Fashionably Dead (2 page)

“Mother, is everything alright?”

She stood there mutely and stared. She was dressed to the nines. She didn’t belong here . . . in this town, in this state, in my life.

“I’m sorry, are you speaking to me?” she asked. Shit, she was perfect . . . on the outside. Gorgeous and put together to a degree I didn’t even aspire to. On the inside she was a snake.

“Um, yes. I asked you if . . . ” I stammered.

“I heard you,” she countered smoothly. “If you can’t bother to comply with my wishes, I can’t be bothered to answer you.”

“Right,” I muttered and wished the floor would open and swallow me. “I’m sorry, I meant Petra. Petra, is everything alright?”

“No, everything is not alright,” she hissed. “I have a plane to catch and I have no more time or patience to make chit chat with backward rednecks. It was wrong of you to ask me to be here.”

“Your mother died,” I said flatly. “This is her funeral and these people are here to pay their respects.”

“Oh for God’s sake, she was old and lived well past her time.”

I was speechless. Rare for me, but if anyone was capable of shocking me to silence, it was my mother.

“So, like I said, I have a plane to catch. I’ll be back next week.” She eyed me critically, grimacing at what she saw. “You need some lipstick. You’re lucky you got blessed with good genes because you certainly don’t do anything to help.”

With that loving little nugget, she turned on her stiletto heel and left. I glanced around to see if we’d been overheard and was mortified to see we had clearly been the center of attention.

“Jesus, she’s mean,” Gemma said, pulling me away from prying eyes and big ears.

“Do I look awful?” I whispered, feeling the heat crawl up my neck as the mourners looked on with pity. Not for my loss, but for my parentage.

“You’re beautiful,” Gemma said. “Inside and out.”

“I need to smoke,” I mumbled. “Can we leave yet?”

Gemma checked her watch. “Yep, we’re out of here.”

“I don’t want to go home yet,” I said, looking around for Bobby Joe Gimble, the funeral director. Where in the hell was he and did I need to tip him? Shit, I had no clue what funeral etiquette was. “Do I have to . . . ?”

“Already took care of everything,” Gemma told me. “Let’s go.”

“Where to?” I asked. Damn, I was grateful she was mine.

“Hattie’s.”

“Thank you, Jesus.”

***

Hattie’s sold one thing and one thing only. Ice cream. Homemade, full of fat, heart attack inducing ice cream. It was probably my favorite place in the world.

“I’ll have a triple black raspberry chip in a cone cup,” I said as I eyed all the flavors. I didn’t know why I even looked at them. I was totally loyal to my black raspberry chip. My ice cream couldn’t talk back to me, break up with me or make me feel bad. Of course, my love could extend the size of my ass, but I wasn’t even remotely concerned about that today. Besides, I planned a very long run for later. I needed to clear my head and be alone.

“Sorry about your loss, Sugar,” Hattie said and I nodded. Her big fleshy arms wobbled as she scooped out my treat. “Do you want sprinkles and whipped cream on that, Baby?”

“Um . . . ” I glanced over at Gemma who grinned and gave me a thumbs up. “Yes, yes I do.”

“Me too,” Gemma added, “but I want mint chip, please.”

“You got it, Sugar Buns,” Hattie said and handed me a monstrous amount of ice cream. “It’s on me today, Astrid. I feel just terrible I couldn’t be at the funeral.”

“That’s okay, Hattie. You and Nana were such good friends. I want your memories to be of that.”

“Thank you for that, Darlin’. Ever since my Earl died from siphoning gasoline, I haven’t been able to set foot near that goddamn funeral parlor.”

I swallowed hard. Her late ex-husband Earl had siphoned gasoline since he was ten. His family owned the local gas station and apparently, as legend had it, he enjoyed the taste. But on the fateful day in question, he’d been smoking a cigar while he did it . . . and blew himself to kingdom come. It was U-G-L-Y. Earl was spread all over town. Literally. He and Hattie had been divorced for years and hated each other. It was no secret he had fornicated with over half the older women in town, but when he died like that, he became a saint in her eyes.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek. Hard. Although it was beyond inappropriate, whenever anyone talked about Earl, I laughed.

