“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.”
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. He
r 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?”
“Yes,” I replied slowly. Was she hitting on me? I didn’t think so, but...
“That’s good,” she smiled. “I can guarantee that you will never gain weight again after you’re hypnotized.”
“Really?” I gasped. My God, that was incredible. Smoke free and at a weight I liked. This was the best day ever.
“Really,” she laughed. “Now let’s get started.”
“Wait, don’t I need to fill out a bunch of forms and pay and sign my life away in case you accidentally kill me or something?”
Blondie laughed so hard I thought she might choke. “No, no,” she assured me and quickly pulled herself together. “My receptionist is at lunch... we’ll take care of it afterwards. Besides, I’ve never killed anyone by accident.”
“Oookay.” She was a little weird, but I supposed people with her occupation would be. She did guarantee me I would be smoke free and skinny. That did not suck. Wait... I needed to think this through. I was feeling unsettled and wary. She was odd, made me uncomfortable and had electric hands. On the flip side, she was very pretty, had a really nice office and promised no weight gain. Damn.
Would common sense or vanity prevail? And the winner is... vanity. By a landslide.
She leaned into me, her green eyes intense. I could have sworn her eyes were purple-y bluish. I was getting so tired. I prayed I wouldn’t drool when I was out.
“Astrid, you need to clear your mind and look into my eyes,” Miss Russia whispered.
“How do you know my name?” I mumbled. “I didn’t tell you my name.” Alarm bells went off in my brain. My pea-brain that never should have thought it was a good idea to get hypnotized at a strip mall on the bad side of town. You’d think a business called ‘House of Hypnotism’ might have tipped me off. Crap. These were not the decisions a smart and responsible, if not somewhat directionless, twenty-nine year old woman should make. I should have listened to my gut and gone with common sense.
The room started spinning. It felt like a carnival from hell. Blondie’s mouth was so strange. There was something very unattractive going on with her mouth. It got kind of blurry, but it looked like... wait... maybe she was British. They all have bad teeth.
“I fink ooo shud stooop,” I said, mangling the English language. I tried again. “Oow do ooo know my name?” When did I put marbles in my mouth? Who in the hell dimmed the lights and cranked the air conditioner?
“Oh Astrid, not only do I know your name,” she smiled, her green eyes blazing, “I know everything about you, dear.”
— Visit THIS LINK for more info! —
Robyn’s Book List
(in correct reading order)
HOT DAMNED SERIES
Fashionably Dead
Fashionably Dead Down Under
Hell on Heels
Fashionably Dead in Diapers
A Fashionably Dead Christmas
Fashionably Hotter Than Hell
Fashionably Dead and Wed
Fashionably Fanged
Fashionably Flawed
A Fashionably Dead Diary
Fashionably Forever After
SHIFT HAPPENS SERIES
Ready to Were
Some Were in Time
No Were To Run
Were Me Out
MAGIC AND MAYHEM SERIES
Switching Hour
Witch Glitch
A Witch in Time
Magically Delicious
A Tale of Two Witches
Three’s A Charm
HANDCUFFS AND HAPPILY EVER AFTERS SERIES
How Hard Can it Be?
Size Matters
Cop a Feel
If after reading all the above you are still wanting more adventure and zany fun, read Pirate Dave and His Randy Adventures, the romance novel budding novelist Rena was helping wicked Evangeline write in How Hard Can It Be?
Warning: Pirate Dave Contains Romance Satire, Spoofing, and Pirates with Two Pork Swords.
About Robyn Peterman
Robyn Peterman writes because the people inside her head won’t leave her alone until she gives them life on paper.
Her addictions include laughing really hard with friends, shoes (the expensive kind), Target, Coke Zero Cherry with extra ice in a Styrofoam cup, bejeweled reading glasses, her kids, her super-hot hubby and collecting stray animals.
A former professional actress with Broadway, film and T.V. credits, she now lives in the South with her family an
d too many animals to count.
Writing gives her peace and makes her whole, plus having a job where you can work in your underpants works really well for her. You can leave Robyn a message via the Contact Page and she’ll get back to you as soon as her bizarre life permits! She loves to hear from her fans!
Visit www.robynpeterman.com for more information.
Ariel’s Antics Page 15
