

## Carpe DiEmily

## (Part 1)

### Riley J. Ford

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Riley J. Ford

All rights reserved.

The book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without the permission of the publisher. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
Table of Contents

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Author and Book Links

_Acknowledgments:_

I would like to thank the following people for supporting my dreams. I couldn't have done it without you.

  * My dear friend, Rudy Krall, for being the best writing partner a person could ever have.

  * The amazing Rebecca Hamilton, for being a whiz at everything and sharing it all with me.

  * The beautiful and talented Pamela Winslow Kashani, for your creative wisdom and friendship.

  * Jake Fraleigh, for being a hard-working, uber-talented cover artist.

  * And most of all, my husband and children . . . for being who you are.

For E, C, and A . . . always

_Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved! That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly._

– _Leo Tolstoy_

On usual days, Emily Keane had no problem deciding what to wear. But on this particular morning, she stood in front of her neatly organized closet and wondered what would be the best outfit for a wedding proposal. _Her_ wedding proposal, to be exact. Tonight Lenny was finally going to ask her to marry him, seven long years in coming.

"I have something important to ask you," he'd said last night, a mysterious glint in his pale eyes as they sat on his couch watching a Lakers game. "Let's meet at Seafood Soliloquy tomorrow at six."

During a commercial break, he'd gone to the bathroom, and Emily had swiftly rummaged through his briefcase, looking for confirmation of his intentions. Sure enough, she'd found a jewelry receipt. The only thing that had disappointed her was the price. He'd spent just a few hundred dollars. What would that buy, a piece of quartz set in tin? But then, both Emily and Lenny prided themselves on being fiscally conservative. They'd always agreed it was silly to spend money on frivolous things, which is why they only went to Seafood Soliloquy once a year, on their anniversary, and had never taken a trip together. Lenny always looked at the bottom line and his shrewdness was one of the things Emily loved about him.

_I'm fine with a simple ring_ , Emily thought as she flipped through her rows of conservative blouses and suits. She was just glad things were finally happening according to plan. Emily's life was nothing if not planned. Even her closet was a beautifully organized reflection of her personality. The pastel yellows were next to the pale browns, which were next to the beiges, which were next to the whites. Even the cream-colored shirts and sweaters had their own section, right next to the off-whites. Her shoes, neatly polished and in labeled boxes, were organized by heel size and color.

Lenny understood and liked this quality in her, which was one of the marks of their compatibility. His own closet was color coded as well, with his suits and ties organized by season.

They were perfect for each other.

She was glad he recognized this and would finally solidify their partnership with a ring. She'd been slumping into a depression for years now, wondering what was taking Lenny so long and why she couldn't check her goal of "Marriage" off her day planner list. She'd been able to check everything else off: college with honors, good job, nice apartment. But Lenny hadn't been so easy to check off. He'd stubbornly dragged his feet on the marriage issue, and seven years of being forced to revise her timeline had been excruciating.

Emily pulled out a cream blouse with a floppy bow. This would do. It could go from work to dinner with a touch of elegance. She wanted to look classy, pretty even, for her special evening. Okay, that was pushing it; she'd never been called pretty in her life. Cute, yes, but not pretty. Lenny always said she was like a lovable mutt: no show dog winner but cute and cuddly in her own way. She'd settle for cute. Cuddly, not so much. Cuddly implied her ten extra pounds were soft and squishy to the touch, like an overstuffed toy bear—not an image she wanted.

Emily pulled on the blouse and tied the silk bow around her neck. The blouse was understated, the way she and Lenny liked things. She could wear it with her mother's long, crystal-bead necklace—the only item she had left from the woman who'd brought her into this world. She'd inherited the necklace after her mother's death but had never worn it because the right occasion had never arisen. It had always seemed too fancy for her no-frills life. Her grandparents, when they were still alive, had hated the sight of the necklace because Emily's mother had been wearing it the night she was killed in a car accident. In their view, their daughter had died an out-of-control single mother who went barhopping instead of taking care of her young child, and so they counteracted her death by raising Emily with strict routines and overprotected rigidity. Even after her grandparents had died, Emily's sensible, no-nonsense life had never afforded the occasion to wear such a necklace, so she'd kept it tucked safely away in her drawer for all these years.

Today was the perfect day to wear it.

She draped the necklace around her neck and studied herself in the mirror. The crystals danced and glowed against the pale cream fabric of her blouse. For a moment, Emily liked the effect until she realized it was too glittery, too showy, too. . . un-Emily. She took the necklace off and laid it carefully back in its drawer. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself at work. She didn't need people saying, "Wow, Emily is wearing fancy jewelry!" Or, "What's up with the necklace?" She prided herself on being the conservative one, the reliable one, the non-flashy one. Unlike that horrid Simone Stevens who was always cackling two cubicles over. She was a tall, thin redhead with big boobs and a constant crowd of male admirers clustered around her desk. Emily privately called her Si-Moan. She was the same skank who'd danced (gyrated, really) on top of the hors d'oeuvres table at the holiday party while everyone cheered. That woman was a nuisance.

Emily pulled on her black wool jacket and adjusted the lapel. She appraised herself in the mirror. She didn't look any different than her usual work-going self. Not like someone who was about to get engaged. She should at least have sparkles in her eyes.

Shouldn't she?

Emily perused her shoes, looking for something with a heel to dress up her outfit, but all she saw were variations of the same utilitarian shoe: sturdy low-heeled comfort pumps in shades of beige, black, or brown. She wished she'd planned ahead and bought a special pair for tonight, something with an inch-high heel or a few straps. Lenny would probably like straps. Straps were sexy. She didn't own anything sexy and never had. She certainly didn't have red thigh-high boots like Simone Stevens, that's for sure, not that she'd have the guts to wear them if she did.

Emily sighed, rubbing her forehead. This was more difficult than she'd thought. Trying to look the part for the most romantic night of her life felt nearly impossible. She didn't like getting thrown off course like this, being forced out of her schedule, having to stop and think about ridiculous things such as having the right outfit. Usually her morning routine flowed like water through a canal, as effortless and streamlined as checking things off her day planner.

Truth be told, she happened to _like_ her box. What was wrong with boxes, anyway? They were neat. They kept things orderly and contained. What would life be without boxes? All of the boxes in her life, including the ones holding her rows of black and brown shoes, stated to the world: "I'm prepared."

And as any intelligent person knew, preparation was the key in life.

One thing Emily _was_ prepared for was her promotion at work. Wouldn't it be perfect if Darren, her boss, offered her the Creative Director promotion today, on the same day that Lenny proposed? It was entirely possible. The office had been whispering about the position for weeks now, saying that Darren was supposed to announce the promotion on May 14th, which was today. It was general consensus that Emily was slated for the position, and Lenny had even heard about it up in the legal department, where he worked as the firm's corporate attorney. He said everyone thought she was a shoe-in.

Today could be the perfect day. It _would_ be, because life rewarded those who were patient and worked hard. Things were finally going to go in Emily Keane's favor. She'd worked too long and too hard, been too patient, and now the universe was finally going to reward her. She made a mental note to put a star on today's date in her planner so she would always remember it.

Emily checked her silver Timex watch. Crap, it was already 7:02! She was way off-schedule, having wasted all that extra time getting dressed. When there was a wrench in her morning routine, Emily felt off-kilter all day. Now she would arrive to work on time instead of her usual thirty minutes early. That meant she wouldn't be able to reorganize her desk before her shift started, which could cut back on her productivity for the rest of the day. Then she might not get her promotion, all because she foolishly worried over shoes!

She grabbed a pair of black Easy Wear pumps and rushed to the kitchen. No time to make her usual protein smoothie and toasted whole-grain bagel. All she had time for was a multi-vitamin formulated for women, downed with a large glass of filtered water. She grabbed her pre-bagged lunch from the refrigerator and headed out the door, locking her apartment with the usual jiggle-check to make sure everything was secure. She raced down the steps to her silver fuel-efficient Toyota and eased carefully into the car, taking care to smooth her pants so they wouldn't get any weird creases.

As she drove through the palm-tree lined streets of Redondo Beach toward the 405 Freeway, she looked in the rearview mirror at the glimmering ocean far off in the distance and wondered how Lenny was going to propose tonight. Would he put the ring in her dessert? Get down on one knee in front of the whole restaurant? Or, in keeping with his style, push the box across the table to her while mumbling a proposal through a mouthful of halibut? She could see him doing this, and she figured she'd better brace herself for a less-than-romantic proposal. Lenny was who he was. No use trying to change him at this point. She knew what she was getting in him, and that was enough. No surprises, no hidden secrets. After all, they'd been together a long time. They were comfortable together. She loved him. She loved their routine together. They were going to have a future, a family. What more did she want? Romance was overrated.

Wouldn't it be nice, though, if Lenny _did_ surprise her? Maybe took her down to the beach for a picnic, and proposed under the stars? Now _that_ would be the proposal of her dreams. But such things weren't realistic. First of all, Lenny would never do something so inventive. Second, they'd both always thought of the beach as too cold, too sandy, too windy, too . . . unpredictable. The right proposal would be in the calm, subdued atmosphere of Seafood Soliloquy with soft elevator music playing in the background. Its comfortable familiarity was the perfect place for Lenny to get down on one knee and ask her to marry him, even if it wasn't the most romantic place in the world. Then Emily remembered something. Inside the main dining room of the restaurant, there were hundreds of twinkling lights affixed to the ceilings, creating the ambience of a starry night.

Perfect. She'd have her stars after all.

As Emily entered the freeway, she was pleased to see the traffic moving at a fast clip for Southern California rush hour, about twenty miles per hour. Maybe she could still get to the office early. If the traffic slowed to its usual excruciating crawl, though, she'd have to contend with arriving right on time. This bothered her, of course, but at least she wouldn't be late.

She'd only been late to the firm once in three years, when a big rig had overturned and sent wire cages of squawking chickens all over five lanes of freeway. She made the mistake of rolling down her window to see farther ahead, and arrived at the office, unbeknownst to her, with a half-dozen feathers stuck in her hair. Simone alerted her to this fact by pointing and hooting, and as Emily raced to the bathroom, she thought Simone's high-pitched cackle sounded just like one of those shrill freeway chickens.

Plucking those downy feathers out of her hair cost Emily an extra three minutes on top of the twenty she was already late, and she apologized profusely to her boss. Darren had smiled patronizingly and said that with anyone else, he'd be angry, but he knew how reliable she was. That had been music to her ears and had somewhat eased her distress.

As Emily inched along the freeway, the tall gray skyscrapers rising in the distance, she pulled out her cell phone. She turned it on and pressed autodial.

"Massaro's Hair," said the receptionist.

"Hi, this is Emily Keane. I'd like to confirm my appointment with Tyler at noon?" Massaro's Hair was one of the few salons in L.A. that opened early in the morning, one of the reasons for its popularity, along with the handsome and charming owner.

"Yes, we've got you down for 12:00. The usual trim, right?"

"That's right. See you then."

Emily always looked forward to her appointments with hair stylist and salon owner Tyler Massaro. He made her laugh, and his head massages were out-of-this world. He was about the cutest thing she'd ever seen—tall, muscular, with dark thick hair and striking green eyes. Every woman, stylists and customers alike, was gaga over him, even though he was gay. He never seemed to notice the attention, though. He just went about his business: cutting hair, managing his salon, and making small talk with the clients.

With Emily, though, it was never small talk. Over the two years she'd been going to him, they'd had many deep conversations about life and relationships. Well, actually, _she'd_ told him about _her_ life and he'd patiently listened. He never talked much about his own life, just offered astute advice about hers. But still she felt close, even though she didn't know much about him except he'd been raised in Texas and had come to California to start a business and get away from the small town mentality.

It was nice to have a friend—something Emily had never had outside of Lenny—even if Tyler was just her hair stylist who she saw once a month.

She pulled up in front of her office building with five minutes to spare. Barely enough time to sprint to the lunchroom to get her special spot in the refrigerator. She hoped no one else had beaten her to it so she'd be forced to cram her lunch bag in between half-empty liters of Coke and yesterday's Subway sandwiches. Dang, she hated being thrown off like this!

As she walked through the thick glass doors of Artful Advertising, Darren, her boss, immediately approached her.

"Morning, Emily. I need to talk to you." He had that certain expression, the stoic "I'm the boss" look he wore when he was about to impart big news. It could only mean one thing: her promotion. She was used to reading Darren's different faces: his steely-eyed "I'm going to fire you" face when stalking down the hall toward someone's cubicle; his "come hither, young temp" smirk when in a flirtatious mood; his puffed up "I'm The Man" grin when important clients were in town; and his buggy-eyed "shut your pie-hole" stare when someone challenged him in a meeting. This expression was different. It meant business, but in a good way. This was the look Darren got when he promoted someone, or offered them a raise, or gave them box seats to a ball game—a suppressed "cat ate the canary" sort of smile playing around his mouth. Emily had seen it a few times, the way he'd call a colleague into his office with that mysterious expression, then exit a half hour later, clapping the giddy person on the back and shaking his or her hand as if he'd just bestowed a winning lottery ticket. And in fact, a hard-won promotion from Darren Maultier was exactly like winning the lottery because it was just as rare.

