Another message popped up.
I DON’T MEAN TO BE RUDE, BUT I NEED TO TELL YOU THAT I CANNOT PURCHASE STOLEN MERCHANDISE. DO YOU HAVE PROOFS OF PURCHASE?
Aimee’s face colored, but she quickly pushed aside any misgivings about the ownership of the clubs – since technically Jack was still her husband, and he’d already taken more than that in value of her stuff – and typed: THEY ARE NOT STOLEN. THEY ARE MY HUSBAND’S. I WILL BRING THE RECEIPTS. I JUST DON’T WANT ANY COUNTERFEIT MONEY. SORRY IF THAT WAS WEIRD.
Aimee had kept the receipts as directed by Jack, who was really anal about financial records. He insisted that she tape all of their receipts onto pieces of paper and then file the papers in binders, while also simultaneously entering the amounts into the accounting software they kept for personal expenses. So when their accountant came each year, he could be left alone in a room with all the binders and the computer to do his work uninterrupted. Jack didn’t want to pay a single red cent more to the accountant than he needed to, so he used her free labor to do most of the job all year long, allowing the tax preparation to be done in record time, especially taking into account their considerable household expenses. Golf club community living didn’t come cheaply, nor did Jack’s expensive habits.
The response email came with a beep. VERY GOOD. I’VE ATTACHED A MAP WITH DIRECTIONS AND INFORMATION ABOUT THE WOMEN’S BOOK CLUB MEETING, IN CASE YOU WANT TO JOIN US. IT’S A NEW GROUP AND WE NEED MORE MEMBERS.
Aimee clicked on the attachment and saw that the bookstore was close and that the book club had just finished a book she had read last week. It would only take about ten minutes to get there. She was a serious book lover, but hadn’t been to that bookstore in months. Unable to afford new novels anymore, she was at the library two times a week, trading in the already read for the unread. She’d even gone so far as to trade in all the books she’d collected over the years to get credits at the local used bookstore. She’d burned through those in two months.
Aimee thought about the idea of gathering with a group of women to discuss stories they’d read and was definitely intrigued. She didn’t have any friends to talk to. It might be nice to have something to think about other than desperation, for a change. She looked at the houseplant and frowned, trying to remember how much gas she had left in her car. She smiled as she realized that soon, she’d have ten thousand bucks and would be able to fill up her tank and maybe even buy a new book as a treat. The rest of the cash she’d hide away for emergencies. Like food. Her stomach growled, reminding her that it hadn’t been fed yet today. She quickly typed out her response,
I’LL SEE YOU AT SEVEN. AND I WILL PROBABLY STAY FOR THE MEETING. SOUNDS FUN! THANKS FOR THE INVITATION.
She clicked over to the ad she’d placed and removed it, sending out a mass email to all the people who had responded, over fifty in less than thirty minutes, telling them the clubs were sold. Once she heard the zooming sound that told her the email had gone out, she shut her computer off and went to her bedroom, looking for something to wear that might be suitable for an evening of talking about romance and true love. Bah. As if that even exists.
Chapter 2
KIKI REACHED INTO HER CAVERNOUS closet, shoving her rarely used anymore conservative khaki pants and button-down shirts aside, to grab her favorite Jimmy Choo thigh-high black suede boots. She sat down on her bed, pulling them up slowly, enjoying the feel of the soft, high-quality material sliding across her skin. She was letting her legs go bare underneath because she could – they were long, thin, and bronzed to perfection, with just the right amount of muscle tone. There was no need to cover them up with uncomfortable pantyhose or tights. She did wear a pair of small footies to keep her feet from sweating, though. She hated sweaty feet and this was Florida, after all.
She looked at her diamond-encrusted platinum watch, happy to see that she had plenty of time to drop by the bookstore for a new romance novel and a cup of coffee, before visiting a friend in the hospital and then going to work. She stood up next to her bed, pulling the edges of her short, stretchy miniskirt down. It had ridden up to reveal her purple lace panties. This skirt was definitely not the sitting down type; but it didn’t matter, because where she worked, she wouldn’t be sitting. Not in the beginning anyway, and not without an extra payday.
