Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit Read Online Free PDF Page A

You (short story)
    Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)

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    SNEAK PEEK
    of the first
    High Heels Mystery
    by Gemma Halliday:

    SPYING IN HIGH HEELS

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    Chapter One

    I was late.
    And I don’t mean the kind of late where I spent too much time doing my hair and was now stuck in traffic. I mean I was late late. The kind of late where the 99% effective warnings on the side of condom boxes flashed before my eyes as I white knuckled my way down the 405, silently screaming, why me? Why, oh why me? I’m a new millennium girl. I took copious notes in 6 th grade Sex Ed. I carry just-in-case condoms in the zippered section of my purse. And, after that first singularly awkward experience in the back of Todd Hanson’s ‘82 Chevy after junior prom, I have been meticulously careful. Me. I was late. And I was not taking it well.
    “ Dana?” Silence. “Dana, I need to talk to you.” Silence. “I swear to God if you are screening me I am never speaking to you again.”
    I switched my cell phone to the other hand as I changed lanes, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pick-up that had “wash me” carved in opaque dust, before continuing my desperate pleas into my best friend’s answering machine.
    “ Dana, please, please, please pick up? Please?” I paused. Nothing. “All right, I guess you really aren’t there. But please, please, please call me back as soon as you get this message. I mean pronto. This is a serious code red, 911 emergency. I need to talk to you now!” I punctuated this last word by laying on my horn as a bald guy in a convertible cut me off then had the audacity to give me the finger. Welcome to L.A.
    I flipped my phone shut, breaking a French tipped nail in the process, and counted to ten, trying to remember some of that calming yoga breathing from the one class Dana had dragged me to last month. Unfortunately, at the time I’d had my full attention focused on not falling flat on my face during a downward facing dog, and I think I was beginning to hyperventilate.
    I merged onto the 10 freeway, glancing down at the digital readout on my dashboard clock, and realized with a twist of irony that I was now not only late, but late. As in not on time to meet my boyfriend, Richard Howe, for lunch. He’d made one o’clock reservations at Giani’s and it was now twelve fifty-eight. I eased my suede ankle boot (which had maxed out my Macy’s card, but was so worth it!) down just a little harder on the accelerator, after checking the rearview mirror to make sure the highway patrol was nowhere in sight. Not that I was speeding. Much. But considering the day I’d had so far, an encounter with the CHP was not on my list of to-do’s.
    As I checked for motorcycle cops, I also gave myself a quick once over in the mirror. Not bad considering I was having the freak out of my life. My ash blond hair was still tucked into a flattering half twist, a few flyaways but the messy look was in, right? I pulled out a tube of Raspberry Perfection lip-gloss and applied a thin swipe across my lips, ignoring the obscene gestures from the guy behind me. Hey, if a girl in a crisis doesn’t have her lipstick, what does she have?
    I’m proud to say I only got flipped off two more times before pulling my little red Jeep (top up today as a concession to my hair) into the parking garage on the corner of 7 th and Grand. I fastened The Club securely on my steering wheel and prepared to hoof it the two blocks to my boyfriend’s firm where I was supposed to meet him… I looked down at my watch… damn. Twelve minutes ago. Well, on the up side, as soon as I told him about being late, I had a feeling he’d forget all about my being late.
    A conversation I was seriously dreading. In my mind it went something like this: Hi Richard, sorry I’m late, by the way I may be having your child. Insert cartoon sound of Richard hitting the door at roadrunner-like speeds. Ugh. There was just no good way to ease into