“Astrid totally understands.” Gemma gave Hattie a quick hug and pushed me away from the counter before I said or did something unforgivable.

“Thanks,” I whispered. “That would have been bad.”

“Yep,” Gemma grinned and shoveled a huge spoon of ice cream in her mouth.

“Where in the hell do you put that?” I marveled at her appetite. “You’re tiny.”

“You’re a fine one to talk, Miss I Have the World’s Fastest Metabolism.”

“That’s the only good thing I inherited from the witch who spawned me,” I said and dug in to my drug of choice. I winced in pain as my frozen ice cream ass-extender went straight to the middle of my forehead.

“Are you okay?” Gemma asked.

I took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of my nose. God, I hated brain freezes. “No, not right now, but I’ve decided to change some stuff. Nana would want me to.”

My best friend watched me silently over her ice cream.

“I’m going to stop smoking, get a real career, work out every day, date someone who has a job and not a parole officer, get married, have two point five kids and prove that I was adopted.”

“That’s a pretty tall order. How are you gonna make all that happen?” she asked, handing me a napkin. “Wipe your mouth.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. “I have no fucking idea, but I will succeed . . . or die trying.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Um, thanks. Do you mind if we leave here so I can chain smoke ‘til I throw up so it will be easier to quit?”

“Is that the method you’re going to use?” Gemma asked, scooping up our unfinished ice cream and tossing it.

“I know it seems a little unorthodox, but I read it worked for Jennifer Aniston.”

“Really?”

“No, but it sounded good,” I said, dragging her out of Hattie’s.

“God, Astrid,” Gemma groaned. “Whatever you need to do I’m here for you, but you have to quit. I don’t want you to die. Ever.”

“Everybody dies,” I said quietly, reminded that the woman I loved most had died only a week ago. “But I’ve got too fucking much to do to die any time soon.”

Chapter 1

Three months later . . .

“There are ten thousand ways to express yourself creatively,” I huffed, yanking on my running shoes. “My God, there’s acting, painting, sewing, belly dancing, cooking . . . Shit, scrapbooking is creative.” I shoved my arms into my high school sweatshirt that had seen better days.

“You’re not actually wearing that,” Gemma said, helping herself to my doughnut.

“Yep, I actually am.” I grabbed my breakfast out of her hand and shoved it in my mouth. “And by the way, I’ve decided to be a movie star.”

“But you can’t act,” my best friend reminded me.

“That’s completely beside the point,” I explained, taking the sweatshirt off. I hated it when Gemma was right. “Half the people in Hollywood can’t act.”

“Don’t you think it might be wise to choose a career that you actually have the skills to do?”

“Nope, I told you I’m making changes. Big ones.”

I bent over and tied my running shoes. Maybe if I just ran forever, I would stop hurting. Maybe if I found something meaningful, I could figure out who in the hell I was.

Gemma picked up my soda and took a huge swig. “You’re an artist and a damn good one. You should do something with that.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, admiring my reflection in the microwave. Holy hell, my hair was sticking up all over my head. “Why didn’t you tell me my hair exploded?”

“Because it’s funny,” Gemma laughed.

“I’ll never make it in show business if people see my hair like this,” I muttered and tried to smooth it down.

“Astrid, you will never make it in show business no matter what your hair looks like. You may be pretty, but you can’t act your way out of a hole and you suck as a liar,” Gemma informed me as she flopped down on my couch and grabbed the remote.

“Your confidence in me is overwhelming.” I picked out a baseball cap and shoved it over my out of control curls. “If the movie star thing doesn’t work out, I might open a restaurant.”

“Did you become mentally challenged during the night at some point?” she asked as she channel surfed faster than any guy I ever dated.

“Gimme that thing.” I yanked the remote away from her. “What in the hell are you trying to find?”