She grabbed her black Dooney & Bourke satchel that managed to match just about anything she wore, and headed out the door. Seconds later she was sliding into the mint-condition, numbers-matching, ’69 Camaro that rested in her tiny townhouse garage, when it wasn’t menacing the streets of Orlando with its awesomeness.
She’d bought the car as a piece of junk five years ago from an old granny who’d had it parked in a barn out of town for forty years, using tips she’d earned at work over the years to have it restored. She didn’t do any of the work herself – she had nails that needed to stay pretty – but her mechanic was a genius. The only parts that weren’t original were the air-conditioning, the stereo, and the alarm system that she’d had him put in. A girl could only do so much roughing-it, and Orlando’s humidity is legendary.
She put the key into the ignition and turned the engine over, reveling in the heavy rumble of the muscle car’s engine that surrounded her, smiling as she thought about her destination. The bookstore was one of her favorite places to hang out. Anybody who knew her at work would probably laugh at that and think it was a joke. Kiki was a different person there on purpose. It was a mask she put on, separating what she had chosen to do to accomplish her goals from who she really was as a person.
She slowly backed the car out of the garage and into the street. She grabbed the chrome and black gear shift and flexed her bicep, pulling it down two notches with heavy clunking sounds. She felt the corresponding response from the massive engine trying to surge the car forward as it adjusted itself into Drive. Three hundred and seventy-five horses were ready to take Kiki wherever she wanted to go, and fast. The tip of her boot barely lifted off the brake and touched the accelerator before she was off, on the hunt for her next escape – into the land of romance and chick lit where her brain lived when it wasn’t playing the game of life with a bunch of people who she, for the most part, couldn’t care less about.
Kiki arrived at the bookstore in fifteen minutes, beating her former record by a full three. She’d gotten green lights the entire way there, and that never happened. Must be my lucky day, she thought, as she switched the engine off, smiling at her good fortune. She looked at the clock on her dashboard and realized she had at least ninety minutes before she had to leave for the hospital. She wasn’t relishing that trip one bit, but it had to be done. At least there would be some time to get lost in a book for a while, first.
Kiki got out of the car and pulled her skirt down to cover her exposed underwear once again, mindless of the stares sent her way by every single person close enough to see her.
Everything about Kiki screamed ‘look at me’ – from her car, to her clothes, to her natural, stunning beauty. She didn’t do it on purpose; it’s just who she was. She used to cover up her inner-Kiki when she was younger and going to college, but once she reached thirty, there didn’t seem to be any point. It didn’t help make friends anyway, so what did it matter?
Kiki walked with long strides toward the bookstore with plans to head straight for the romance novel section, her high heels not slowing her down one bit. She was just about to grab the large brass handle of the front door to pull it open, when a flier taped to the front of it caught her attention.
WOMEN’S ROMANCE READER / BOOK LOVER MEETING TONIGHT! JOIN US FOR COFFEE AND BOOKS AT 7:00 P.M. NEW MEMBERS WELCOME.
Kiki stood there, reading and re-reading it, wondering what it was all about. A quick self-evaluation told her she was a book lover and that romance and chick lit were her favorite genres. Even when she strayed from time to time into thrillers or fantasy, she always came back to women’s fiction. Maybe it would be fun to join a few other girls who felt the same way she did about books.
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She shook the thoughts away, sending them out of her head as quickly as they had come. She didn’t make friends, and she didn’t join clubs. The first part wasn’t really her choice; and the second part, not joining clubs, was a choice made for her in the past by others. Every time she joined one, whether it was academic or socially-based, they all ended in the same way – with girls hating her and guys wanting her. It was a disaster she’d learned to avoid years ago.
