have a clue what it was. And too bad she kept expecting to find it in the mirror. “I like change, I guess.”
Robbie was still trying to stump her. “Dinner with an ex-boyfriend.”
“Black streaks, perfect makeup. Engagement ring.”
“Your wedding.”
“Natural. No color, but flawless makeup and expensive underwear. Maybe a Vera Wang dress.”
“Get-together with old sorority girlfriends.” A new voice, one she didn’t recognize. She looked across the room and saw a new customer sitting patiently with her hair in foils. She was small, about five feet tall, with brown eyes and long lashes. She was pretending to read that week’s People, but Caitlyn could tell she wasn’t cognitively engaged in the magazine. She was much more interested in the conversation. “With lots of alcohol and a rented limo.”
“Dark blond streaks,” she replied. “Miniskirt, fitted T-shirt, sandals.”
The woman just smiled in response.
“I’ve never seen you in here before,” Caitlyn said pleasantly.
“I heard this place was the best. So here I am.”
“Mmmm. Well, we appreciate that. Don’t we, girls?”
The other cutters murmured in response, and Dara struck up a conversation with the stranger. Who was so obviously a spy, it wasn’t even funny.
Great. The Boss’s way of keeping an eye on her, she supposed.
“Oh, and I’ve got one for Mother-in-law Jeopardy,” the stranger added.
“Sorry,” Caitlyn said shortly. “Game’s over.”
Chapter 10
“—So then the Boss is all shoot-him-in-the-face and I’m all screw-that-buddy-roo, and he’s all just-do-it, you know, like a Nike ad gone mad, and I’m all you-just-do-it-you’re-so-fond-of-guns, and he’s all—unf!”
The second punching bag’s chain snapped and it sailed a good six feet in the air before collapsing on the mat.
“Aw, nuts!”
“Now you’re just showing off,” Stacy said. She was dressed in trendy workout gear—tight shorts, two tank tops (one pink, one white), spotless white socks, spotless workout shoes—and sipped her daiquiri (she’d brought a cooler full of them) while she watched Caitlyn work out. “Seriously, knock it off. It’s bad enough I’m already the ‘funny one.’ I gotta be the ‘dull one’ too?”
“Shut up, you’re gorgeous, dammit, dammit!” Caitlyn kicked the now-supine punching bag, which obligingly rolled over and over. “So I, the new kid, cleverly think up a way to fix the virus problem without anybody getting shot in the face—”
“You’ve been using that phrase a lot,” Stacy observed, pushing the pedals of her stationary bike hard enough so they went around once, then slowly stopped. She rewarded her exertions with another gulp of alcohol and ice. “It’s kind of yucky.”
“—and for my thanks I get a bunch of veiled threats and he laughs at me.”
“Sounds like a real jerk.”
“A real jerkoff. Yes. He is, he is! And I can’t work out anymore! I wreck half the gym!”
“Oh, please.” Stacy rolled her eyes. “Pardon me if I don’t cry you a river. It just means you can’t kickbox anymore.”
“But it’s, like, the best way to stay in shape.”
“I don’t think staying in shape is gonna be your big concern anymore,” Stacy observed. “Flabby thighs are now the least of your problems. And it’s one o’clock in the morning, in case you didn’t notice. We’re the only ones in the gym except for the—”
“What happened here?” the trainer cried, rushing up to them.
Caitlyn opened her mouth to say that she did not know, when Stacy interrupted. “This thing fell down and almost hit my friend.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God! I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”
“She’s fine,” Stacy answered, again before Caitlyn could say a word. “She’s got the reflexes of a cat on crack.”
“Look,” Caitlyn continued when the trainer had hurried to the back to fill out the appropriate forms, “you seem a little, I don’t know, cavalier about what’s happened to me. What they did to me. Where’s the outrage on my behalf? Where’s the love, Stace?”
Stacy climbed off the bike, smoothed her hair back, checked her reflection in one of the mirrors, then replied, “Am I sorry you got hurt? Sure am. Am I sorry you’re in this weird-ass fix? Yup. Am I sorry you’re still alive, and better than ever, and nobody can push you around anymore, not that they really ever did, excluding your parents, God rest ’em? No.”
“I’m having a little trouble following that,” she admitted.
“It’s like this, Jimmy. The first time I called the hospital—you know, after they’d released me and I was home? I wanted to check up on you, right? Well, they told me you were dead. And I—it freaked me out, okay? It totally, completely freaked me out. I wasn’t ready to lose my best friend in my mid-twenties, okay? I mean, I heard later that it was a mistake and you were in rehab or whatever, but still. That first time. Hearing it. Major major shock.”
“Sorry,” Caitlyn said quietly. She’d been so focused on what had happened to her, she had never considered what had happened to her friend.
“Wasn’t your fault. Anyway, now I don’t have to worry about that happening—you doing the big gak—for a long time. So I guess if you’re looking for a shoulder to cry on, you’d better talk to somebody who doesn’t care either way if you’re dead. Which ain’t me.”
“That’s…so sweet,” she said at last. “I’m pretty sure. So the sympathy train is at an end, huh?”
“Baby, the train never left the station.” Stacy sat on the floor, leaned against one of the rolled-up mats, propped one toe atop the other toe, took another sip, wriggled her shoulders, then asked, “So, what else can you do?”
“Burn out that bike. Knock the last kicking bag off the chain. Pick up every weight in this place—at the same time.”
“So, standard stuff. Ah, but can you do this?” She set her drink down, then patted her stomach and rubbed her head at the same time.
Caitlyn burst out laughing. “No, they must have left that out of the upgrade.”
“Well, then,” Stacy said, clearly trying not to sound smug, and failing miserably.
Chapter 11
Caitlyn hung up her coat and glared at the spy, who claimed her name was Sara. Sara hauled her sorry butt into Mag about once a week, which in itself was a joke. Caitlyn was a big believer