“
Jersey Shore
.”

“For real?” I laughed.

“For real for real,” she grinned.

“Don’t you have a home?” I asked.

“Yep. I just like yours better.”

I threw the remote back at her and grabbed my purse. If I was going to be a famous actress, or at the very least a chef, I needed to get started. But before I could focus on my new career, I had business to take care of. Very important business . . .

“Where are you going?” Gemma yawned. “It’s 8:00 on a Sunday morning.”

“I’m going running,” I said, staring at the ceiling.

“Oh my God,” Gemma grinned, calling me out on my lie. “Astrid, since when do you run with your purse?”

“Okay fine,” I snapped. “I’m going to run a few errands and say goodbye forever to one of my best friends today.”

Gemma gaped at me. Her mouth hung open like she’d had an overdose of Novocain at the dentist. “So today is the day? You really going to end it?”

“I don’t really have a choice, since there’s so much damn money riding on it.”

“Oh my God,” she squealed and punched me in the arm. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Don’t be proud yet,” I muttered, praying I’d be successful with my breakup plans.

“You didn’t have to take the bet,” Gemma said.

“Yes, I did,” I said and shook my head with disgust. “Nothing else has worked. Voodoo has to.”

“Voodoo?”

“Yep.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Thanks,” I said as I slapped on some lip gloss. “I’m gonna need it.”

“Yes, you are,” Gemma grinned. “Yes, you are.”

***

It was hot and I was sweaty and I wondered for the umpteenth time if I was losing my mind. I needed to stop making bets that were impossible to win. Maybe I could be a social smoker or I could just hide it from everyone. I could carry perfume and gum and lotion and drive to the next town when I needed a nicotine fix.

“Excuse me, are you here to be hypnotized?” a feminine voice purred.

I glanced up from my spot on the filthy sidewalk and there stood the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I quickly stubbed out my cigarette, turned my head away in embarrassment and blew my smoke out. Reason number three hundred and forty-six to quit . . . impersonating a low class loser.

She looked foreign—Slavic or Russian. Huge violet-blue eyes, full lips, high cheekbones set in a perfect heart-shaped face, framed by tons of honey-gold blonde hair. Absolutely ridiculous. I felt a little inadequate. Not only was the face perfect, but the body was to die for. Long legs, pert boobies, ass-o-rific back side and about six feet tall. I was tall at 5 feet 9 inches, but she was
tall
.

“Well, I was,” I explained, straightening up and trying to look less like a crumpled homeless mess from my seat on the sidewalk, “but they must have moved.” I pointed to a rusted-out doorway.

“Oh no,” the gorgeous Amazon giggled. Seriously, did she just giggle? “That’s not the door. It’s right over here.” She grabbed my hand, her grip was firm and cool, and guided me to the correct door. A zap of electricity shot up my arm when she touched me. I tried to nonchalantly disengage my hand from hers, but she held mine fast. “Here we go.” She escorted me into the lobby of a very attractive office.

“I don’t know how I missed this,” I muttered as she briskly led me to a very nice exam room. She released my hand. Did that zap really just happen? Maybe I was already in nicotine withdrawal.

“Please have a seat.” The blue eyed bombshell indicated a very soft and cozy looking pale green recliner.

“I’m sorry, are you the hypnotist?” I asked as I sat. Something didn’t feel quite right. What was a gorgeous, Amazon Russian-looking chick doing in Mossy Creek, Kentucky? This was a tiny town, surely I would have seen her before.

“Yes, yes I am,” she replied, sitting on a stool next to my comfy chair with an official-looking clipboard in her hand. “So you’re here because . . . ?”

“Because . . . um, I want to stop smoking,” I told her and then quickly added, “Oh, and I don’t want to gain any weight.” If you don’t ask for the impossible, there’s no way you’ll ever get it.

Miss Universe very slowly and somewhat clinically looked me over from head to toe. “Your weight looks perfect. You are a very beautiful young woman. Are you happy with your body right now?”