"Meet me in my office in five minutes," Darren said.

"Yes sir, I'll be right there." Emily rushed off to the lunchroom. On her way, she passed Si- Moan, who was dressed in a tight purple suit and blabbering away. Did that woman ever shut up? Her idea of work was to stand around discussing her latest boy-toy conquest.

"Dillon's had a hot-body contest last night," Emily heard Simone saying. "And guess who won?"

More high-pitched cackling. No sound grated on Emily's nerves more than that horrid laugh. But Emily would have the last laugh—literally—when she became Simone's boss. She would immediately crack down on the water cooler chitchat and party talk. Then she'd work on a rule outlawing loud braying laughter by certain redheads in communal hallways.

Emily was nothing like Si-Moan, and she was glad for it. She was serious-minded and levelheaded. She wasn't abrasive or loud or the life of the party. She just put her head down and worked, never talking to anyone, never wasting time, never rocking the boat. And her efforts had been rewarded. Last year she was recognized with a "Most Consistent" plaque at the firm banquet. And just last month, Darren had mentioned how her copywriting was the 'bread-and-butter' of the company. Emily had taken this as further confirmation that she was slated for the Creative Director position.

Although Simone had yapped about also wanting the promotion, Emily had smirked to herself, knowing her colleague wasn't even on Darren's radar, except for maybe a passing butt-squeeze. From the snippets of gossip Emily had heard, Simone was considered the company joke, known for her party-loving behavior and raunchy exploits. Word was out that Simone was soon to be fired for a controversial ad line she'd created last month for the firm's largest client—a shocking sentence that read: "Mabry's Chili: Try a Weiner With This Beaner." Emily had attempted to save the client relationship by creating a more appropriate slogan: "Mabry's Chili Warms Your Heart." Never mind that Mr. Mabry had rejected that, too. (Emily, having tried his chili, suspected Mabry had vetoed her slogan because he knew his product caused excruciating heartburn). But no matter. Emily knew her slogan was better than Simone's gin-induced one any day.

No, when Emily fired her, she wouldn't miss Si-Moan or her tall Prada boots or perfect size zero figure or annoying shriek that echoed down the hall when she saw someone she adored. She certainly wouldn't miss hearing Si-Moan gush about Taco Tuesdays at her favorite club, Dillon's, or how she'd collected three phone numbers from three different guys on the same night. Emily relished the day when Si-Moan would be shown her walking papers and hoped the door would whack her skinny ass on the way out.

Outside Darren's door, Emily stood on her boss's prized rug—the expensive hallway runner monogrammed with the words, "Success Wins!" She wiped her damp hands on her pants. This was it. Her promotion. Her much-deserved new title, a salary increase, and validation for all of her hard work and time. It was about to happen, and she was ready. She straightened her suit jacket and ran a quick, trembling hand through her hair. No feathers, thank goodness. She took a deep breath— _you can do this_ —and opened the door.

"Have a seat, Emily," Darren said immediately from behind his large cherry wood desk. "Coffee?" He nodded toward the buffet in the corner, set up with a silver coffee pot and vials of sugar and cream. She shook her head. Coffee gave her the runs. She didn't need to have an anal blowout on Darren's plush gray office chair. Might affect her promotion potential.

She smoothed her pants before sitting. Darren took a sip from a steaming mug imprinted with a green triangle and the words, _GREEN BOSS_ : _I Recycle Employees_. He leaned forward in his plush leather chair, clasping his hands in front of him on the desk. Nonsensically, Emily noticed there was long, black hair growing on his knuckles. She looked up and met his eyes. He was staring at her intently.

"Let me get right to it," he said. "I know you've expressed interest in the Creative Director position."

She nodded eagerly.

"Well, as I've said before, you're the bread-and-butter of our firm."

She nodded again, a little trickle of excitement making its way down her spine. Her dependability was going to pay off. She was finally going to be rewarded for all her efforts!

Darren cleared his throat. "Well, bread-and-butter is not really what we're after for this type of position."

"Excuse me?" Emily's heart began a slow elevator-like descent.

"Well, what we're looking for is more of a . . . croissant. Not bread-and-butter necessarily. More of a Danish. You understand."

"What?" Had she heard him right? And why in the hell was he talking about pastries?

Darren cleared his throat and leaned back. "What I'm trying to say is . . . while your ad copy is wonderfully reliable and consistent, what we really need is someone who has a bit more oomph. Someone willing to take more chances. You know, like a cinnamon bun."

"A cinnamon bun?"

"Yes. A cinnamon bun."

Emily hands clenched together in her lap, her short-cropped fingernails digging half-moon gouges into the skin. What was he saying? That she wasn't getting the promotion?

As if reading her mind, he said, "I'm sorry, Emily. This is hard for me, too. I've decided to offer the promotion to someone else."

She swallowed hard past a ball of spit threatening to choke off her air supply. "Who?" It had to be that jerk Mark Wells who always had his nose so high up Darren's rump that he probably sneezed brown.

"Simone Stevens."

Emily gripped the sides of the chair, unable to stifle a large gasp. _Simone_? So this was the cinnamon bun Darren was talking about. Flame-haired, giggly-slut Simone Stevens. All sugar and spice, just like a pastry. She was probably getting boned by Darren. That must be it. Why else would an incompetent chick like that get promoted? Of course, her cinnamon buns that Darren must be using for a cock-sandwich.

Emily swallowed hard. "I thought Simone was going to be fired."

Darren looked at her sternly. "I would hope you're not listening to idle office gossip, Emily. It's not professional."

"But . . . what about the ad she wrote for Mabry's Chili?"

Darren looked at Emily with hard eyes that said _I_ ' _m the boss_. _Don_ ' _t question me_.

"Yes," he said. "We all agree that particular line wasn't appropriate for the client's needs. However, Simone shows tremendous promise. She works well with others, not to mention how the clients loosen their grips on their checkbooks when she's in the room. Her ads are never dull, never boring. She pushes the limits."

"I'll say," Emily muttered under her breath, picking a piece of lint off her trousers.

"I've made my decision." His small gray eyes assessed her. "I hope you will be a good sport about it and join the rest of the office in celebrating the good news."

Emily stood. She couldn't let on how resigned she felt, how bitter. She attempted a smile, but it probably came out as more a grimace. She blinked hard, trying to stave off the tears that pricked behind her eyelids. "It's fine. Really, it's okay."

Darren watched her sympathetically. "Don't take this as a defeat, Emily. I've told Simone I want you to assist her on the new accounts. Help keep her on the straight and narrow. She'll need it, he-he." His attempt at a joke fell flat.

Emily nodded mutely. The last thing she wanted to be was _Slut_ -Moan's assistant. "I'll do my best, sir."

"I know you will, Emily. You always do."

As Emily left Darren's office, she wondered if she should take the elevator to the sixth floor, where the legal and accounting departments were, and find Lenny. She needed him to comfort her, to tell her how she'd been wronged and that everything would be okay. She wanted him to put his arms around her and say she was the best person for the position and that Darren would come around. She wanted him to say he loved her.

When something went so wrong, it made Emily feel completely out of control, as if life was unpredictable and scary. It reminded her of how she felt after her grandparents died two years ago, within a month of each other, leaving her without their anchoring influence. It reminded her of the feeling she'd had when she was five and her mother kissed her goodbye and never returned, the victim of that hit and run accident.

It reminded her of fear.

More than likely Lenny would be too busy to comfort her—on the phone, in a meeting, in the middle of a pile of documents with his pink eyes scrunched up under his glasses. He'd say, "Let's talk about it over dinner, when we have more time."

Not wanting to bother him, Emily headed glumly for her cubicle. She reminded herself of the positives still left in the day: her hair appointment with Tyler, and her dinner proposal later that evening with Lenny. Life was still okay. This was just a minor bump in the road. Soon Darren would see what a mistake he'd made by promoting Simone. All it would take would be Simone being herself—coming in late like she always did, smelling of beer and bar and last night's perfume—then writing ads about a monkey's genitals or something. She'd be history. Then Darren would fire Simone, promote Emily, and all would be right with the universe again.

As Emily walked toward her desk in a slow-motion fog, she passed Simone and her cohorts gathered in the hall. Was it her imagination, or was Simone smiling smugly, a victorious expression on her overly made-up face?

Was that whispering she heard? Yes, there it was, unmistakable. Her name— _Emily Keane_ —along with . . .

The word burnt a hole through her mind.

" _Boring_."

"I'm sorry," Tyler said as he massaged her scalp during her hair appointment. Just those two simple words, said with such sincerity, were enough to bring her to tears. Emily was glad her damp hair covered her eyes so Tyler couldn't see the two large teardrops that fell onto her very creased pants. Tyler's strong hands felt soothing on her scalp as his fingers rubbed in slow circles, anesthetizing the headache that pounded at her temples.

"It's not fair," said Emily. "Simone doesn't work hard like I do. She spends all day talking and flirting. Half the time she's late and hung over!"

Tyler gently moved her head back up, moving the hair out of her eyes with a comb. He looked at her sympathetically. "The higher-ups will eventually recognize your talent and hard work. They're just going for the flash right now. She's obviously marketed herself well. But they'll soon see their mistake."

"You think?" Emily asked, in a voice more whiny and plaintive than she intended.

Tyler nodded, combing a portion of damp hair straight down by her face, the silver scissors glistening in his hand. He always looked so handsome when he concentrated, his green eyes focused and intent, jaw square, his bicep muscle flexed slightly beneath the sleeve of his white t-shirt. What kind of guys did he date? More importantly, why did the universe unfairly make gay men the most beautiful? She stared at the "Gay Pride" framed picture of his boyfriend—the one of the handsome young blond man he always kept on his workstation. Part of Tyler's appeal was that he was a bit mysterious. She didn't know too much about him, not personal details, anyway. She knew he was a thinker, that he cared about things. She didn't know much more than that.

Tyler examined her hair in the mirror, holding a section of limp brown locks between his fingers. "The usual? A half-inch off the bottom, no layers or anything different?"

"The usual," Emily replied. "No changes." He looked disappointed. She knew that one day, Tyler would succeed in talking her into something different, but today wasn't that day. She couldn't take a chance on looking too different for her big night.

As Tyler parted her hair, she studied him. She wondered what it must be like to be a successful entrepreneur, to have your own business without having to deal with a prick boss like Darren.

She had to hand it to Tyler. He was a small town guy from Texas who'd moved out here a few years ago, and now his salon was one of the most highly sought-after places in Los Angeles. In fact, Emily had first heard of his salon online, where reviewers raved about seeing celebrities like Antonio Banderas there. Emily had a secret crush on Antonio Banderas—although Lenny mocked her about this—and had booked an appointment the next day. A month later, she'd been sitting in the leather seat, having her hair cut by the gorgeous salon owner himself.

Tyler hadn't balked that first day when she'd asked for just a trim instead of a full haircut (she liked keeping the same easy style, plus it saved her money), and he'd laughed when she'd asked about Antonio Banderas. He said he'd let her know when Antonio came in next, and in fact did—booking her next appointment right after Antonio's the following month. Antonio had nodded and said hello to Emily in passing, his accent thick and smooth like butter, and Emily had nearly swooned. But five minutes into her trim with Tyler, she realized Antonio couldn't hold a candle to the salon owner. Tyler was, quite simply, the most handsome and charming man Emily had ever seen, and she wasn't alone in noticing this. The women practically fell over themselves to talk to him, interrupting his work with questions and comments from their seats under the metal dryers, nudging each other and giggling, oblivious to how ridiculous they looked with their bobbing, grinning, foil-wrapped heads.

Tyler was always polite, but he never engaged those women in anything beyond superficial chitchat. To Emily's mind, it meant he was loyal to her, saving his deeper self for when she was in his chair, listening attentively as she told him about her life, her private thoughts, her fears. His concentration on her was absolute, and she felt like the only woman in the world for this hour in his salon once a month.

Too bad he was unattainable.

But it was just as well. She had a boyfriend, soon to be fiancé. Tyler was harmless, no threat at all. It was nice to have a friend outside of Lenny, someone she could be completely honest with. In fact, she considered Tyler her very best friend. She'd never told him, of course, because that would be . . . well, weird. But she'd never felt so understood. She'd told Tyler things that she'd never revealed to Lenny, like how she'd felt alone in the world after her grandparents died or how she believed Si-Moan must surely have multiple STDs. She confessed she'd always secretly wanted to take country-dance lessons, and that she was terrified of plane travel. She told him how sometimes she felt like a ghost at her job, passing by unnoticed in the halls as everyone discussed their weekends. Today she'd hoped she was going to share her good news about her promotion, but instead she was sitting here in his chair, defeated and sniveling like a child.

