Fearless in High Heels (12 page)

“But not Santa Monica,” Mom added.  “In that case, you’ll want to take the canyon, coming out on Sunset and cutting through town.”

“Unless you get car sick,” Mrs. R amended.  “Then you should go the 101 route, taking Melrose to La Cienega.  And in that case, you’d better have your tennis balls ready to go, because that could be a full forty minute ride.”

“She can put them in her overnight bag, right Maddie?” Mom said.

I blinked.

“Oh, God, Maddie, please tell me you have an overnight bag ready to go?”

I shook my head.  “Honestly, I’m not planning to stay overnight.”

“What?” Mom froze at the keyboard.

“The hospital only requires a twelve hour stay,” I explained.  “If we go in the morning, we’ll be home by dinner.”

“And what if the baby comes in the middle of the night?” Mom asked.

“Well, I’m sure that could happen, but-”

“Or what if you end up needing a C-section,” Mrs. Rosenblatt added.

I cringed involuntarily at the idea of scalpels anywhere in the vicinity of my skin.  “I’m sure we won’t need to-”

“Or what,” Mom jumped in again, “if you have a long labor?”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed.  “My second husband’s first wife was in labor with their son, Tommy, for thirty-six hours.”

“Thirty-
six
?” I squeaked out.  I suddenly felt faint.

“Don’t panic,” my Mom repeated.  “I’ll pack you a bag.  I’ll be sure to put lots of cozy nightgowns in it.

The last time I wore a “nightgown” I was five.  But I didn’t argue, still trying to wrap my brain around the idea of being in labor for a full three days.  That must be a mistake.  That can’t be normal.  I mean,
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
said nothing about thirty-six hours.  Surely
What to Expect When You’re Ex
pecting
would have told me if I should expect thirty-six hours.  It mentioned three stages of labor, but I was pretty sure I could knock each one out in an hour.  Two tops, if I was determined.       

“…and then… Maddie are you listening?”

I realized I wasn’t.  I’d been too busy not panicking.

“Sorry, what?”

“I was saying that when they put in the epidural-”

But I put up a hand to stop her.  “Stop right there.  I’m not planning to have an epidural.”

Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt turned to me as one, looks of horror on their faces like I’d just said I was going to roller skate down the Venice boardwalk without pants.

“What do you mean no epidural?” Mom asked.

“I want to have a natural birth.”

“Good lord, why?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked.

“Because the fewer the drugs, the safer it is for the baby.  Besides, my Lamaze teacher says that we can use proper breathing techniques, and with each contraction my endorphins will kick in to provide a natural pain reliever.”

Mom stared at me.  She blinked.  Then she burst into laughter.   “Oh honey, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Okay, this conversation was going downhill fast.  “Look, I’m fine.  Ramirez and I have a natural birth plan worked out with our Lamaze coach.  We can find the hospital.  We’ll be great.  Thanks so much for all your help,” I said, ushering her ever so gently out of the room and toward the front door. 

“My fifth husband, Buck, was all into that natural stuff, too,” Mrs. R said, nodding.  “He died at age forty.  Had a wheat grass blockage in his colon.”

“Greatseeingyou, thanksforstoppingby, seeyousoon,” I said all in one breath as I shut the door behind them. 

I let out a long sigh, then turned around to see Ramirez, still standing in the kitchen, staring after them, a shell-shocked look on his face.  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this tennis ball.” 

If I didn’t know better, I’d say Bad Cop was actually scared.

*  *  *

While Ramirez reheated a tamale casserole, courtesy of his mother again (I don’t know why people are so down on mother-in-laws.  I was kinda in love with mine lately.), I settled in at the laptop and a) tried not to think about labor, back or otherwise, b) tried not to think about where my husband was planning to sleep tonight, and c) tried to focus in on just who might have wanted Alexa dead.

I started by googling the term “vampires”.   

Okay, let’s face it, Ramirez was right on one account – all I knew about vampires I learned from
Moonlight
.  Which maybe wasn’t the most definitive source out there.  And considering everything in this case seemed to point back to them, I figured I’d better educate myself about my subject.

An hour and six tamales later (Hey, if The Bump only weighed a pound, I had to fatten her up.), I had found out three things:

1. There is a proportionally large number of the online population that think they are actual bloodsuckers

2.
     
