Christmas In High Heels (4 page)

I set my shake down and put the car in gear, pulling up in front of the huge concrete and glass structure of the Sunset Gym in record time. I parked in the lot, declining the valet parking. Yes, in L.A. people actually avoided walking the two yards from the parking lot to the gym before doing their three-mile run. Go figure.

As I entered the gym, a tall guy with a buzz cut and Popeye arms stopped me at the front desk. He looked me up and down, taking in the two-inch boots, Ann Taylor skirt and lack of Nike bag slung over my shoulder. I wasn’t fooling him. We both knew I only used my membership for a swim in the pool on those hundred degree plus days.

After whipping out my ID card and satisfying the steroid gatekeeper, I entered the main floor, scanning past rows of exercycles for any sign of Dana. I spotted her at the front of a class by the windows, stepping and sculpting their little hearts out. I had a brief moment of guilt over my gazillion calorie lunch, but it didn’t last long. Certainly not long enough for me to actually suit up and jump on a stepper.

Instead I grabbed a dog-eared copy of
Elle
, settling onto a bench along the wall to wait. It didn’t take long for the gyrating steppers to finish, breaking into a self-congratulatory round of applause. The teacher of the step class came jogging toward me, her strawberry blonde ponytail swishing back and forth. A perfect size two, she looked like she’d just stepped off the pages of
Sports Illustrated
. And not the swimsuit edition, but the women-who-lift-and-the-men-who-love-them edition. I would hate her, except for the fact that Dana, a.k.a. aerobics queen, was my best friend.

“What’s up?” she asked, looking down at my high heeled boots with a frown.

“I just ate,” I said by way of defense.

Dana shot me a dubious look but let it go. Instead she began doing a little jogging in place thing as she talked. “So, I got your message. What’s the big emergency?”

“I, uh…” I looked over my shoulder as if I almost shouldn't be saying it out loud. “I’m late.”

“Okay, we’ll talk fast. What’s up?”

“No, no. Not late.
Late
.”

Dana cocked her head to one side, taking this in before the meaning hit her. “Oh my God. You mean you missed your period?”

“No. I didn’t
miss
anything yet. I’m just a little late.”

“No wonder you’re freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out. I’m… just a little late.”

Dana shot me the yeah-right look she’d been using on me ever since we bonded over our love of New Kids On the Block in seventh grade. “Right. And that’s why you left four messages on my machine this morning.”

I cringed. Did I really leave four? “Okay fine. I’m freaking out. But just a little.”

“Did you take a test yet?” she asked, switching to a jumping jacks routine.

“Like a pregnancy test?”

“No, an algebra test. Geez, anyone would think you’ve never been late before.”

Truth was, I hadn’t. And that’s what was scaring me even more about my predicament. Ever since my monthly visitor began arriving, I’d been twenty-eight days like clockwork. Which is why I’d panicked and left a near stalker amount of messages on my best friend’s machine. Hey, wait a minute, if she got my messages, how come she didn’t call me back?

“Why didn’t you call me back?”

Dana got that wicked smile on her face that said she was either dating someone new or about to give someone twenty push-ups.

“I wasn’t exactly alone.”

“Do I want to know who?”

“Sasha Aleksandrov,” she said, switching to a little two-step footwork in place.

“Excuse me?”

Dana giggled. Yes, grown women with 1% body fat still giggle like middle schoolers with braces when it comes to men. “He’s a Russian body contortionist. Sasha’s the bottom of the human pyramid in the Cirqué Fantastique.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. Dana had an uncanny ability to pick guys who were destined for short-term relationships. “So where did you meet Mr. Pyramid Bottom?”

“Here. He came in with the Spanish trapeze artist to work out last week. I offered to show him how to use the Cybex machine. He doesn’t have them in Russia.”

“Of course not.”

“And, we hit it off. He asked if I wanted to see him perform.”

Considering the many meanings behind that statement, I’m betting Dana said yes. She never passed up an opportunity to see a muscular man “perform.”

“That’s it. I don’t want to hear any more,” I said, covering my ears. Dana giggled again.

“Okay, so how late are you?” she asked instead.

“Three days.”

“And you called me before noon for that? Honey, three days is nothing.”

“Dana, I’ve never been three days late before.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got an emergency preggers test at home. I have one more class then we’ll go to my place and make a pitcher of margaritas while you pee on a stick. It’ll be fun, okay?”

“No. No margaritas, Dana. I can’t drink that stuff, I might be pregnant.”

At this, Dana actually abandoned her aerobics, standing perfectly still. She stared at me, her pert little mouth hanging open. “You’re not actually thinking of having a baby are you?”

Was I?

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do if I… if… you know.”

“We see a pink line?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. No margaritas for now. But you are so peeing tonight.”

* * *

Luckily I convinced Dana that peeing on a stick was a solo mission and left her to her Kickboxing for Seniors class. I did stop by the drugstore and picked up a test, the most embarrassing purchase of my entire life including the first time I ever bought condoms and accidentally grabbed super ribbed for her pleasure. I also purchased a Big Gulp, so by the time I pulled into the driveway of my second-story studio in Santa Monica, I was ready to pee. Physically that was. Mentally, I was a wreck.

I locked my Jeep, climbed the wooden stairs to my apartment, and let myself in, dropping the drugstore package on the kitchen counter. Despite the fact I had to pee like a racehorse, I couldn’t quite get up the courage to take the pregnancy test into the bathroom with me. Somehow now that I was faced with an entire array of IF’s, that test had become scarier than a Wes Craven movie. I mean, what
if
it did turn pink? Did I really want a baby? I looked around my cozy (translation: dinky) studio apartment, filled to max capacity with a fold out-futon and my sketch table. Where the hell would I even put a baby?

I guessed I’d always assumed I’d have kids someday. But even though I was closing in on thirty (and I refuse to say just
how
closely) someday still seemed far, far into the future. When I was more settled, domestic. Married. Oh God, would Richard think I wanted him to marry me? Did I?

I think I was hyperventilating again.

I went to the bathroom, sans stick, then checked my answering machine. No messages. Namely, no Richard. I picked up the receiver and dialed his number, waiting as it rang on the other end. His machine kicked in and I left what I thought was a relatively breezy message, considering the circumstances.

I plopped myself down on the sofa and clicked on the TV, settling for
Seinfeld
reruns while I waited for Richard to return my call. By
Letterman
, I still hadn’t heard from him. Which was annoying and also a little worrisome. He
had
said he’d call me tonight. And it wasn’t like Richard to ignore my messages. I tried not to freak out, instead promising myself I’d take the pregnancy test just as soon as I heard from Richard.

A promise that would soon come back to haunt me.

SPYING IN HIGH HEELS

Available now from Smashwords.com!

Table of Contents

Chapter One