_Way to go_ , _Emily_. _Way to make an impression_. She swiped at her wet nose, embarrassed.

He glanced at her sympathetically as he began snipping her hair, the scissors moving deftly around her head. "Just keep doing your best, and they'll eventually recognize your efforts."

His tone and manner made her feel better. Typical of his straightforward, commonsense way of looking at the things, he always encouraged her to not take things so seriously.

"Lenny's going to propose tonight," she said. "I'm excited." Her voice sounded so flat, so dull. She felt sucked dry of energy and enthusiasm.

Tyler raised an eyebrow at her as he clicked away with his scissors. "How do you know?"

"I saw the ring box. In his briefcase."

"Bad girl." With any other guy, this statement would sound effeminate, but with Tyler, it was tinged with masculine sexuality. She felt a twinge of attraction then immediately felt guilty. She couldn't help it, though. He was every girl's fantasy, gay or not.

"Lenny's been dropping hints about marriage," she said, "So I searched around for the ring. Sure enough, I found it, sitting right there under a thick legal brief."

"What does it look like?" Tyler asked, combing her hair straight down behind her neck. Now _that_ was a gay question. Only a female friend or gay man would be curious about the details of a ring. Emily was glad. It reminded her not to take her crush too seriously. She didn't want anything to threaten her relationship with Lenny, and an innocent infatuation with a gay man was about as harmless as you could get.

"I didn't open the box. I want to be surprised," Emily said. She knew how ridiculous that must sound.

Tyler laughed. She loved his laugh. It was deep, melodious, like warm honey.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"You are." He said it affectionately, and it gave her a good feeling inside. Tyler never judged her, no matter how ridiculous she sounded. He just looked at her with those green eyes, as if curiously sizing her up and liking what he saw, and then went back to cutting her hair.

Emily gave a sigh of satisfaction. "Things are going to work out like I planned."

Tyler was quiet as he carefully trimmed her ends. Then he stopped and looked at her in the mirror, meeting her eyes with an intensity that surprised her. "I think you should be careful about over-planning your life. It can limit you."

Her heart sunk at his tone. "How?" Did he see her as dull, just like everyone else?

"Well, it's hard to experience life when you're too busy scheduling it. There's a beauty in spontaneity, in letting things unfold naturally."

Emily didn't like the sound of life unfolding. It sounded scary, like a bug-eating plant. Or jumping into dark water without knowing what was beneath. With her luck, it would be sharp rocks or fanged-tooth piranhas.

"But I like planning," she protested.

"No excitement in that."

Emily thought for a moment then shook her head. "I don't want excitement. I want predictability. I want to know where I'm going and with whom. I'm not like Simone Stevens."

"You want safety," concluded Tyler, brushing the hair off her shoulders.

She nodded. "Yes. Safety and security."

"Well, then I'll buy you a house alarm as a wedding gift." His eyes twinkled at her as he reached for the blow dryer.

"Sounds perfect," she said, and they both laughed.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

Lenny ordered halibut, just as Emily knew he would. She smiled and closed the menu, telling the waiter she'd have the same. She always ordered what Lenny did because it kept things simple. Plus he liked that. It made him feel like the man, he said.

Emily studied Lenny as he poured them each a glass of wine. He did seem more nervous than usual, his eye twitch a bit more pronounced as his long thin fingers twiddled first with the tablecloth, then the wine glass. _Blink_ , _blink_ , _blink_ went the pink eyes as he stared at his glass, avoiding her gaze. He was concentrating too hard, his hands trembling slightly as he lifted the glass, swirled it, then sniffed the bouquet with an exaggerated flourish that always irritated Emily. He was even sweating with small beads of moisture dotting his upper lip. It was cute, she thought. Romantic. A man about to propose.

She remembered the first time she'd met Lenny outside her Shakespeare class in college.

"Nice organizer," he'd said, pointing to the thick brown leather planner tucked under her arm.

Part of her had wished he'd noticed her hair or her eyes instead, but she'd shrugged the thought away. After all, there wasn't much to notice. Her eyes were an average gray color, and her hair a mousy brown, cut in the same shoulder-length style she'd worn since high school. And those extra pounds—the 'Freshman Ten'—had gathered on her body, softening the edges, rounding her out. Turning her into a frumpier version of herself. She was just grateful to be noticed at all. Even if, in actuality, it was the organizer that had gotten Lenny's attention.

"Most people have electronic planners now," he said. "It's nice to see someone besides me still stuck on paper."

She nodded, noticing how his light gray-blue eyes stood out against his extremely pale skin, the brightness of his eyeballs enhanced by pink-colored eyelids. _How come so many pale people had those red_ - _rimmed eyes_? This guy would be halfway decent if it didn't look as if he was suffering from pink eye.

"Where'd you get the organizer?" he asked. "I don't see them in stores much anymore."

"Office Mart."

He wasn't really her type—not the handsome square-jawed guy she'd always pictured herself dating, anyway. He was tall enough, but in a lanky sort of way, with translucent skin, frizzy blond curls, and those watery magenta-rimmed eyes. He wasn't someone you'd look twice at, but when he smiled in that crooked puppy-dog sort of way, Emily mused he could be kind of cute if you looked hard enough.

"I have a coupon for Office Mart if you want," she said, staring at him as hard as she could, in a way she hoped looked flirtatious. She'd read in a magazine that if you held a guy's eyes long enough and smiled at him in a certain way, he'd know you were interested. Trouble was, since she hadn't dated much, it was hard to know what that "certain way" was. The week before she'd met Lenny, she'd tried it on a guy in line at the post office, and he'd offered her a Tums.

Luckily, though, Lenny had taken the bait and asked her out for coffee. She'd accepted, even though she didn't like coffee. They'd talked for hours, and he'd made her laugh with his imitations of Beavis and Butthead. They'd talked until dawn, and when she found out that he was a fan of Woody Allen movies like her, well, that sealed it. One diarrhea-inducing coffee date turned into two, then three, and suddenly she found herself with her first boyfriend. They dated for the rest of college, and he'd given her a promise ring (a thin gold band set with a tiny white pearl) the day after he was accepted into law school.

Now here she was, all these years later, about to say yes to his marriage proposal. Affection overwhelming her, she smiled across the table at Lenny, but he was too busy gobbling bread from the basket to notice. She reached across the table and took his long white hand. It was cold and clammy, like a sardine.

"Lenny," she said. "I was just thinking about how we met."

He moved his hand to grab another piece of bread, chewing vigorously. Crumbs fell to the table. "I remember," he finally said, after swallowing. "You gave me a coupon to Office Mart."

"Yes." Emily smiled at him. "You used it, too."

Lenny nodded. "I still have that organizer. I love it. I never would have found it if I hadn't met you."

"Aw, Lenny, that's sweet," Emily said.

She looked down at her glass, twirling the rim with her finger. She was fully prepared to be Lenny's wife. They'd have a comfortable happy life together. He'd recently mentioned how he liked the suburbs, so she knew he was thinking about a house. And kids? They'd always agreed that after they got married, they'd start having children right away, two boys and a girl, in that order. It was all happening the way it was supposed to, and Emily felt a great sense of relief. She was twenty-seven next week, and life was still within her control.

Not that she hadn't had doubts about Lenny along the way. First of all, he'd taken an awfully long time with the proposal issue. They'd been together all through college and his law school, gotten jobs together at the same company—although he still refused to carpool with her after all these years, saying she drove too slow—and were at each other's apartments every night after work. What more did he need? But still he'd waited, despite heckles from co-workers who ribbed him to "Shit or get off the pot" or the hints of bridal magazines (dust gatherers, really), she'd laid out on the coffee table over the years.

There had also been those times when she and Lenny were in bed, and she'd looked at him hovering above her, quietly humping away, and wonder why he didn't ever make a sound. Not a groan, a moan, a sigh. No, he just came quietly with his face scrunched up and his mouth grimaced as if he were in pain. It seemed symbolic to her somehow, as if he was trying too hard to enjoy it. She didn't know if this was normal or not, but it didn't seem right to her somehow. Shouldn't a guy cry out with all of the passion of yearned-for love? Weren't they _both_ supposed to?

When he'd finish, she'd close her eyes and prompt herself to sigh loudly, trying to show him what a person does when they feel good. But he never seemed to notice, just pulled up his boxers and searched around for the remote.

That had been their routine for seven years.

She tried not to let it bother her. How was she even supposed to know what good sex was, anyway? For all she knew, she was having it. So what if it took Lenny a while to get it up, and when he finally did, he behaved as if his bowels were impacted? All couples had their quirks, she reasoned. Nothing was perfect. She and Lenny were comfortable together, and that was how she liked it.

She was ready to accept his proposal. It was what she'd always wanted. She should be happy. Giddy with joy.

And she was, she told herself.

She was.

"So how was work?" she asked cheerfully, pretending she didn't know his proposal was coming. She raised her glass, wondering if this would be a good time to make a toast, and if so, to what? The wine was crisp and clean tasting, the usual Sauvignon Blanc that they ordered on special occasions. They weren't drinkers, but it only seemed fitting to celebrate with wine once in a while. That Lenny had ordered wine declared something special was about to happen.

Lenny took a long swig, then shrugged. "Work was work. The usual. How was your day?"

Her heart sunk when she remembered her lost promotion. She'd been distracted when she'd rushed to the restaurant after work with an excited tingle in the pit of her stomach. The dim restaurant, the bright white stars hanging from the ceiling, Lenny already waiting at the table: all had erased her bad day.

Now, hurt flooded over her as she remembered how Simone had waved extra-cheerily as she was leaving, saying, "Have a nice weekend!" in a goading tone. People in the office had looked at her with a mixture of pity and curiosity as she'd left a full three minutes early—holding her head high through the whispers that trailed her like a cloud of diesel. _Not promoted_ . . . _Simone new Creative Director_ . . . _jealous_ . . . _dull copywriting_ . . . _loner_ . . . _weird_ . . .

"Work sucked," Emily said abruptly. "I didn't get the promotion." She busied herself with picking a piece of cork out of her wine glass, pretending as if she didn't care about what had happened.

"I heard." Lenny looked at her sympathetically with his watery red-rimmed eyes.

Her chest clenched. News of her had reached that quickly all the way up to sixth floor? How humiliating. "Why didn't you come find me? I could've used a hug."

He shrugged. "I figured you wanted some space. If you'd really needed me, you would've found me."

Emily sighed. "I didn't want to bother you. Besides, I needed to get my hair cut."

Lenny appraised her. "It doesn't look cut."

"Well, it is."

"How's the gay dude?"

"He's fine," Emily replied in a curt tone. Even though Tyler was homosexual, Emily didn't like the way Lenny said "gay dude." It made Tyler sound like a leper. "He's happy for us."

Lenny stared. "What do you mean, happy for us?"

_Uh_ - _oh_. "You know, our relationship."

"That seems weird. Why would he care one way or another?"

"Probably because he and I are friends."

Lenny nodded. "That's good. Friends are important. I've always considered you my best friend, you know."

_Here it comes_. Emily took a deep breath and smiled, just as the plates of halibut arrived. Lenny dug right in, shoveling huge bites into his mouth. Small pieces of fish fell off his fork and onto the plate. He dabbed up the bits with his finger, one by one, and put them into his mouth.

She waited patiently, watching him as he ate. She wasn't hungry herself. Maybe she'd get her appetite back after the proposal.

"Sorry, I'm starving," he mumbled.

She smiled. This was so Lenny. She knew him so well that she even knew how he was going to propose. Any minute now, he would get out the box, push it across the table to her and ask her to be his wife. And sure enough, there he was, reaching under the table and fumbling around for something in his pocket. She immediately recognized the small black velvet box that he pushed across the table with his forefinger. He smiled with that endearing crooked smile full of halibut, beads of sweat now dotting his nose.

"You're my best friend, Emily," he mumbled, sending tiny bits of food in her direction. "I want you to have this as an expression of my feelings for you."

"Oh, Lenny," she said, taking the box. She opened it carefully.

Inside, nestled on a soft white satin bed, was a pair of large gold earrings the size of quarters. Each earring had a small pearl in the center, surrounded by shiny yellow metal. One earring was engraved with the word "Friends." The other said, "Forever."

Emily stared, the acrid taste of bile rising in her throat. Her hands trembled as she set down the box. "I don't understand," she said. "Where's the ring?"

Lenny choked mid-sip on the wine, his cough emitting a fine spray of liquid. "Ring?"

"I thought you were going to propose."

Lenny put his glass down with a thump. "I'm sorry."

Her body turned cold, even though sweat was pooling in her armpits and surely staining her silk blouse.