Kiki pulled the door open, stepping back as she prepared to enter, and accidentally bumped into someone behind her. She spun around quickly, her hand still on the door. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t see you there.” She realized a second later that her heel had landed on an uneven surface and her face blanched. “Oh shit, did I step on your toe?” It didn’t take much with these heels and her very tall stature to cause some serious damage to unprotected toes. She was thin, but her well-muscled frame brought her in at about a hundred and thirty pounds, and when most of her weight was focused on a half-inch square of spiked heel, one wrong step could leave one hell of a bruise.
“Oh, no, not at all. That was my golf club you stepped on.”
Kiki raised an eyebrow at the woman who was now standing in front of her, making a quick appraisal: housewife, about thirty years old, ten pounds overweight, in bad need of a style makeover, eager, friendly face, and looking like a crazy person carrying a golf club into the bookstore.
“Are you going to go beat some books to death?” asked Kiki.
“What?” asked the girl, confusion written all over her face as she stood there in her too-tight jeans and flowing, flowered chiffon top.
“With the golf club? In your hand?” Kiki gestured with her chin at the object and started to wonder if this girl might be a little batty.
The girl looked down at the hand that was holding the club, understanding finally dawning across her face a half-second later. “Oooh!” she said smiling and then giggling. “Yeah! I mean, no! Of course not. I would never beat a book to death. Now, an ex-husband? ... That’s a different story.” Then she stopped talking immediately and frowned guiltily, as if she’d said too much.
Kiki smiled. “I know the feeling.” She pulled the door open more fully, inviting the woman to go in before her.
The girl tilted her head to the side, an expression of disbelief on her face. “You’re divorced?”
“No.”
“I was gonna say,” said the girl, shaking her head, moving to go inside.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Kiki, following her in and wondering if she should feel offended.
The girl rolled her eyes, turning around in the foyer to look at Kiki fully again. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. That sounded so rude. I’m a jerk. I just meant that if someone as beautiful as you can get dumped, there’s absolutely no hope for someone like me.”
Kiki smiled, humorlessly. She hated hearing about how beautiful she was all the time. “Beauty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, believe me. Besides. You’re pretty.”
“Uh-huh,” said the girl, not sounding at all convinced. “Well, anyway, sorry if I said something to offend you. I’m a little nervous right now.” She went to grab the second door to open it and enter the retail floor area of the store.
“Nervous about your upcoming golf game? Or the murder of your ex?”
The girl laughed and then started whispering, “Neither. I’m going to a book club meeting. I’ve never been to one before. Are you a member?” She pulled open the second door and stepped through, standing in the entrance where it was usually as quiet as a library.
“No. I’m just here to buy a book,” said Kiki, whispering too.
“Oh. Okay. Well, nice meeting you ... sorry, I didn’t ask your name yet.”
“It’s Kiki.”
“Okay, well, nice meeting you, Kiki. My name’s Aimee, by the way. Love your boots.” She smiled big and then walked away, going to the front desk. Kiki went in the opposite direction, to the women’s fiction section. She couldn’t help but look back after a couple steps and smile at the girl who for some strange reason had brought a golf club into the bookstore to attend a romance lovers’ book club meeting.
Chapter 3
ELIZABETH WAS NERVOUS. SHE HATED carrying this kind of cash around with her, especially when it wasn’t her cash to lose. She hadn’t been able to think of anyplace safer than a bookstore to meet. It was second only to a church, but since she didn’t go to services regularly, she felt a little guilty about using its sanctuary to exchange used goods in an under-the-table type fashion.
Her eyes cast about the store, trying to guess the identity of the seller of the golf clubs. She’d positioned herself in the romance section so she could see the entrance easily. She watched as two people stood outside the front doors, talking. One of them was really tall and the other one short. She couldn’t tell if they were together or not, but they entered at the same time. One of them, the shorter one, was carrying a golf club. That has to be her. Elizabeth watched as the two women split up, one going to the front desk and the other coming straight in her direction.
Elizabeth didn’t want to be caught spying, so she grabbed a book off the shelf and acted liked she was interested in reading it. She paid no attention to the cover as she flipped the book over, ignoring the words on the back in favor of trying to get a peek at the girl headed her way.