Everyone on Facebook couldn’t wait for the
Moonlight
sequel and

3.
     
It’s a lot harder than Hollywood would have you believe to drain the blood from a person.

This last fact was courtesy of a woman who called herself the Vamp Doc, and had a blog article explaining just what it took to drain a body of blood.

Apparently the rate at which someone would naturally bleed out depends on which artery is punctured.  An average person has five to six liters of blood.  The heart circulates this entire amount every minute.  So, depending on the size and location of a puncture wound, it’s possible to drain a person’s entire blood supply in just over a minute. 

In theory.  But, as Vamp Doc went on to say, those are under ideal (or non-ideal, depending on your point of view) conditions.  In a typical “vampire” biting, the puncture wounds would be small enough that the heart wouldn’t pump out at maximum volume.  However, she estimated that it would only take a total of two to three minutes before an individual would lose two-and-a-half to three liters of blood, a sufficient amount to cause loss of consciousness and death.

Which was plenty of time for our killer to off Alexa in the bathroom stall.  Assuming that the killer punctured her neck and drained her of blood, it would have taken no more than five minutes tops, and the killer would have been on her way.

The only snag would have been I doubted Alexa would let someone drain her of blood without a struggle.  Sure she was into the scene, but at some point she must have realized that they weren’t playing.  So how come there was no sign of a struggle?  No blood anywhere at the scene?

“What’s that?” Ramirez asked, coming up behind me, a plate of cookies in hand.  Chocolate chip, if my nose didn’t deceive me.

I quickly shut the laptop screen.

“What?” I asked innocently.

He shot me a look.  “Did I just see fangs on that website?”

“I don’t know.  Did you?”

“Luuucy,” he said, doing his best Ricky Ricardo.

I rolled my eyes.  “Fine, yes.  I’m researching vampires.  Happy?”

“You know what would make me happy?” Ramirez asked, setting the plate down on top of a diaper genie box.  “A wife who sits at home and knits.  Or bakes.  Or even does crossword puzzles.”

“Boring,” I decreed, grabbing a cookie.  “What fun would that be?”

He grinned, showing off the dimple in his left cheek.  “You’re right.  No fun at all,” he teased.

I grinned back. 

But then the weirdest thing happened.  A film of awkward settled in the room between us.  See, normally, this is where he’d make some sexual comment, do those dark, chocolate eyes at me, I’d melt into a puddle, and then he’d scoop me into his arms and we’d hit the bedroom.

Only his eyes weren’t dark chocolate right now.  They were just a slightly amused brown.  And he wasn’t making sexual comments.  In fact, his eyes were straying to the pile of paperwork beside the laptop more than they were to me.  And I was way too big to be scooped by anyone.

It was almost as if I could feel the chemistry between us dying a slow, painful death as we sat there grinning stupidly at each other. 

Okay, I had two choices here.  I could either grow a pair and ask my husband why he didn’t want to sleep with me… resulting in most likely being rejected for the second night in a row and possibly hearing the dreaded truth that my gargantu-butt no longer turned him on.  Or, I could instead take the plate of cookies, get into my Snuggie, and go watch
Moonlight
for the eighth time with my good pal, Denial.

The cookies were chocolate chip.  The decision was a no brainer.

I did a yawn that was bordering on uber-fake, stretching my arms above my head.  “Well, I’m super tired so I’m gonna go retire early,” I told Ramirez.

“Sure.  Good idea,” he said, his hands already reaching for the papers beside the desk, his eyes not meeting mine as if he’d heard the chemistry die, too.  “’Night, Maddie.”

I grabbed the plate, shoved another cookie in my mouth as I mumbled, “’Night,” and made my way into bed.

Alone.

Again.

Chapter Fourteen

I was chasing her.  Running through the streets of downtown L.A.  It was dark, the streetlights casting only the faintest glow of light as I watched her red hair disappear around a corner.  Amazingly, the street was deserted, something that never actually happened in L.A.  It was just her and me.  I could hear her breath coming hard, was sure I was catching up to her.

“Becca!” I called out.  But she didn’t stop, didn’t slow down.  Just kept running.