Lenny shifted in his chair. "I think we're better off being friends, which is why I got you the earrings. So you know how much I care. But I . . . uh . . . Well, I just don't see us getting married." He blinked profusely. "That's what I wanted to ask. Do you think we can just be friends?" He looked at her with a hopeful expression. "No hard feelings?"

She swallowed hard. His face swirled in front of her, a pale blur of white hair, white eyelashes, and pink-lined cornflower blue eyes. "But . . . we're supposed to be together. Forever. We've already been together for seven years."

"Yes, seven long years." He saw her face and stopped. "I didn't mean it like that. But you have to admit, seven years _is_ a long time. There's a certain comfort that we've always had together. But I don't see it going anywhere for the long haul. I think we should break up." He took an abrupt swig of wine, a trickle of sweat dripping off his temple and into the breadbasket.

"But _why_?" None of this was making sense. Was she in some sort of nightmare, a surreal type of "Groundhog Day" where everything goes wrong?

He sighed, rubbing his shiny forehead. "Well, it's . . . how do I say this? Not interesting anymore."

"You mean boring?" she said in a sharp tone.

He paused, then nodded. "You could say that, yes. Boring."

_That word again_. _The theme of the day_. She downed her wine in one gulp. The cold liquid stung her throat. Her eyes swam and head throbbed. If anyone was boring, it was Lenny with his mute lovemaking and Lakers games and predictable Friday night movies. If she saw one more dubbed Kung-fu movie, she'd scream!

"So you think I'm dull," she said flatly.

His silence was her answer.

Then, clearing his throat, he said, "Uh, I'm really sorry. It's become like an old shoe. Too comfortable, you know?"

She gripped the table, her knuckles white as anger reared up in her like a testicle-pinched rodeo bull. How dare he throw her away like a used Kleenex? "What do you mean, _an old shoe_? Comfortable shoes are the best! They don't give you corns or blisters or calluses. They mold to your feet—they _stretch_ —even when they're a bit small at first. You can wear them until the end of time if you just take good care of them and appreciate them and . . ." Damn it, why was she babbling on about shoes like this?

She took a breath, trying to calm her racing heart. "Lenny, security is what makes a great marriage. We've been together all these years." Her voice trembled. "We've built a history together." At that moment, though, she couldn't remember one detail of that shared history, except that he talked with his mouth full, blinked at her with pink rabbit eyes, and screwed her once a week with a face that looked like he was suffering from hemorrhoids.

She gripped the table tighter, anchoring herself in the swirling storm. She'd put up with this pop-eyed turkey for seven years, only to have _him_ dump _her_? And he had the nerve to tell her _she_ was boring? Anger rose up inside her like an extra flush on a clogged toilet. She didn't care that Lenny was staring at her as though she'd popped a vein in her head. He'd never seen her out of control before, but there was a first time for everything. "Listen to me, Lenny. I've _waited_ for you, waited and _waited_ for you to shit or get off the pot!" Her voice shrilled, causing people at nearby tables to look. For once she didn't care what people thought, or that she'd lost her cool and was shrieking. "I'm almost twenty-seven! I'm ready to get married and have children, damn it! Don't make me wait _a minute longer_!" She stopped, realizing Lenny—and the entire restaurant—was staring at her as if she'd lost her marbles. She felt as if she were in a bad movie, a cliché. And, following the script, she stopped and asked in a trembling voice, "Is there another woman?"

And to her surprise, Lenny—pink-eyed, twitching, tedious Lenny who'd never looked at another female the whole time they were together—said, "Yes."

Her body began to shake violently. With a dry mouth, she whispered, " _What_?"

"There's someone I've been wanting to ask out for a while. Someone interesting and exciting."

Emily bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. Her knees were shaking together under the table. She swallowed hard, her throat a solid chunk of cement that brought hot tears from her eyes. "Who? Do I know her?"

He nodded, his brow scrunched in discomfort. "I'm sorry, Emily. I really am."

" _Who_. _Is_. _IT_?"

"Simone Stevens."

The morning before her twenty-seventh birthday, Emily stared at the pills, hundreds of them lined up methodically on her kitchen table. Lenny's kitchen table, to be exact, the one he'd let her borrow when they'd first started dating. Emily had originally loved this quaint little table with its knots and nicks and faded green paint. She'd always imagined eating dinners on it with Lenny in their new house, their kids sitting beside them. Now the table just looked like a piece of old garage-sale junk, the faded reminder of a broken relationship.

She wished Lenny had just taken it.

Last week she'd stood by the curb and watched, numb, as he'd carried the last of his things to his truck—the few items he'd slowly moved into her place over seven years of dating. She'd waited for him to go back for the table but he never had, instead turning to her with eyes that looked a little more watery and red-rimmed than usual.

"See you soon," he'd said, giving her a long hug. "Let's keep in touch." And then he was gone, just like that.

She'd driven down to the pharmacy to buy some Tylenol because she felt a migraine frizzling at the periphery of her vision. In the store, she decided to buy herself a birthday card because she'd be turning twenty-seven in a week and no one else would remember. She also added a Hostess cupcake and a singing candle to her cart. While Emily waited in the checkout line, a magazine headline leapt out at her: "Man Kills Self to Donate Organs to Mother." She stared at the glossy cover, and then an idea began to form. She was a worthless waste of space, anyway. No one would miss her. Why not give her life some meaning? Why not save someone else?

She pushed her cart back to the medicine aisle and promptly loaded it with every bottle of Tylenol the store had. She also took every bottle of Advil, Motrin, cough medicine, cold medicine, aspirin, and generic pain reliever off the shelves and added those to her cart as well. She ignored the stares of passersby as she wheeled the overfilled cart to the front. When the cashier saw what Emily was loading onto the checkout counter, she called the manager, who rushed up and asked why she needed all those pills. When she said "To kill myself on my birthday," he shook his head, took her gently by the arm, and asked if there was someone he could call. He said he could never sell her those pills, that it wouldn't be ethical or right, and what she needed was a friend or loved one to come pick her up. She was just depressed, he said. It would pass. His wife went through a similar type of melodrama every month during her period.

" _Is there someone I can call for you_?" he repeated.

She shook her head then told him she still wanted to buy her cupcake and candle. He'd sold them to her, watching as she slowly counted out the coins from her purse to make exact change, while people in line waited silently behind her. She could feel their judgment, their pity, but she didn't care. Another clerk came and wheeled the cart of pills away, and Emily had driven home.

But she'd outsmarted them. Every day since she'd worked on her plan. She'd gone to the DMV and added an organ donor card to her driver's license. She'd written a will and gotten it notarized. The will was a simple one-page document stating she wanted to donate her organs and be buried in a new dress. Her few worldly possessions, including her grandmother's china, the dog-eared travel book for trips she'd never taken, her mother's necklace, and her collection of sensible shoes, were to go to Tyler, the only friend she had left in life.

Emily had even decided to leave Tyler her small savings of five thousand dollars that was supposed to go toward a house, the house she would never live in with Lenny . . . or any husband, for that matter. Maybe Tyler could use the money for his business. Or do something fun with it. _He_ ' _d_ know what to do with her savings. He'd enjoy it because he knew how to live. Maybe he'd take the trip she'd never gotten around to, maybe to someplace exotic like France. Emily had never even been out of California, for Christ's sake! It had just been work, work, work for as long as she could remember.

That week, she'd gone to all the pharmacies in town, buying up all the pills she could. Now she had a nice stockpile, enough to do the job. A birthday present to herself and the world. She'd get her final haircut with Tyler today, go buy a tasteful dress to be buried in, go home, take a long bath, put on her favorite pink pajamas—the cat-print ones that Lenny hated—and stay in bed watching bad TV until she fell asleep. Then she'd wake up in the morning, read the birthday card she'd bought herself, light the birthday candle and eat the cupcake. A perfect birthday celebration. Then she'd set her computer to call 911 at a designated time, climb into a tub of ice, and swallow as many of those multi-colored pills that she could shove down her throat. Hopefully enough to put herself out of her misery forever. An end to her dull, boring, lonely life. That would serve Lenny right. He'd cry at her funeral and say he'd made a terrible mistake. So would Darren, her boss. They'd look over at Simone with her crocodile tears and fake tits shoved up in a see-through black dress, and wonder why they'd ever replaced Emily with her.

Wouldn't they?

That week at work, no one had suspected that she was slowly, logically planning her own death. She'd come and gone as always, robotically writing her bread-and-butter ad copy, attending meetings, and eating her organic turkey sandwich at her desk like usual. For once, she hadn't been disturbed by Simone's cackle. She'd even loudly imitated it, for the fun of it, just to see what people would do. There'd been dead silence, then some whispering, and the guy next to her had stuck his head over her cubicle wall and asked if she was all right.

"Fine!" she'd said cheerfully between mouthfuls of sandwich, not caring that bits flew out of her mouth and all over her keyboard, Lenny-like.

Later she'd heard gasps and more whispering when, upon finding a large wad of sticky gum on the bottom of her pump, she'd casually walked over to Darren's "Success Wins!" rug and wiped her shoe on it, leaving a gooey, gummy mess right above the _"S."_

And in her last meeting on Friday, she'd stunned her colleagues—and Darren, too, judging by the slack-jawed look on his face—by standing up and announcing she had the perfect ad slogan for Mabry's Chili: "Chili, Chili, Bang, Bang. Even Sluts Love It." And she'd winked broadly at Simone before announcing her resignation and walking out the door.

Now here it was, Saturday, the day before her birthday. The day before her death. Emily stared at the pills. They were every color of pink, white, blue, and yellow. Like a rainbow. Like a gay rainbow flag.

What would Tyler think when he found out she'd ended her life? And that she'd willed the pitiful remnants of that life to him?

Maybe he'd wipe tears away, although on second thought, she couldn't actually picture him crying. He was much too stoic. He wasn't a bawler like some guys. Lenny had sniveled at the drop of a hat: when the Lakers lost, when his mother forgot to make her annual carrot cake on his birthday, when he stubbed his damn toe. Tyler was manly and she liked that about him. But she knew that internally, he'd probably feel more pain over her death than Lenny ever would, even if Lenny wept and gesticulated and gnashed his teeth at her funeral.

Maybe she should add something to her will, telling Tyler not to be sad, that this was a rational decision on her part, and that she'd logically concluded she wanted to help others by donating her organs. Yes, she was sad about how things had turned out for her, but she'd arrived at her resolution with foresight, precision, and logic. She'd gathered the facts, assessed the situation, and _decided_ —something she excelled at. It made sense, after all. A person should try to do the most good in the world with what they have. And what she had were viable, healthy organs, sure to be in high demand because of her youth and health. Those organs would give second chances to people who had lives worth living. She couldn't think of a more honorable way to die.

For some reason, though, she couldn't picture Tyler accepting her argument.

She pushed the pills into a pile and got up from the table. She was going to see Tyler one last time before she died. She had to see him, just to say goodbye in her own way. Besides, she deserved to have good hair for her last day on earth. It was the least she owed both of them.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

"Two trims in one month? What's up with that?" asked Tyler as he led her to his black leather styling chair.

Her hair was wet from the washing station and fell in cold clumps around her face. Tyler picked up a comb and began running it through her damp locks.

Emily shook her head. "No trim this time. I need a change. Something big. Give me layers, dye it blonde, whatever you want. Time to go for it." It was her parting gift to him. He could finally have the freedom to do what he wanted with her hair.

"Okay." He paused. "But why now?"

Emily smiled ironically. "I've got an important event."

His eyes twinkled. "Your engagement party?"

Emily burst out in caustic laughter. "Certainly not that. Lenny dumped me."

Tyler studied her in the mirror with sympathetic green eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?"

"He wants Simone. You know, the redheaded bitch who stole my promotion. And now my man."

Tyler raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He pushed her hair forward around her face, then pulled it back, studying how it looked. "How drastic do you want to go? A person should never make big changes after a traumatic life event."

"Fuck that. Make me blonde. Or black. Platinum. Honey colored. Whatever you want. Short, bobbed, spiked, or with bouncy layers, I don't care. You can even buzz it off if you think the military look will suit me. Just go for it. You've always wanted to. Now's your chance."

Tyler stared at her. "Are you okay?" he asked. He was looking at her as though she'd just sprouted barnacles.

"I'm fine. I just want to do something bold for the first fucking time in my life, even if it's just a one-time thing."

"I get that," he said. "But why does it have to be a one-time thing?"

Emily looked at his kind masculine face with its thick five o'clock stubble and sighed to herself. How could she explain? How could she tell him that she'd made up her mind? That she was logically, systematically ready to end her own life? That she could do more good in the world dead than alive? He'd never understand. "Because it's too late," she replied resignedly.

"It's never too late."

She sighed. "Tomorrow's my birthday, you know," she said, as if that explained everything.

"Well, in that case," he said, smiling at her in the mirror. "The haircut and color are on me."

"Thanks, Tyler. You don't have to do that."

"It's no sweat. I want to." He winked at her.

