friends here."
Her "friends" were weeping, but Justine was dry-eyed with disbelief. This couldn't be happening, not to her. Not when she finally had the world by the balls after years of clawing her way up from the degradation of in-home makeup parties. For instant cheekbones, apply blush on the apple of your cheek. Christ, didn't she deserve to enjoy her success for a few lousy years?
"I'm going to count to three," Lisa Crane said, pointing the gun at wide-eyed Terri Birch, vice president of human resources. Terri had three kids and a vacation home in Aspen. "One..."
And Justine had shagged Terri's husband, Jim, in the catering pantry at the company Christmas party.
"Two..."
Terri began to sob.
"Okay," Justine said with a tiny chopping motion. "Okay." She smoothed her hands down her thighs and began lifting the hem of her skirt one millimeter at a time. She'd stall the woman as long as possible, hoping that by some miracle, help would arrive before the bullets started flying again. "You've got it all wrong, Mrs. Crane. Randall and I are just friends."
"That's not what he said." The woman laughed. "Right before I shot him."
Her heart pummeled her breastbone. Randall was... dead ? Good God, the woman was mad. "M-Mrs. Crane, why don't you let these people go? They're innocent in this matter."
"Nobody's going anywhere until you expose your ass to the world. Somehow I don't think these folks will mind, because I'll bet they've had to kiss it a few times." She motioned with the gun for Justine to keep lifting, then pressed the barrel to Terri Birch's head. Terri's big hair nearly enveloped the gun.
Justine swallowed and slowly inched her skirt upward. The air touched her skin above the black thigh-high stockings. The woman was riveted, and so were most of Justine's staff. A couple of them had the good grace to look away, and Justine made mental notes for future pay raises. If she lived.
Her hem snagged on a garter belt fastener, then bumped higher. When the bottom of the fabric brushed her pubic hair, Justine set her jaw—she'd lifted her skirt for less compelling reasons than to avoid death. Of course, the woman was likely to shoot her anyway if the cavalry didn't arrive soon. She'd balled enough cops in this town that they'd damn well better save the day before she got her ass shot off. Her only flash of vindication standing skirt-up in the path of the air-conditioning vent was that she had one fine-looking ass.
"Guess those were your panties," Mrs. Crane said dryly, but she seemed deflated in the face of truth.
"You've proved your point, Mrs. Crane," Justine said, dropping her skirt. "Now put down the gun. Randall isn't worth all this."
The woman squinted. "No, you wouldn't think so, would you? You didn't work as a waitress to put him through law school. You didn't give him two sons. You didn't nurse his mother through Alzheimer's. Randall means nothing to you, but he is everything to me!" The woman was crying now, and pressing poor Terri's head to the side with the barrel of the gun.
"Relax, Mrs. Crane," Justine soothed.
"A person can't just go through life destroying relationships and get away with it!"
The faces of the married men Justine had slept with over the years passed before her eyes. "Please put down the gun."
The woman suddenly laughed. "I don't think so." She moved the gun from Terri's temple and aimed for Justine's chest. Justine inhaled and closed her eyes.
When the shot rang out and mayhem erupted, she fell to the ground and waited for the pain to overtake her. She hadn't talked to Regina in weeks, to her parents in months, and to Mica in years. She curled into a ball and wondered if her back-stabbing baby sister would have the heart to show up for her funeral.
Chapter 3
DO wake up and smell the leftovers.
Mica was trapped in a cabinet of some kind. She inhaled the pungent, mossy scent of walnut wood, and her eyes flew wide in the darkness. She was inside the wardrobe.
Her "friends" were weeping, but Justine was dry-eyed with disbelief. This couldn't be happening, not to her. Not when she finally had the world by the balls after years of clawing her way up from the degradation of in-home makeup parties. For instant cheekbones, apply blush on the apple of your cheek. Christ, didn't she deserve to enjoy her success for a few lousy years?
"I'm going to count to three," Lisa Crane said, pointing the gun at wide-eyed Terri Birch, vice president of human resources. Terri had three kids and a vacation home in Aspen. "One..."
And Justine had shagged Terri's husband, Jim, in the catering pantry at the company Christmas party.
"Two..."
Terri began to sob.
"Okay," Justine said with a tiny chopping motion. "Okay." She smoothed her hands down her thighs and began lifting the hem of her skirt one millimeter at a time. She'd stall the woman as long as possible, hoping that by some miracle, help would arrive before the bullets started flying again. "You've got it all wrong, Mrs. Crane. Randall and I are just friends."
"That's not what he said." The woman laughed. "Right before I shot him."
Her heart pummeled her breastbone. Randall was... dead ? Good God, the woman was mad. "M-Mrs. Crane, why don't you let these people go? They're innocent in this matter."
"Nobody's going anywhere until you expose your ass to the world. Somehow I don't think these folks will mind, because I'll bet they've had to kiss it a few times." She motioned with the gun for Justine to keep lifting, then pressed the barrel to Terri Birch's head. Terri's big hair nearly enveloped the gun.
Justine swallowed and slowly inched her skirt upward. The air touched her skin above the black thigh-high stockings. The woman was riveted, and so were most of Justine's staff. A couple of them had the good grace to look away, and Justine made mental notes for future pay raises. If she lived.
Her hem snagged on a garter belt fastener, then bumped higher. When the bottom of the fabric brushed her pubic hair, Justine set her jaw—she'd lifted her skirt for less compelling reasons than to avoid death. Of course, the woman was likely to shoot her anyway if the cavalry didn't arrive soon. She'd balled enough cops in this town that they'd damn well better save the day before she got her ass shot off. Her only flash of vindication standing skirt-up in the path of the air-conditioning vent was that she had one fine-looking ass.
"Guess those were your panties," Mrs. Crane said dryly, but she seemed deflated in the face of truth.
"You've proved your point, Mrs. Crane," Justine said, dropping her skirt. "Now put down the gun. Randall isn't worth all this."
The woman squinted. "No, you wouldn't think so, would you? You didn't work as a waitress to put him through law school. You didn't give him two sons. You didn't nurse his mother through Alzheimer's. Randall means nothing to you, but he is everything to me!" The woman was crying now, and pressing poor Terri's head to the side with the barrel of the gun.
"Relax, Mrs. Crane," Justine soothed.
"A person can't just go through life destroying relationships and get away with it!"
The faces of the married men Justine had slept with over the years passed before her eyes. "Please put down the gun."
The woman suddenly laughed. "I don't think so." She moved the gun from Terri's temple and aimed for Justine's chest. Justine inhaled and closed her eyes.
When the shot rang out and mayhem erupted, she fell to the ground and waited for the pain to overtake her. She hadn't talked to Regina in weeks, to her parents in months, and to Mica in years. She curled into a ball and wondered if her back-stabbing baby sister would have the heart to show up for her funeral.
Chapter 3
DO wake up and smell the leftovers.
Mica was trapped in a cabinet of some kind. She inhaled the pungent, mossy scent of walnut wood, and her eyes flew wide in the darkness. She was inside the wardrobe.
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