I continued following her, but the faster I needed to go, the slower it seemed my feet would move.  It was like the sidewalk was suddenly made of molasses, every step a struggle.  And I could see her getting away, pulling farther and farther ahead of me until all I could see was the faintest outline of her shape.

“Becca!” I called out to her again. 

But a deep voice behind me responded, “Forget her.”

I stopped running and spun around to find myself face to face with Sebastian.  His icy blue eyes were bearing down on me, his hair shining like dangerous spikes in the glow of the lamps above us.

“She’s gone,” he told me.  “But I need to replace her.”

He took a step forward.  “I want you to replace her.”

I opened my mouth to protest, to scream, but no sound came out.  Instead, I felt myself gasping for air as Sebastian’s eyes turned wild, his lips parting, and his fangs gleaming under the streetlamps as he reached for my neck…

The sound of the William Tell Overture screamed from my nightstand, jerking me awake.  I took three deep breaths, pulling myself out of my dream and back into reality as I glared at the alarm clock numbers glowing red next to me.  7:30 AM.  Reluctantly I fumbled in my sleep-haze until my fingers connected with my cell, and I managed to stab the on button.

“Hello?” I croaked out.

“He didn’t come home last night,” Dana whimpered on the other end.

“Who?”

“Ricky!  Maddie, he didn’t come home last night.  He’s out with Ava.  That’s it, I’ve lost him to a
Playboy
vamp-bunny!”

I blinked, rubbing sleep from my eyes.  “You’re sure he’s out with Ava?”

“Where else could he be?”

“Maybe he was shooting last night?”

I heard Dana nodding on the other end.  “Uh huh.  He was.  But the shoot was over at six, and it’s now seven-thirty, and he isn’t home.”

I did a mental eye roll.  “An hour and a half?  Honey that’s not a ‘he didn’t come home last night,’ that’s a ‘he’s stuck in traffic on the 101.’”

“This is what she’s doing to me,” Dana said, her voice rising into the hysterics zone.  “Thanks to that full frontal twit I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, all I think about is Ricky signing another contract to let her sink her fangs into my boyfriend’s neck.”

“I’m sure Ricky’s on his way.  Did you try calling him?”

“His cell is off.”  Dana paused.  “Oh God.  His cell is off.  That’s a bad sign, isn’t it?  That’s a sign he doesn’t want me to know where he is.  He’s sleeping with her, isn’t he?  He’s sleeping with her right now with his phone off!”

“Deep breaths.  In, out,” I instructed.

I heard her comply on the other end, sucking in a gulp of air.  “Maddie, you have to come down to the set with me and find him.”

“Now?” I asked, glancing at my alarm clock again.  7:32.  Still way too early for human contact.

“Please, Maddie.  I’m going insane here.  I need moral support.  I need backup.  If I find him naked in her trailer, there’s no telling what I might do.”

She had a good point.  “Give me twenty minutes.”

“I love you.  I’ll be there in ten,” Dana promised, then hung up.

I resisted the urge to fall back into my pillows again, instead dragging my tired self into the shower and through the rituals of hair, make-up, tooth brushing.  I then crammed myself into a pair of yoga pants (that were only a little tight in the butt), a forgivingly empire waisted baby-doll sundress (that was long enough to cover said butt), and a pair of woven wedges.  I was just shoving Baby-So-Lifelike into my bag (this time wrapped in a plastic diaper from one of the many boxes stored in our spare room) when Dana showed up, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me out to her car.

To say the ride to Sunset Studios was tense was a gross understatement.  Dana treated yellow lights like challenges, stop signs like suggestions, and her gas pedal as if it were an icky spider that needed stomped to death, the harder the better.  By the time we finally parked in the lot next to the line of golf carts, my knuckles were whiter than a
Moonlight
cast member and were permanently embedded in her dash.

“That’s it, next time, I’m driving,” I warned her as she grabbed me by the arm and steered me to a golf cart.

Five minutes later we were pulling into the Brooklyn street where the
Moonlight
set was camped out again today.  Dana narrowly missed hitting a wardrobe rack as she pulled up next to Ricky’s trailer and catapulted herself to his front door, banging on it with both fists.

A moment later, Ricky’s head popped out of the door.  “Dude, what’s going on?”  He looked down and saw Dana.  “Babe?  What are you doing here?”