He looked more delicious than usual, wearing a fitted black tee and stylish faded jeans, a lock of thick dark hair falling over his eyes. His strong biceps—one of them tattooed with a dragon—bulged attractively as the silver scissors moved swiftly around her head.

"Why do you care?" she asked suddenly.

His scissors flashed around her head. "Because you deserve a damn good haircut, of course."

"No, about _me."_

"What do you mean?"

"You seem to care about _me._ Genuinely, as a friend. Why? Are you this way with everyone? Is it just good business practice?"

He put the scissors down and turned her chair toward him. "Emily, what is this about? You don't seem like yourself today." His voice carried a tinge of tenderness that made her want to cry.

"Just answer my question, okay? Why do you act like you care about what happens to me?"

"You're a great person. You shouldn't let that jerk Lenny affect you this way."

"I know you can't possibly be like this with everyone. You're the salon owner and in high demand. So why have you taken such a special interest in me? Not that I don't appreciate it, but . . . I just want to know."

He was silent for a moment. "Okay, I'll admit, there's an aspect of you that reminds me of someone. Someone I used to know." His jaw clenched and a shadow passed across his face. "A person I wanted to help but couldn't. Maybe that's why I feel a need to . . . I don't know. Be a friend, I guess."

_Great_. _So it was never about me after all_.

He turned to his workstation, face gloomy, and took a long drink of water from the glass on the counter.

"Who do I remind you of?" she asked.

He shrugged. "So do you want this haircut or not?"

She nodded, watching him as he picked up the scissors. She'd never seen him like this. She'd obviously touched a sensitive spot. She wondered who it was that she reminded him of. His mother? A childhood friend? A guy who dumped him? She didn't ooze pure femininity so it was possible, with her lack of make-up and utilitarian wardrobe and lackluster sex life (which surely showed in how she carried herself), that she could remind a guy of a guy. _Just perfect_.

She closed her eyes and let him work, allowing her mind to drift away to her childhood when she was happy, playing in the backyard, climbing trees, building forts for her dolls. The sparse memories were from the days before her mother died, the few short years that she'd enjoyed being a kid before everything had changed.

Those few carefree childhood days of laughter and childhood friends had disappeared when she moved in with her grandparents who were kind people but the opposite of her mother: rigid, orderly, stolid, routine oriented. They didn't want the fuss, the noise, or the chaos of a child, and forced Emily to adapt to their ways instead of the other way around. She learned to be a serious and obedient child, a mini-adult before her years. She studied hard, got good grades, cleaned her room, and did her chores.

She became used to living a life of routine, and in a way it was a comfort after the traumatic loss of her mother. She knew what to expect night after night, day after day. She sat and watched her grandparents' television shows with them in the evenings, took them to doctor's appointments, helped them with shopping, and cooked meals. She followed the rules of their house, didn't have play dates or slumber parties, and even as a teenager had a quiet, habitual existence until she went away to college. Then Emily met Lenny, and the predictable routine continued, if only in a slightly different way, until he'd dumped her.

Now here she was on the eve of her death, getting a new haircut and dye job, finally doing something daring after all these years.

Always a day late and a dollar short. Story of her life. Waves of regret washed over her as Tyler began painting toxic-smelling goo on her hair, wrapping it in strips of foil.

Soon he put her under a large metal dryer, and she sat flipping through magazines with all the other globe-heads as time passed like a slow-moving bus.

An hour and a half later, after more snipping and some deft work with the curling iron, Tyler turned Emily around to the mirror so she could see herself. In place of her mousy brown one-length hair was a stylish layered cut with soft gold waves attractively framing her face. Her mouth dropped open. She looked like a different person.

"You're a genius," she said.

He looked proud, smiling, the old Tyler back. "I knew you'd look beautiful with a different style."

_Did he just call me beautiful_?

His piercing green eyes looked at her in a way that made her feel dizzy.

Emily stared at herself in the mirror. She did look beautiful.

Perfect for an open-casket viewing.

Now all she had to do was find the right dress. As if anyone would come to her funeral anyway. A shadow passed across her heart, a darkening that overtook her mind and spirit like a cloud of acid rain.

Sensing her mood, Tyler touched her shoulder. "Hey, I know something that might cheer you up."

"What?"

"I'm attending a GLAAD fundraiser for marriage equality tonight. Would you like to go with me?" He looked at her kindly. "There'll be a lot of important people there. I'm hoping to gain some clients. There will be plenty of people watching, excellent food, a live band. It might take your mind off things."

He was probably asking her out of pity, but what did she care? She had nowhere else to go on her last night. What the hell, it might be fun. "Okay," she said. "As long as I don't stay out too late. I have an important appointment I need to keep tomorrow."

"I'll pick you up at eight. Dress to kill. I'll send you to my friend who owns the best dress place in L.A. Remember, this is a very elegant party."

That was working out perfectly. She could buy a dress that worked for both occasions: the party and her funeral.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

The storeowner, a lanky woman with a severe bobbed haircut, gushed over Emily. She made her feel like the most important person in the world, just as Tyler always did. "Any friend of Tyler's is a friend of mine," she said, piling Emily's arms high with glittery dresses. "We're going to make you the most beautiful woman at the benefit."

"Which fundraiser are you going to?" a breathy, girlish-sounding voice interrupted from the next dressing room.

"The marriage equality one at the Grand Music Hall," Emily replied, pulling a tight blue dress over her head.

"Me too," squealed the girl. "I won a ticket at a raffle."

_Sounds like a complete ditz_. Emily exited the dressing room, pulling the gown up so she wouldn't trip on it.

"Nice," said the woman, as Emily turned slowly before her. "We might need to take it up a little, but . . ."

"Omigod, these dresses are divine!" said the girl in the dressing room. The voice sounded familiar, but Emily couldn't place it. Below the slatted door, well-manicured toes stepped into a pink dress. "Omigod," the voice continued loudly. "I just knew this was the absolute _best_ place to buy a gown. _Everyone_ goes here. I just hope I can afford this dress. It's not like Nordstrom's where I can charge it and return it a few days later." The girl giggled conspiratorially as if unaware the whole shop was listening.

The storeowner rolled her eyes at Emily. "That one's paying cash," she whispered.

Emily smirked. She couldn't wait to see the dingbat exit the dressing room. Probably some ladder-climbing secretary with delusions of grandeur.

Emily assessed herself in the mirror. The satiny blue dress was okay, but it made her appear bottom-heavy. Plus it was too tight across the top, giving her an on-the-prowl look. Not good for a coffin viewing. "Do you have something more . . . conservative?"

"Conservative?" the shop owner asked. "What do you mean by conservative?"

"You know, maybe high neck, fuller cut, something covering the arms—."

"You mean a nun's habit?" joked a breathy voice behind her. Emily whirled to see none other than Simone Stevens standing there. Simone wore a skin-tight hot pink dress with her cleavage bulging. Her thick red hair hung in long waves around her overly made-up face. Her full pouty lips dropped open when she recognized Emily.

"No way! Emily Keane, is that you? What are you doing here? And what did you do to your _hair_?"

Emily ignored her and rushed back into the dressing room, her heart pounding. She yanked off the blue dress with shaking hands. What were the odds that that _skank_ would show up here? And be going to the same party? Just her luck.

She threw on her clothes and rifled quickly through the dresses. She'd choose one at random and get out of here. She grabbed a conservative looking black one with long sleeves and a scoop neckline. She hurriedly opened the door to see Simone standing there in her tight neon pink dress, grinning.

"Do you think I should get this dress? Does it look good on me?"

"Yeah, whatever," Emily muttered, stalking past her.

"Okay, thanks," Simone said brightly. "I thought so."

As the shop owner rang up the black dress, Simone appeared again, standing next to Emily as if they were old chums. _Doesn_ ' _t this bubblehead have a sense of personal space_? Fuming, Emily moved away from her.

"Gosh, Emily, I never thought I'd see you again," said Simone, tossing her hair.

"I wish you hadn't," Emily muttered in a hostile tone.

Simone looked hurt. "Why would you say something like that?"

" _Why_? Take a guess."

"Well, if it's about the job promotion, I was as shocked as you. I never asked for it. When you left like that, I felt really bad."

Anger burbled in Emily like a witch's brew. "Like hell you did." She slapped her credit card onto the counter.

The store manager averted her eyes, concentrating on the computer.

Simone's pixie face twisted. "You've turned into a really mean person, Emily. I always thought you were sweet. Quiet and nerdy, but sweet."

" _Sweet_? Why don't you try some other adjectives, like dull, pointless, forgettable, _boring_? In fact I think you used that word to describe me once. Boring. Go ahead, you can say it again. I'm fine now."

Simone frowned, biting her lip. "You don't seem fine. And _I_ never called you boring. That brown-noser jerk Mark Wells did."

That stopped Emily. "The new guy? I thought I was the only one who recognized what a weasely little ass-kisser he was."

"I can't stand him. When he called you boring that day, I told him to go to hell, that he shouldn't say that about you. I said _he_ was the boring one, not you. And I told him off again when he asked for your cubicle the day you quit."

"You did?" Something about Simone's tone sounded convincing.

Simone nodded. "I was really bummed that you just up and quit like that. I was hoping you'd help me on the Mabry's campaign."

Bitterness flooded through Emily. _So that was it_. Simone the user. She should have guessed. "So sorry I'm not around to do all of the work for you anymore."

Simone's face pinched. "Why do you keep saying such mean things? What have I ever done to you?"

"Ladies," interjected the storeowner, "how about if you continue this outside? We have other customers to think about."

Emily ignored the woman. Rage surged up in her. "What have you ever done to me, Simone Stevens? Where should I start? How about stealing my job, stealing my boyfriend, stealing my life?"

Simone's jaw dropped. "Stealing your boyfriend? _Lenny_? Why would I do that? He's got leaky eyes and thinning hair. I can do _way_ better than him."

"Thanks. Appreciate it."

Simone gulped. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. But seriously. _Lenny_? He's not even on my radar."

"Well, you're on his," snapped Emily, signing the credit card receipt. "Just like you were on Darren's, which is why he gave you the promotion. He called you a cinnamon bun. Said I was stale bread and butter."

"He _said_ that?"

"Well, not the stale part. I added that. Because that's the truth. It's what I am. Stale and boring and pointless."

Simone stared. "Wow, I never knew you had such low self-esteem."

Emily snatched her dress bag from the storeowner.

"You always seemed so . . . unshakable," continued Simone. "Dependable. I never knew you were such a sensitive and emotional person."

Emily whirled on her. "I'm not sensitive and emotional, Simone. I'm a cold, rational, logical, planning, plotting _bitch_! So watch out!"

"Why are you threatening me? You act like I'm your enemy!" Simone's lip began to quiver. She looked on the verge of tears.

Emily headed for the door. "Of course you're my enemy. You're what everyone wants me to be! But I can't be you. I'm just boring, simple me." She took a trembling breath. "But that's okay. Unbeknownst to you, I can still be of use to the world, even if you and your adoring fan club don't recognize it. I can make a difference in my own way." Her voice rose shrilly. "And it won't be with drinking myself under the table at bars, dancing on tables, fucking every guy in sight, or stealing other people's _lives_!"

Simone gasped.

At the door, Emily paused to shove the plastic bag up under her arm. "See you at the damn charity event!" Then she banged through the fancily lettered doors, not caring that she left angry palm prints on the pristine glass or that she'd just spent a week's salary on a dress she'd never even tried on.

Emily was waiting on the front steps of her apartment building in her black flowing gown when Tyler roared up on his motorcycle. He grinned at her as he idled by the curb, the machine growling loudly under him like a rabid panther. Emily covered her ears. _Didn_ ' _t that thing have a muffler_?

Wearing dark glasses and a retro helmet, Tyler looked more delicious than usual. He walked toward her in his tux and motorcycle boots, smiling in a way that made her heart skip a beat. Those chiseled looks and dream body . . . for a moment she wished she'd been born a man, just so he would consider her as a mate. He held out a helmet for her, looking her up and down. "You look great," he said. "Cool dress."

She smiled shyly. "Thanks. I've never been to a black tie thing before." She had hoped her wedding would be her first formal event, shared with Lenny. She swallowed and blinked hard, looking down at her black comfort shoes. This was not the time to start thinking about Lenny and all that she'd lost.

"Well, if you've never been to a formal, you're starting with the best. This gala is one of the hottest tickets in the city."

Emily stared at the motorbike and wiped her hands on her dress, her heart picking up a step. "I wasn't expecting you to show up on a motorcycle." She didn't know how to break it to him, but she was not getting on the back of that death trap machine, even if by this time tomorrow she would be in a body bag anyway. She had to safeguard her body for organ donation, and being sausage-ground across the asphalt wasn't part of the plan.

"Babe, this isn't a motorcycle," he said.

She stared at it, wondering what he meant. It _looked_ like a motorcycle, with two large wheels, lots of chrome, handlebars that stuck straight out, a funky red paint job with multi-colored flames, and a kick start thingy.

