Hello, Gorgeous!. MaryJanice Davidson
been using that phrase a lot,” Stacy observed, pushing the pedals of her stationary bike hard enough so they went around once, then slowly stopped. She rewarded her exertions with another gulp of alcohol and ice. “It’s kind of yucky.”
“—and for my thanks I get a bunch of veiled threats and he laughs at me.”
“Sounds like a real jerk.”
“A real jerkoff. Yes. He is, he is! And I can’t work out anymore! I wreck half the gym!”
“Oh, please.” Stacy rolled her eyes. “Pardon me if I don’t cry you a river. It just means you can’t kickbox anymore.”
“But it’s, like, the best way to stay in shape.”
“I don’t think staying in shape is gonna be your big concern anymore,” Stacy observed. “Flabby thighs are now the least of your problems. And it’s one o’clock in the morning, in case you didn’t notice. We’re the only ones in the gym except for the—”
“What happened here?” the trainer cried, rushing up to them.
Caitlyn opened her mouth to say that she did not know, when Stacy interrupted. “This thing fell down and almost hit my friend.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God! I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”
“She’s fine,” Stacy answered, again before Caitlyn could say a word. “She’s got the reflexes of a cat on crack.”
“Look,” Caitlyn continued when the trainer had hurried to the back to fill out the appropriate forms, “you seem a little, I don’t know, cavalier about what’s happened to me. What they did to me. Where’s the outrage on my behalf? Where’s the love, Stace?”
Stacy climbed off the bike, smoothed her hair back, checked her reflection in one of the mirrors, then replied, “Am I sorry you got hurt? Sure am. Am I sorry you’re in this weird-ass fix? Yup. Am I sorry you’re still alive, and better than ever, and nobody can push you around anymore, not that they really ever did, excluding your parents, God rest ’em? No.”
“I’m having a little trouble following that,” she admitted.
“It’s like this, Jimmy. The first time I called the hospital—you know, after they’d released me and I was home? I wanted to check up on you, right? Well, they told me you were dead. And I—it freaked me out, okay? It totally, completely freaked me out. I wasn’t ready to lose my best friend in my mid-twenties, okay? I mean, I heard later that it was a mistake and you were in rehab or whatever, but still. That first time. Hearing it. Major major shock.”
“Sorry,” Caitlyn said quietly. She’d been so focused on what had happened to her, she had never considered what had happened to her friend.
“Wasn’t your fault. Anyway, now I don’t have to worry about that happening—you doing the big gak—for a long time. So I guess if you’re looking for a shoulder to cry on, you’d better talk to somebody who doesn’t care either way if you’re dead. Which ain’t me.”
“That’s…so sweet,” she said at last. “I’m pretty sure. So the sympathy train is at an end, huh?”
“Baby, the train never left the station.” Stacy sat on the floor, leaned against one of the rolled-up mats, propped one toe atop the other toe, took another sip, wriggled her shoulders, then asked, “So, what else can you do?”
“Burn out that bike. Knock the last kicking bag off the chain. Pick up every weight in this place—at the same time.”
“So, standard stuff. Ah, but can you do this?” She set her drink down, then patted her stomach and rubbed her head at the same time.
Caitlyn burst out laughing. “No, they must have left that out of the upgrade.”
“Well, then,” Stacy said, clearly trying not to sound smug, and failing miserably.
Chapter 11
Caitlyn hung up her coat and glared at the spy, who claimed her name was Sara. Sara hauled her sorry butt into Mag about once a week, which in itself was a joke. Caitlyn was a big believer in maintenance, feeling every woman should try to look her best, but even her most hard-core clients contented themselves with semi-monthly visits. Some secret-secret-ultra-cool government spy agency if they didn’t know that most basic spa-ism.
Thus far, “Sara” had been in for a pedicure, to have a broken nail fixed—Caitlyn didn’t know if she’d cracked it herself or if it had been an accident…probably the former—a haircut, highlights, a deep conditioning treatment, and another haircut. Then another manicure and pedicure. It was springtime now, and Caitlyn couldn’t help wondering how the powers that be decided Sara would pretend to be a customer that week. Acne attack? More broken nails? Foot fungus? Bikini wax? It would have been funny if it weren’t so damn annoying.
She hadn’t heard from O.S.F. or the Boss since she’d un-virgined (de-virgined?) Terry, a blessing for which she gave thanks daily. She supposed she should be waiting for the other shoe to drop, but she was too busy pretending everything was back to normal. It was much easier to pull that off when she didn’t have to deal with, speak to, or look at the Boss.
Sara the spy was chatting with Dara—Sara and Dara…how too fucking cute—about a new look. Since she’d had four new looks in as many weeks, Dara had told Caitlyn in privacy that she assumed her new client was either a) incredibly lonely, or b) incredibly insecure.
“She’s new in town,” Dara had said, “so I’m betting it’s the first one.”
“I’m betting it’s neither,” Caitlyn had replied, but refused to be drawn into a pleasurable gossip on the subject.
She certainly didn’t look like a spy, Caitlyn thought, grabbing the mail from Jenny and walking over to her station. Sara was teeny and cute, especially now that Mag’s professionals had had their way with her. She was still a brunette, but now her hair was streaked with gold. Her lashes were professionally curled, and her eyes, deep and dark, looked out at the world from beneath professionally plucked brows.
Her pulse and blood pressure no longer skyrocketed whenever Caitlyn walked into the room. She was obviously getting used to these weekly “go-sees,” in model parlance.
What a job, Caitlyn thought, not without a twinge of envy. Go to a salon once a week and keep an eye on the local freak. While you’re at it, get your roots done. To think, her tax money paid this woman!
The money. The money…Caitlyn tried not to think about the money, but it was difficult. About six days after she’d returned from “neutralizing” Terry, a government check for $16,326.91 had shown up. They had, of course, taken out state and federal taxes, FICA, and something called a CIAA, but there was still plenty left over.
And that was half of her check. The Boss had docked her.
She had banked the check—hell, she’d earned it, hadn’t she?—and tried very hard to forget that if she just did four or five favors a year for the Boss, she could live very comfortably. It was stupid, because money had never been important to her. Heck, she’d given almost all of hers away, hadn’t she? Her dad had held the money over her head so many times, she lost count, and couldn’t get rid of it fast enough after the funerals. So she needn’t—
Jenny hurried over with a pink message slip, breaking Caitlyn’s train of thought. Thank goodness! Worrying about a spy spying on her she completely did not need, as the tiny wrinkles around her eyes would no doubt attest.
“Barb called, says it’s an emergency. Home perm,” Jenny added in a near whisper. “She’s in bad shape. Can you squeeze her in?”
Caitlyn nearly gasped. The horror, the horror! “Sure I can. Poor thing. Tell her to come right over. And what was she thinking?”
“She let her niece do it for practice,” Jenny said over her shoulder. “I guess she didn’t