last time, no.”

“Okay, fine. Keep having fun with your vibrator. Wear out a million batteries for all I care!”

* * * *

Val had set up an interview for me with one of the hottest radio morning show tag teams: Wild Will and Tina of WBLV’s Rock Your Way to Work Show. She’d been trying to get me on-air with one of the Top 40 stations for some time, hoping to boost sales in a few new markets. I yawned as I walked into the station, still half asleep. Mornings were so not my thing.

The broadcast took place in a small room, much smaller than I had imagined in my glamorous Radio Day Dream. I’d envisioned walls plastered with autographed posters of the hottest singers of the day with gleaming microphones and the occasional star walking through the door to say a quick “whud up” to their disc jockey homies. What I walked into reminded me of the hall closet in my apartment—tiny and jammed with miscellaneous books, papers and a desk chair with ripped and faded upholstery.

They sat me down and gave me a pair of ancient looking headphones to wear that pinched at my ear and smooshed down my curls. I watched Wild Will make an announcement on air, his smooth voice rolling off his tongue. He winked at me and smiled as he told his listeners he and Tina would be talking with me after the break. The station went to commercial and a balding man in headphones gave me some last minute instructions.

“Good morning, rockers,” Wild Will crooned after the commercial. “If you’re just tuning in, we’re here with multi-published author Lexi Marshall. She’s written several chick lit books that are selling like boxes of condoms before prom night. So, Lexi,” he said and turned to me with a sexy grin. “What exactly is chick lit?”

“Well, I define chick lit as a story about a woman, facing many of the obstacles the everyday woman faces. Career problems, family problems and of course problems with love. The women in my stories are confident and smart and embody female empowerment. Sometimes they are knocked down, but it’s only temporary. They pick themselves up, dust off and rise above their problems, coming out new women in the end. They’re inspiring stories, giving women the courage to stand up to the wrong doings in their lives.”

“And of course, look fabulous while doing it!” Tina chimed in.

I laughed. “Yes, that too! Many of my characters are trendy and hip, wearing designer clothing and shoes.”

“Yep, just like those cute Jimmy Choos I saw on your feet as you strolled in,” Tina added.

“Hey, you can’t write it if you don’t live it!” I said, spouting off my life motto.

“Now Lexi, what do you think of these critics who call chick lit ‘fluff’? They say it’s not serious writing,” Will commented.

“My answer to that is not appropriate for the airwaves!”

“O…kay!” Will then continued with the interview, taking a few calls.

* * * *

“Are you seriously making me go to dinner tonight with your friends?” Zak whined. “I can’t stand being around Marcus. And those women are just plain annoying.”

I watched him flip through a rack of button-down shirts, then flop onto the bed in only his boxer briefs. Zak’s body rivaled even the buffest Greek god. His pecs were chiseled like a statue’s and he had an eight pack. A freakin’ eight pack! The two hours he spent at the gym each morning were certainly worth it.

He let out an irritated moan.

“Oh, stop! Marcus is my best friend. And what do you have against Brenda and Rachel?”

“Uh, let’s see. One wears black lipstick, black nail polish and has black hair with red stripes.”

“That was so two days ago. It’s all pink now.”

“Regardless. Her piercings disgust me. And the other one has a voice that makes nails on a chalkboard sound like a symphony.”

“Come on, they’re not that bad! I love those girls and Marcus. They’ve been my friends forever.”

“I don’t have to like them or sit with them and try to keep my dinner down.”

“You have to come tonight. We’re celebrating the radio interview.”

I crawled on top of him wearing only a pair of red panties, and kissed a trail down his chest, stopping at the elastic of his briefs.

“Zak, come on. This is important to me. I want all my favorite people together for one night.”

He stared down at me as I popped Mr. George out and began caressing him with my tongue, kissing his head in preparation of devouring him completely.

“Fine, I’ll go.” He pushed me off of him and sat up on the edge of the bed. “You’ll owe me big time for this. And it’s only dinner, right? No hanging around for dessert or drinks afterward.”

“Oh, come on! You know how horny chocolate and martinis make me!” I pressed my body to him again, this time my tongue making circles on the back of his neck.

He stood and I almost fell on the ground. He walked to the closet, thumbing through his shirts again. “No distractions. I want to get there as soon as possible, so we can get it over with and leave.”

“Fine, but you don’t need to be an ass about it!”

Zak could be a real jerk sometimes, though I guiltily admit it turned me on.