Seeing her confusion, Tyler threw his head back and laughed. "It's not a motorcycle, Em. It's a _hog._ Big difference."

"A hog?" She stared at the bike in utter confusion.

"A _Harley_."

Though she'd never noticed it before, she detected a slight twang in Tyler's voice. He _was_ from Texas after all, but this was the first time it had actually registered with her. Coupled with his edgy style, it added an interesting facet to him.

"Oh, I get it. It's a motorcycle, just not a typical one," she said. _It's a Harley_ must be guy-speak for "cool ride." Hell, she wouldn't know a Harley from a Big Wheel, but either way, she wasn't getting on that thing.

"Put on your helmet. Let's get going," he urged.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I can't. I've never been on a motorcycle—er, Harley—before. It seems dangerous . . . and wild." _And what about her hair_?

"It's supposed to be dangerous and wild. That's the point." His eyes twinkled at her. "Come on. Live a little."

She stared at the machine. She imagined them going over a bump and flying through the air like rag dolls, landing limply on the hood of the car in front of them. Or rounding a corner a little too closely and cheese-grating their legs— _not_ a good look for a charity event—or being disemboweled by an opening car door on the freeway. She'd heard people threw their doors open if motorcycles tried to pass them too fast. She'd read somewhere that motorcycle accidents were the leading cause of decapitation. When a person's melon hit the pavement going eighty miles an hour, well, there wasn't anything a dinky little piece of plastic could do. Those flimsy half-helmets were just for show.

No, she'd much rather die quietly by pills, in an _orderly_ fashion. The motorcycle definitely wasn't an option. Even if they didn't wreck, they'd show up to the charity with bugs in their teeth and matted helmet hair. That wouldn't win them any points in the style department. She was a fashion disaster as it was, with her black mourning dress and sensible shoes.

She shook her head stubbornly. "I'm not getting on that thing. Sorry."

"If it's about your hair, I'll help you fix it when we get there."

"It's not about the hair." Okay, maybe part of it was, but that was beside the point. "It just seems highly unsafe."

His face fell. "I'm a good driver. You'll be fine with me. I promise."

She shifted her feet, not knowing what to say. She wasn't a "live on the edge" kind of gal, but he already knew that. She kicked herself, wondering why she'd ever agreed to attend this event in the first place. She'd much rather stay home and watch "Suburban Housewives of Idaho" while eating Haagen-Dazs bars.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Tyler urged.

"No, I don't think so," she said, crossing her arms. "I really don't want to ride on that thing."

Tyler's lips pinched together and he shook his head. "Bummer."

"I'm sorry."

"Fine. Whatever you want," he said with a resigned air. He held out his hand, and she gave him back the helmet. "Meet me there?"

"Okay." Driving her economy Prius wasn't as glamorous as riding up on a Harley with a gorgeous man, but she was who she was. Her new haircut and color were about as far as she could stretch past her comfort zone. Even with her new haircut, she'd stared at herself in the mirror tonight, uncomfortable with the haphazard way her layers stuck out. She'd slicked them back beneath two barrettes until she looked more like her old self, and even put a black velvet scrunchie in her purse in case she felt like tying it back.

She was who she was.

As Emily watched Tyler walk toward his bike, her heart sank and depression descended like a bleak fog. Only a few hours of life left and yet here she was, choosing the safe route as always. She was filled with self-disgust.

Tyler mounted the bike and glanced over his shoulder at her. As he pulled on his helmet, she saw disappointment in his eyes.

_I'm not your pet project_ , _damn it_! Emily thought. _I_ ' _m not your charity case_!

But despite her pride, something in her yearned to break free, to run over and jump on the back of his bike. Throw caution to the wind . . . and ride. But her sensible, sturdy pumps remained planted firmly on the ground.

Tyler revved the engine. It roared to life, blowing dirt and leaves across the ground toward her. He did something twisty with the handlebars, making it roar louder. She covered her ears and frowned, wondering what he was trying to prove. What must her neighbors be thinking, especially crusty Mrs. Koster in 2A who always peered out from behind her flowered yellow curtains at the slightest sound?

Tyler looked back at her. "Last chance," he yelled.

She shook her head.

He shrugged. "Okay, Em. It's your call. But remember, life is what you make it. Carpe diem."

That jolted her. _Carpe diem_. She'd heard that somewhere. It was a Latin phrase meaning 'to seize the day,' take hold of the moment in order to enjoy life. The opposite of what she'd been doing.

" _Life is what you make it_." Tyler's other words rattled around in her brain, making her head reel. Her life had been so forgettable up to this point. Why not make the last few hours memorable? She was going to die anyway. Why not take a chance for once?

As Tyler nudged up the kickstand with his boot and prepared to leave, it took all of Emily's courage and everything she had to push past herself and yell, "Tyler, _wait_!" And it took every last ounce of strength and determination to stride over to his Harley, put on the helmet, climb rigidly onto the back of the bike, and bunch her dress up between her legs like culottes. The smell of burning fuel intermingled with a whiff of his cologne. The rumbling metal beast vibrated under her body. Trembling, she put her arms around Tyler's strong midsection. Just as she was about to change her mind and get off, he gunned the engine.

"Don't worry, Em. It's a short ride so you won't need a kidney belt." He grinned back at her.

_A kidney belt_?

The bike roared out from under, taking them with it. Before she could form a scream, they were racing through the streets. She held on tightly, squeezing Tyler as if he were a life raft. Life passed by in a blurry blend of sidewalks, apartment buildings, cars, and colors.

She didn't know she was shrieking in Tyler's ear until he yelled at her to stop. "You're distracting me," he hollered. "Stop the screaming unless you want to crash!"

That shut her up. She clenched her teeth, gripping his waist as they zoomed through the busy streets, dodging cars. The wind whipped her dress around her legs. Her pumps balanced precariously on the foot rests, mere inches from the speeding ground below, and her thighs ached from clamping tightly to the sides of the machine. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, terror gripping her. When she opened them, a stream of dark colors passed on both sides. Her head spun. She leaned into Tyler's strong body, holding on with every bit of strength she had. With her arms wrapped tightly around him, her cheek resting against his neck, she prayed she was safe with him. The hairs below his helmet tickled the side of her face, and the faint masculine scent of him added to her dizziness as the world whirled by. Despite her fear, it was as if they were the only two people in the world.

Emily's heart pinched. What would Lenny think if he saw her right now? He wouldn't recognize her, that was for sure. He'd be jealous, but what he wouldn't see—couldn't see—was that Tyler was as unthreatening as you could get, from any standpoint. All Tyler could be was a friend. And that was enough, she realized. For tonight, it was perfect.

_Yes_ , she thought as the night rushed by, cars and people and streetlights all mixing together into one glittering blur. She could have all the perks of being in the company of a gorgeous, sexy man without any of the complications. Without any of the pain. She had an escort to a fancy party, someone to sip a club soda with and talk to while she scanned the room for celebrities and dodged Simone. Now she understood why some women had gay best friends. You got all of the benefits of male company without any of the risks. You could fantasize . . . and weren't fantasies better than reality, anyway? Reality had let her down so far.

She forced herself to relax, nestling into Tyler's back and pretending he was her date for the evening. As she held on to his warm body with the sky darkening overhead and the first stars peeking out, she realized this was the first moment in her adult life she'd ever let go. A cacophony of sounds and smells whipped past them. They dipped around one bend after another, the world spinning by like a carousel ride gone mad.

All that was left were her senses.

Then, a car pulled out in front of them.

Tyler yanked the bike to the right, causing the tires to skid. The bike careened toward a row of parked cars. Emily screamed, digging fingers into Tyler's waist. With swift force, he righted the bike, gaining control. Before she could catch her breath, he revved the engine and accelerated again. Emily's long shrieks were carried on the wind behind them, as high-pitched and piercing as a kettle.

"Damn it, stop that," Tyler yelled back at her. "I need that fucking eardrum!"

When they arrived in front of the large ballroom, Emily staggered off the bike. She threw her helmet at Tyler. Her entire body was trembling. It was all she could do to control her bladder.

He gazed at her, chagrined. "Was it that bad?"

"Yes." Her knees were knocking together. It was hard for her to stand.

"Wasn't any part of it fun?" He gazed at her with an amused expression.

"Only the part when we stopped." She paused, seeing his face. "Okay," she conceded. "There might have been a moment where I could sort of see its appeal. That is, until that car almost turned us into hamburger."

He grinned, attaching the helmets to the bike.

She looked down at her dress. It was more wrinkled than a Shar-Pei's face. She smoothed it with shaking, damp hands but it was no use. She checked her hair in the tall motorcycle mirror. A blonde witch stared back. Her usual tidy hair was a matted, frizzy mess. She helplessly ran fingers through the tangled knots as elegantly dressed partygoers passed by on all sides.

"Here, let me," said Tyler. He undid the barrettes and handed them to her, giving her a look. Then he fluffed her hair with his fingers, smoothing sections and pulling bits and pieces out around her face. He stood back and assessed his work, then fluffed it again. "Damn, I should've brought my styling tools."

Emily caught another glimpse of her hair in the bike's mirror. It didn't look any better. Frizzy tufts stuck out all over, as if her head had gone through two dryer cycles on high.

"Omigod," she muttered to herself. What was she going to do? She couldn't go in looking like this!

Then she remembered the scrunchie. She fished it out of her purse and swiftly pulled her hair up into a tight, high bun. Holy crap, that was worse. It looked as though she had a large sewer-rat's nest perched on top of her head. Not the look she was going for. The only thing missing was the rodent.

She yanked the scrunchie out, stuffing it back into her purse. She ran her hands over her hair again, hopelessly trying to smooth it.

Tyler watched her with an amused expression. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Em, you look fine. It's the windswept look."

She attempted a rueful smile. "Yeah, right. Like what those wind machines do for models?"

"Exactly."

"Like Cindy Crawford at the beach?"

"More like Christy Brinkley. 'Cause you're blonde."

"Well, okay, if you put it that way . . ."

Their eyes met, and they laughed.

"See, you're having fun," Tyler said.

"Maybe, but I'm never getting on that bike again."

"Hog."

"Whatever."

Tyler took a claim ticket from an eager, buck-toothed valet in white gloves who jumped on the Harley and gunned it so loudly that arriving people stared in consternation.

The valet roared off. Tyler put his arm out to Emily, who accepted it gratefully, feeling shy about her fuzzy hair and wrinkled dress.

The Grand Music Hall was lit up with a halo of white-gold light, as if beckoning to the crowds that descended upon it from their limos and expensive cars with dark windows. Emily recognized the tall, elegant building from TV. Many fancy events had been held here, including celebrity award ceremonies and political rallies. A proverbial red carpet had been draped all the way up the stairs that led to the ballroom. Lines of shiny, sparkling people moved slowly up toward the high doors—gliding, really, as if on an invisible escalator.

As they climbed the stairs, Emily noticed a woman in front of them staggering tentatively in four-inch heels. _What ridiculous shoes_. Emily was grateful for her own sensible low-heeled pumps. The woman in the teetering pink stilettos almost tripped. Giggling, she grabbed on to a passing man in a tux. Hearing the familiar cackle, Emily realized with a sickening thud that it was Simone. Ditzy, air-headed, ridiculous Simone in stripper heels and that painted-on pink dress.

"Let's wait here for a moment," Emily said to Tyler, pretending to adjust a strap on her strapless shoes.

He nodded, distracted, looking around for people he knew.

When Simone was a safe distance ahead, Emily let Tyler escort her up the rest of the stairs and into the grand hall, relieved that she'd successfully dodged her nemesis.

Inside the large, candle-lit ballroom, an orchestra played old-style jazz on a low, white-draped stage. People were already on the dance floor, swaying to the music. Emily cringed. She had two left feet. She stared longingly at the people whose movement seemed so light and effortless, so graceful. Angels with wings, swirling around the floor, at one with the music.

That would never be her.

"Would you like a drink?" Tyler asked.

She nodded. "Club soda, please."

He raised a brow, then went to track down the bar. Emily surveyed the ballroom. A huge chandelier the size of a small car hung from the ceiling. Pale orange damask lined the room in loops and swirls and dips. The tables were covered with flowing white cloths overlaid with light orange silk, and the flower arrangements were breathtaking. The open bar, where Tyler waited, served exotic drinks from a mermaid ice sculpture, her naked breasts melting to look as droopy as those of a post-nursing mother. Soft white candles lit the room, and shadows flickered off the beautiful gowns of the women, who all looked like jewels in a crown as they circled, vulture-like, around the silent auction tables. Men in tuxes gathered with martinis or short drinks, laughing and trading jokes. They looked debonair and powerful and rich. Tyler seemed to fit right in, even with his edgy nonchalant style.