She was tall and wearing those kind of sexy boots that went way, way up, leaving only a bit of thigh showing. The reason any of her leg was visible at all was because she had a micro-mini on; otherwise, if she’d been wearing a skirt like Elizabeth normally wore, there would have been no skin showing, the skirt hiding what little thigh might have been exposed. Elizabeth smoothed her hand down her pants self-consciously when she saw how high this other girl’s skirt was riding. The woman looked like a hooker in that outfit. The hot pink skin-tight top and short leather jacket completed the ensemble perfectly. Elizabeth wondered what a prostitute was doing in the bookstore. Is this the newest place to pick up men? Why is she coming into the romance section? To get pointers?
The prostitute stopped at the bookshelf right next to Elizabeth and began scanning the shelves. Elizabeth stepped over a bit to give her room to browse. She felt stuck. This woman was standing right there where Elizabeth had pulled the book from, making it impossible for her to put it back without having to ask her to move.
Crap. I need to get out of here. Elizabeth was becoming more anxious by the second. She needed to get over to the girl with the golf club in her hand, before she ended up in the book club meeting with it, forcing Elizabeth to make explanations she’d rather not. She looked at the cover of the book she was holding in her hand to figure out where to put it back, since the books in this section were alphabetized by author last name. She nearly choked when she realized she’d pulled an erotic romance off the shelf, whose title and cover left very little to the imagination.
Elizabeth’s conscience wouldn’t allow her to just shove the book back anywhere. She hated it when people did that, since it made it so hard for someone else to find later. Plus it made extra work for the employees, which wasn’t right. She took a deep breath and said, “Excuse me,” reaching over to put the book back in its place.
The girl in the mini-skirt raised her eyebrow as she took in the title. She looked at Elizabeth and asked, “Is it any good?”
Elizabeth didn’t respond for a moment, only realizing after a split-second that the woman was speaking to her. “Um, excuse me?”
“I said, is that book any good? The one you were just holding in your hand. ‘Hot Beef Injection’.”
“Oh, God, no ... what? Um ... I don’t know,” stuttered Elizabeth, humiliated that she’d been caught with that book in her hand, her face going beet red above the collar that was buttoned all the way up under her business suit. She’d come directly from work.
“Is it no, you didn’t like it? Or no, you don’t know because you haven’t read it yet?”
“What?
” asked Elizabeth, ready at any moment to go into full panic mode. This woman was asking her questions about a book she’d no sooner buy and read than she would the latest auto-biography written by a serial killer.
The girl pulled the book off the shelf and held it out to Elizabeth. “Did … you … like … this … book?”
Elizabeth’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head as she anxiously and quickly pushed the book away from her. “Put it away!” she whispered. “Before someone sees you!”
The girl smiled. “Sees me what? Holding a book? That’s what people do in bookstores.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and stepped away to give herself some breathing space. “Not those kinds of books. Not me.”
The girl shrugged. “Well, someone must. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be in here.” She looked down and flipped the book over to read the back, smiling at something she saw there.
Elizabeth figured she knew exactly what kind of people read those kinds of books. She stepped to the side as if she were going to leave. The voice of the girl stopped her.
“Do you have any suggestions? Something ... not so sexy, maybe?”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Elizabeth, slightly offended that this hooker person would think she was somehow only knowledgeable about non-sexy books. She’d read plenty of hot romances in her time. That’s how she knew she’d really missed out in the sex department in her own love affairs. None of her relationships had ever been anything like the ones she read about.
“Nothing personal. I can see you don’t read the erotic stuff, since you’re embarrassed about it. And you’re standing here in women’s fiction. That tells me you must like the genre. So? Do you have any recommendations?” The girl stood there, practically insisting that Elizabeth answer her.
The book lover in Elizabeth won out. She couldn’t help but talk about books with someone else who wanted to. This was totally different than trying to force bookish conversation on someone at work who really wasn’t interested in the things Elizabeth found exciting.