“I want to be home and in bed early anyway. I have a meeting with Val tomorrow morning and at ten I have a massage appointment.”

I walked over to my closet. The door opened and my clothes looked ready to burst out at me. One pull of the wrong hanger could lead to an eruption of silk and cashmere that would bury me alive. My mind began to wander, thinking I should call the interior designer Marcus used for his apartment. For my own safety, I needed a complete re-organization of my closet space.

“What are you doing tomorrow? A massage?” Zak asked as I flipped through my wardrobe. “What kind?”

“Should I wear this or this?” I asked holding up two entirely different wrap dresses.

“They look the same to me. Just pick one. What about this massage now?”

I continued flipping through my closet. “Oh, it’s one of those hot rock massages. They’re supposed to be completely relaxing. And I think my back’s a little out of whack, so I could really use it. Remember that yoga class I told you about? That evil Nazi-woman instructor who had us contorted all funny? I don’t think the human body is meant to bend quite that way. It wasn’t even a good sex pose!” I pulled out a royal blue tank dress with a plunging neckline. Loved the way it made my boobs look. “But anyway, I might have a facial and manicure while I’m there too.”

“Sounds nice.”

* * * *

Zak seemed to do a one-eighty, laughing at my stories and even making a few jokes of his own. He made conversation with Marcus, a rarity. The two had never really gotten along. I’d read about men being jealous of their girlfriends’ male friends and even as cocky as Zak was, he surely felt envious of my friendship with Marcus.

After savoring our favorite dishes between bursts of laughter, Marcus raised his glass.

“To Lexi—may your success continue to flourish!”

“Hear, hear!”

As we drank, the waitress began clearing our plates. She brought the dessert menu and I looked to Zak. He seemed in no hurry to leave and nodded his approval. I ordered the triple chocolate mousse cake and a Godiva martini.

Four martinis later I crawled into bed, exhausted and glad Zak didn’t ask for an ass massage, his not-so-subtle way of trying to get laid. I drifted off to sleep dreaming of my meeting with Val.

She gushed about my manuscript and the fabulousness of each and every word. I saw myself sitting in her office, reaching and grabbing the hearts as they flew out of her mouth like a silly video game. Each heart I touched made a Ding! and my points skyrocketed.

Still in my dream world, I left her office and proceeded to my favorite boutique, spying a hot ruby-colored frock sure to look fantastic on me. I saw the only size four in the hands of a wide-hipped woman with greasy black hair.

“That won’t fit you,” I said matter-of-factly and snatched the dress, flashing my stellar smile.

I slipped into the first dressing room I came to and admired my reflection. The clingy charmeuse fabric made my curves look even curvier and my skin seem brighter, not that I needed it much anyway. My hair looked shinier and even my breasts appeared plumper, like I’d already had the boob job I planned as a Christmas present to myself.

I turned and appreciated the reflection some more, marveling at the sleekness of my legs.

“Oh, I have to have this dress!” I stated aloud and began removing it from my body. As I shimmied it down, I heard the loud, unmistakable sound of ripping fabric. I jumped the rest of the way out of the dress and held it up. The entire left side gaped open and threads dangled from the jagged frayed fabric.

A wave of sadness rushed over me as I put the torn dress back on its padded hanger. I then caught my reflection in the mirror, smirking at me, still wearing the dress completely intact. It let out an ear piercing cackle, very Wicked Witch of the West.

I immediately looked down at my body, clothed in panties and a bra. The dress hung to my right from a hook on the dressing room wall. My first instinct told me to scream and run, but the draw of my reflection kept me silent and my bare feet planted.

“I look fabulous, don’t I?” she said to me, flipping my, er, her chocolate hair. “Too bad you ripped the only one!”

“Who are you?” I whispered.

“Isn’t it funny how things happen in life? You do something bad and something bad happens to you.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m always here with you. Every day. I watch you, I see everything.”

“O…kay…”

“Ever hear of a little thing called karma?” she asked.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s some stupid hippie voodoo thing, right?”

“It’s not some thing. You should take it seriously.”

“I don’t believe in that crap.”

“Oh, you will.” She smiled at me and cackled again. The laughter faded as her body disappeared, leaving my reflection staring back at me in my pink satin and black lace lingerie.

My eyes jolted open. My dream, or more correctly, nightmare, had left me in a cold sweat. I pushed the covers from my body to cool it off. But then felt a bizarre feeling in the pit of my stomach—like someone was watching me. I yanked the covers back up to my chin, then over my head.