" _Where are we_?" Emily murmured aloud. She meant it rhetorically, of course. She knew where she was, but it felt as though she'd stepped into another time or an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. She half-expected Gatsby to walk over and greet her.

"We're in the company of Los Angeles royalty, my darling," said Tyler at her shoulder, handing her the club soda. "Sit back and enjoy."

Indeed he was right, because she recognized a good number of faces from television and magazines. Many knew Tyler—men greeting him warmly and introducing him to others, coiffed women shrilling eagerly to see him. One elegantly dressed couple after another hugged him, and soon he excused himself from Emily, saying he'd be back in a while as he went off to make his connections.

Emily stood by the dessert station, dipping long-stemmed strawberries in chocolate as Tyler made his rounds. He'd get a lot of new clients from this party, no doubt. She watched as he greeted people warmly, shaking their hands and immediately engrossing them in conversation. He had charisma. People recognized it, too, because they always seemed taken by him. It was as if people basked in his light and were drawn to him like moths.

A hand touched Emily's arm. "Who is that _hunk_?" a tipsy Simone Stevens breathed in her ear. She nodded toward Tyler.

"Hey, Simone," Emily said dully. She scanned the room, looking for an excuse to get away.

"He's absolutely hot," sighed Simone, twirling a tendril of red hair around a tapered fingernail. "He looks like James Bond."

"If James Bond were gay," retorted Emily.

Simone's mouth dropped open. "He's _gay_?"

Emily nodded.

"Typical." Simone shrugged and turned toward the strawberries. She grabbed a large one by the stem, swirled it in the vat of hot bubbling chocolate, and popped the whole thing in her mouth. Chocolate oozed out the sides of her pink-slicked mouth. "Omigod, this is so good."

Without a word, Emily handed her a napkin.

"Thanks," Simone said, swallowing the rest of the strawberry. She giggled. "Isn't this fun? Who thought two average girls like us could get into _this_ party!" She downed the rest of her martini and plunked it onto the tray of a passing waiter, exchanging it for a glass of wine. Then she fixed her large blue eyes on Emily, as if truly registering her for the first time. Her eyes flicked over Emily's ensemble, from the wind-mussed hairdo to the simple black dress and utilitarian shoes.

"Cool, a Billy Smothers gown," said Simone. "Glad to see you're showing a bit more skin than that nun's habit you were so set on finding."

Emily cringed, taking in Simone's tight pink outfit and thick red hair. With her large turquoise eyes fringed with thick lashes, full lips, long legs and generous cleavage, Simone was the picture of sexy loveliness. Unlike Emily, who was a frump and would always be a frump.

Seeing Emily's expression, Simone said quickly, "I'm joking, okay? Don't get all serious on me."

Emily pressed her lips together, looking for an exit.

Simone looked around the party, her long French-manicured nails repetitively clicking against her glass. She pushed her breasts out so passing men would notice her, which they did. In droves. "This is some hot-ass gig," she said, "Talk about smokin' men. Buying that raffle ticket was the best money ever spent. This is _the_ place to be." She took a long sip of wine, arching her back and casting a flirtatious sidelong glance at a tall, silver-haired man standing nearby. She glanced at Emily and caught her eye, a slight smirk playing around her lips. "By the way, how did _you_ get invited to this party? I wanted to ask you at the dress store but you left in such a hurry." She said this with no irony whatsoever.

Emily wondered if she was really as dumb as she seemed or just one of those people who never held a grudge. Either way, she was annoying as hell.

"My hair stylist brought me," Emily said, taking a sip of her club soda.

A dim light flickered in Simone's eye. She turned toward Tyler. "You mean _him_? Wow, it must've been fun showing up with a guy like that, even if he is a fudge packer."

" _Excuse me_?" Emily was stunned. "I can't believe you just called him that! Have you no decency?"

Simone looked at her with wide eyes. "It's another joke, Emily. Come on, lighten up."

That was _it._ Emily turned on her heel and stomped away. It did no good, though, because Simone followed her like a faithful puppy, holding on to Emily's arm and chattering up a storm about all the different designer dresses she recognized. As they passed by, men appraised Simone. She did look good in her tight pink dress, her thick hair done up in a casual mess that somehow looked good with long red tendrils of hair falling around her smooth face. Her breasts jiggled as she sashayed in her stilettos, and several times she gripped Emily's arm harder when she almost tripped. Emily, feeling like a dour-looking widow in her black gown, tried to shrug away from Simone, but the redhead's long nails embedded in her upper arm kept Emily from straying too far.

Just as she was about to yank herself loose, a tall silver-haired man sidled up. Emily recognized him as the man Simone had been making eyes at earlier.

"May I get either of you ladies a drink?" he asked, his gaze fixed on Simone. "I noticed your glasses were empty." Emily detected a slight accent. South American? He was tall, about 6'2 with thick silver hair, light olive skin, and a strong nose. He wore a large gold ring on his right hand. His left hand was bare.

"Dr. Reynaldo Becker," the man said, putting his hand out. Simone took it and giggled.

"I'm Simone," she said in a flirtatious voice. "I saw you staring at me earlier."

Emily gasped. This was typical Simone. So forward she was backward. The man didn't seem to notice or mind. He smiled broadly at them both, his large white teeth glistening. "And you are?" he asked Emily.

Emily let him take her hand. "Emily Keane," she muttered.

"I'm _keen_ to meet you," he said, and laughed loudly at his joke. Simone laughed with him, her cackle rising above the loudness of the room like a rooster's call.

Emily yanked her hand back and crossed her arms, glaring at the two of them so amused at her expense.

"She has a hard time taking jokes," Simone said. "We have to figure out a way to get her to not take herself so seriously."

Dr. Becker smiled approvingly at Simone. "You're lovely."

"Thank you," Simone replied, in a tone that belied she'd heard this phrase at least two thousand times before.

Emily scanned the room for Tyler. Now that Simone had her one-night stand all mapped out, she could be on her way.

"Are you ladies friends of the hostess?" asked Dr. Becker.

They shook their heads.

"I'm here on the whim of fancy also known as luck," said Simone.

Emily stared at her. What was with this woman? One minute she came off as a ditz, the next she sounded like she had an MFA in literature.

Dr. Becker looked enchanted. "Well, the luck is mine." He turned his gaze to Emily. "And did luck also bring you here?

"Hardly," said Emily. "I'd rather be home watching my favorite TV show and preparing for an important appointment tomorrow."

Dr. Becker looked at her with an unreadable expression. "I hope your appointment is more important than raising money for a good cause? Or enjoying the night with a friend as lovely as Simone here? I think being in her company would be enough to light up even the dullest of . . . nights."

Rage flared up in Emily. He was going to say "dullest of lives," she knew it. If she was dull, it wasn't her fault. She wasn't born with legs that went on for miles like Si-Moan's—legs that spread easily, for that matter—or great fashion sense, or a personality that people liked. She didn't have an easy laugh or long red hair or a libido that could be held out on a serving platter for delighted takers.

"I see a waiter!" cried Simone as if she'd just spotted the president. "I'll go grab us some drinks. Club soda for Emily. Martini for me. Want one, too, Dr. Becker?"

_If they weren_ ' _t free_ , _she wouldn_ ' _t be so eager to act magnanimous_ , Emily thought cynically

Dr. Becker nodded. He watched Simone with a sly smile as she tripped off in her tight mermaid dress.

Rage swelled in Emily's brain like a silicone implant. "Yes, Simone is a peach, isn't she?" she blurted out. "She lights up every bed—er, room—that she's in. Not the least bit dull or boring, unlike others she may associate with. What a full, interesting rack she has . . . er, I meant life. Sorry, my mistake. Anyway, enjoy your time with her. I'm sure you'll _experience_ every moment that she has to offer." Emily smiled at the doctor's surprised face as she handed him her empty glass. "No more cocktails for me tonight. I've had my limit of soda water. Can really make a girl tipsy when she's living on the edge, you know. It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Becker. Now I must be heading off. You see, I have an appointment to donate my organs in the morning." Relishing the shocked expression on the doctor's face, Emily turned and stalked off.

She found Tyler in the company of three equally handsome—and obviously gay—men. They were fawning over him as if he were the next Ricky Martin. He seemed nonplussed and amused, as he did when the women at the salon fussed over him. He was apparently used to the attention, although it always seemed to embarrass him.

"You've got my business _for sure_ ," said one of the men, who Emily vaguely recognized as a soap actor. "Here's my card."

"Thanks." Tyler dropped the card in his pocket. "I hope you guys will definitely come pay me a visit." He smiled at Emily standing at his elbow.

"Oh, we'll _come_ , all right," said the most effeminate of the men. "Come visit, I mean."

And they all started laughing, the effeminate one giggling dramatically into his hands as the others chuckled. Tyler just shrugged and smiled, not in the least bit thrown. The other two men also handed him their cards, and Tyler gave them his, making promises to keep in touch. Despite herself, Emily was jealous. The men gave her a snide look as they walked off, a thorough once-over that said, "He's _way_ out of your league, babe, in more ways than one."

Tyler turned to her. "How's everything going? Are you having fun?"

She shook her head. "Not really. I've been dealing with obnoxious Simone Stevens this whole time. She's the one barely wearing pink."

"Yeah, I saw her talking your ear off," he said. "I thought about rescuing you, but then I saw Dr. Becker approach you two. I knew once he saw Simone, you'd be freed." He grabbed a wonton from a passing tray and popped it into his mouth.

Emily wondered why Tyler automatically assumed Dr. Becker would only be interested in Simone. It didn't even cross Tyler's mind to think otherwise. But of course, he was just being realistic. Any man who saw Simone wanted her. It was just a fact. Everyone else was invisible in her company. Simone could have any man she wanted without even trying. She was like Angelina Jolie, so beautiful that men—married or otherwise—dropped at her feet. She took what she wanted because she could. Even Lenny. Even without knowing it.

Lenny. Emily vaguely wondered if Lenny had asked Simone out yet. She doubted it. Simone, with her inability to keep a thought in her mouth, would surely have mentioned it if he had.

"How do you know Dr. Becker?" she asked Tyler, not out of curiosity but to change the subject off Simone.

"He's a surgeon," said Tyler. "Operated on someone I knew once. Comes into my salon now."

This caught Emily's attention. "Who did he operate on? Someone you were close to?"

Tyler averted his eyes, his jaw clenched. His face clouded over and his features grew stiff. By his expression, it didn't look good.

Emily touched his arm. "What happened?"

Tyler shook his head, looking away. "It doesn't matter." He looked around. "Hey, where's the waiter when someone needs a drink?"

His face was dark and walled off in the same way it'd been when he'd mentioned the friend he'd tried to save but couldn't. Emily wondered if this was the same person, the one who she reminded him of.

"Want something to eat?" he asked.

"I'm not hungry," Emily replied. She hadn't eaten all night. But then again, she didn't usually have an appetite when she was stressed out or had something hanging over her head. And tomorrow was looming.

"I'm going to go get some of that mango shrimp. Sure you don't want some?" Tyler asked.

She shook her head. "No thanks. But I will take a glass of water, if that's okay. I think I'm going to take a cab home after this. I'm ready to leave."

He nodded. She could tell he'd been expecting it.

"At least you gave it a try, right Em?" he said. "Gotta give yourself kudos for that. And you got on a hog. Now _that's_ something to be proud of." He winked at her, and then strode off toward the buffet table. Emily saw heads turning as he passed. People noticed him the same way they did Simone Stevens. Some people were like that—their presence in the world was always tangible.

A hand touched her arm. Emily turned to see Dr. Becker, sans Simone, who was laughing in a corner with a throng of admirers.

"Ms. Keane? There's a matter I'd like to discuss with you," Dr. Becker said. "It's based on something you said."

That didn't sound good. He was probably going to chastise her for talking so ill about Simone, tell her she needed to be a better friend. She felt bad about what she'd said, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She didn't need this man attacking her character when she already felt so low. She braced herself. "Well, I didn't really mean much of what I said. I was just angry."

"What part didn't you mean?" asked the doctor, studying her.

"You know, about Simone. I guess she's not so bad if you can get past the implants and fake personality and—"

"So you meant the part about donating your organs?"

Oh no, here we go. She never should have said anything, but she was so _pissed_ and it just came out, and . . . He was probably going to recommend she go see someone. A shrink, maybe. Or enroll in a suicide prevention program. How could she explain to him that she wasn't suicidal per se, just practical?

"Because," said the doctor, lowering his voice and moving closer, "I specialize in that."

"Specialize in what?" Did he mean suicide? Or psychiatry? Or euthanasia, like Dr. Kevorkian? Was he offering to help her along?

Emily stared at him in confusion.

"I specialize in organ donation." He said it simply, plainly, as if it all should make sense.

"I thought you were a surgeon."

"I was," said the doctor, looking around. "Now I'm an organ . . . facilitator. This is not something we should discuss here, though. We need to do it privately."

"Why should we do it at all?" Emily was getting tired of this Spy-from-Russia nonsense. She didn't need some "facilitator" micromanaging her plan. She'd researched it enough to know what she was doing. She hated the way this man acted so smug, like he knew everything. So many doctors were like that. Emily looked around for Tyler. She sighed when she saw him engaged in another conversation by the buffet.

"Here, take this," said Dr. Becker, pressing something into her hand. "It's my card."

"Are you asking me on a date?" asked Emily in a sweet tone, knowing it was the last thing on his mind.

"Er, no." He dropped his voice. "I want you to call me so we can discuss your organ donation. I can make things . . . easy for you."

"What do you mean?"

"There are things that you don't know about the process that I can explain to you in person. Call me. We can meet at my office tomorrow. It's imperative that we talk before you take any other steps."

"Why? You make it sound urgent."

"It is. I can't tell you any more than that. Call me tomorrow morning. I'll be waiting for your call." Then Dr. Becker was gone, moving through the crowds toward Simone, who, when she saw him coming, tossed her hair and smiled coyly over her glass.

The next morning, a loud knocking on Emily's door jolted her awake. She looked at the clock. Six frickin' o'clock in the morning, on a Saturday. Who had the nerve to bang on her door at this hour? It could be the crazy Trans-Fed delivery driver from downstairs—the one with a crush on her who bragged about running people off the road because he thought it would impress her. If this was his way of wishing her happy birthday, then she was going to give him a serious piece of her mind.

She staggered out of bed, pulled her pale pink robe on over her PJs, and ambled down the hall. The banging grew more insistent. She couldn't imagine who it might be, or why it sounded so urgent. A small niggle of fear trickled down her collarbone. What if someone had died? She wasn't close enough to anyone to be notified, unless it was Lenny. Oh no, she hoped it wasn't Lenny. On second thought, maybe she did . . .

No, it couldn't be Lenny. He wasn't the dying type. It was probably something else, a burst pipe or the building on fire. Now that would suck. A fire would definitely ruin her plans for the day, and Emily Keane was not good about having her schedule derailed.

_Pound_ , _pound_ , _pound_! _Bang_ , _bang_ , _bang_!

"I'm coming!" she yelled, trying to sound confident. She peered through the peephole, but could see no one.

"Who is it?"

Silence.

"Who _is_ it?" she yelled again, louder.

"Dr. Becker," came the reply.

The silver-haired man from the charity ball stepped into view, grinning through the peephole with super-sized teeth. A bright red tie glistened at his throat.

Emily shrank back, alarm clanging through her skull.

How had this guy found her address? And why was he showing up on her doorstep? Was he a creep? Insane? A stalker axe-murderer?

Heart thumping, Emily debated over opening the door. The more rational side of her said that it most likely had to do with her organ donation plan, but another side of her said this wasn't normal behavior on the part of a doctor. Weirdness came in all forms.

"I'm not interested in whatever you're trying to sell . . . or do," Emily said through the door.

"Ms. Keane, please open up so I can explain. I have a business proposition for you."

She gnawed on a cuticle. She was curious, yes, but also wary. Maybe Dr. Becker had a patient who'd been on the recipient list for too long, or a relative who needed an organ—someone he loved. Those were the only things that would make sense.

"Okay, I'll open the door, but I'm warning you I have mace," she said, trying to remember where her pepper-spray was. Probably at the bottom of her purse somewhere, as if that would do her any good.

"Fine, fine, you can mace me if it'll make you feel better," said Becker in a faux-jovial tone.

Emily opened the door tentatively.

Dr. Becker stood smiling broadly in a full suit, his white teeth glistening against his bronzed skin in the early morning sun. He put his hand up against her forthcoming response. "Yes, yes, I know it's early. But I thought it would be better to catch you sooner rather than later, in case you decided to take matters into your own hands preemptively. I'm usually not this pushy, but you seem to be quite a resolved type of person, so . . . "

" _Excuse_ me?" said Emily. "Do you realize what time it is? And who do you think you are just showing up like this?"

"A good businessman," said the doctor, his smile fading slightly at her tone. "May I come in?"

Emily crossed her arms. "No. How did you get my address? How did you find me? This is very creepy."

"Please forgive me, Ms. Keane. I was concerned that you'd be making a big mistake by acting rashly with your . . . organ donation plan."

"You obviously know nothing about me. I've never done a rash thing in my life . . . well, if you don't count my new haircut and color . . . or last night's motorcycle ride. But that's beside the point. _How did you find out where I live_?"

Dr. Becker shifted on his feet. "I followed you home last night."

" _What_?" Emily stared at him. Should she call the cops or slam the door in his face? She pictured Becker tailing her taxi through the streets last night, then watching like some stalker as she went up the stairs to her apartment. The whole thing freaked her out.

"I thought you were interested in Simone, not me," she said.

Dr. Becker cocked an eyebrow. "Ms. Keane, you are jumping to all sorts of conclusions." His face registered her discomfort. "Please don't get the wrong idea." He put his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. "You see, I'd fully planned on waiting for your call so we could discuss matters in my office. However, I figured I might not ever hear from you since you seemed so committed to your . . . plan. I decided to call on you myself, to help you see things more clearly. Time is of the essence, you know."

"So you followed me because of my organs?"

"Of course," said Dr. Becker, grinning like a salesman again. "I can help you get what you want."

"And that is?"

"To help others. In the most efficient way possible. Am I right?"

_Of course_ , _Einstein_. _Why else would anyone donate their organs_? Efficiency was her middle name.

"What's in it for you?" Emily asked warily.

"If you'll let me in, I'll explain."

Emily paused. Despite her reservations, she was curious to see what Dr. Becker had to say. "Okay, but if you do anything weird, you should know there's a crazy Trans-Fed driver who lives below me. One loud stomp and he'll be up here with a large machete." This was only half true since she didn't know if the Trans-Fed driver even owned a machete. It was a good possibility, though.

Dr. Becker chuckled amiably. "No need to worry, Ms. Keane. Just business talk, that's all."

Emily begrudgingly moved out of the way. Dr. Becker bent down and picked up a thick briefcase, along with a shiny black doctor's bag, and passed by her into the apartment.

"You can sit there," she said, gesturing to the scuffed green table. Dr. Becker dropped his medical bag on the floor and laid his briefcase on the table—moving the salt and pepper shakers aside.

"Would you like some tea? Or coffee?" asked Emily. She had a coffeemaker for guests, although she'd never used it. She didn't even know how to operate the thing. It crossed her mind that she shouldn't be treating this man like company when he was a cap-toothed stranger who'd shown up on her doorstep unannounced, but her grandparents had always emphasized good manners.

"Coffee would be nice," Dr. Becker replied. "I enjoy a little caffeine jolt."

_Who wouldn't at this hour_?

Emily filled the coffee pot, added a scoop of expired ground coffee, and hit the start button. Easy enough. She filled a teakettle for herself then took a seat across from Dr. Becker.

"You should know," she said, moving the salt and pepper shakers pointedly back in line, "that I'm only a morning person during the week. I never get up before 6:30 on the weekends."

"Sorry about that," said Dr. Becker pleasantly. He didn't sound sorry, though.

"You should also know I have my termination plan firmly in place. I don't have a lot of time to waste this morning. I would appreciate it if you would get to the point as quickly as possible."

"Of course," he said. "I'll get right to it, then." He leaned forward and placed his hands flat on the table. "You clearly intend to take your own life—which is none of my business to know why. You've also stated that you intend to donate your organs, of which I would like first dibs."

Emily swallowed hard. "First dibs?"

"Yes." Dr. Becker smiled pleasantly. "The bottom line is, I want your organs. And I'll do anything to get them."

Emily gulped. "You sure don't beat around the bush, do you?"

Dr. Becker shrugged. "You said get to the point."

Emily stared at him. "When you say you'll do anything to get them, what do you mean?" She had visions of him pulling out a butcher knife from his briefcase and slicing her open right there, like those crazy baby snatchers she'd seen on the news who cut babies from mothers' wombs. Her heart rate picked up. She eyed the door, wondering if she could make it out before he grabbed her. A trickle of sweat made its way down her back. Her hands trembled in her lap.

"Oh dear," Dr. Becker said. "I see that I've alarmed you. Your face looks like a clay mask. Please, get yourself some water. You have nothing to fear from me. I am only here to offer a business proposition."

Emily stared at him. "Are you sure?"

He gazed at her placidly. "If I operated like a thief, I would have acted already, don't you think? I had the opportunity when you first invited me in. Frankly, I'm insulted. I'm an honest businessman." He didn't look the slightest bit upset, though, as he regarded her.

She shook off a chill. _Be rational_ , _Emily_. _Don_ ' _t let your imagination run wild_. _Listen to what he has to say_.

She took a deep breath. "Okay, I'll hear your proposal."

Dr. Becker opened his briefcase. "Before we go any further, I need you to sign a confidentiality agreement." He pushed a piece of paper across to her.

What now? This guy had more tricks up his sleeve than a street magician.

Emily scanned the paper. It was a simple-enough document, stating that anything they discussed would not be spoken of outside this meeting.

She had no one to tell, anyway. What did she have to lose? And what did he have to propose? Curiosity got the better of her. She scribbled her signature on the line and pushed the paper across to him.

Dr. Becker tucked the paper into his briefcase.

"Can I get a copy?" asked Emily.

Dr. Becker shook his head. "I'm sorry. I keep the originals of all our documents. No copies made. Secrecy reasons, you understand. But if you would ever like to see them, let me know and I'll make sure you have access to them." He gazed at her without expression. "You do understand that while our documents are not binding in the normal manner—in a court of law, for example—they are still enforceable."

Unease trickled through Emily. Who was this guy?

"Back to your organs," Dr. Becker continued. "As you know from our mutual friend, Tyler, I used to be a surgeon. However, in recent years, I decided to make a more lucrative career change. I am now a broker."

"What kind of broker?" Emily had visions of him selling real estate. That would explain the suit and the Saturday hours.

"An organ broker."

Emily gulped. "What exactly does that mean?"

"In a nutshell, I find people who want to donate their organs—usually terminally ill people or people who've signed off their brain-dead family members or the occasional suicidal person such as yourself, and then I supply those organs to people on my clientele list. After I've done a thorough blood test and health check to make sure the organs are in optimum condition, of course."

"What do you mean, your clientele?"

"The rich and famous. People who don't want to wait on lengthy, slow moving donor lists by going the traditional route. People who want the best, expect the best, and are willing to pay for it."

Heart thumping, Emily wiped her hands on her robe. "So let me get this straight. You _sell_ organs to people?"

Dr. Becker stared at her with dark, unreadable eyes. "I provide a service."

"Yes, but . . . I want to make sure I understand this right. You're a _black market_ _organ broker_?"

Dr. Becker's dark eyes fixed on her, unblinking. "Black market is a foul term, Ms. Keane. I prefer to call it free market health care." He leaned forward, still staring intently, his hands pressed flat on the table. "You need to get this straight. People who are dying or _want to die_ sell their organs to me for a nice price, and that money goes to help their children or loved ones or important causes. I provide an inheritance for many people who otherwise wouldn't have one, you see. And as for the powerful people who benefit from these organs? They are extremely important people who might otherwise die: presidents of nations, Nobel Prize winners, singers, famous artists, top businessmen, politicians . . . Think of it. What if you can save another Ghandi? Or a Picasso?"

"Or a Hitler?"

Dr. Becker leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes. "I resent your implication, Ms. Keane. I assure you that I choose my clients in a most ethical manner."

Emily took a deep breath. All this information had come at her too hard and too fast. Her head was spinning. She went to the coffee pot, taking her time to pour his cup while she sorted out her thoughts.

"What if I choose to go the traditional route, the way I'd planned? What's wrong with that?" she asked, dropping a teabag of nerve-calming chamomile into her own mug. "I don't see why I shouldn't just do it that way."

"Nothing wrong with it, but you wouldn't help as many people. With how I work, I have many people lined up so that all of the organs are used at once. There's no waiting in interminable donor lines, no red tape, no lengthy technical processes. Do you know how many people die while waiting for an organ to become available or for the right match? Not so with my business. Every part is used, and efficiently, with a perfect match. There is nothing left over, no waste so to speak. Corneas might go to the queen of England, your heart to the son of a diplomat, a kidney to the Dalai Lama."

"The Dalai Lama needs a kidney?"

"All hypothetical. But you see what I'm saying. With my connections, every single one of your organs will be put to valuable use. You will be aiding many important lives."

Emily handed him the mug of steaming coffee, trying to control her trembling hand. " _All_ lives are important, Dr. Becker."

"Yes, but some a bit more so, Ms. Keane. World events can be changed by saving just one of these lives. So you're not just saving lives, I should clarify, but the world."

Emily choked and put her mug down abruptly. "Saving the _world_? You sure do a good sales pitch."

"Are you interested?" he asked, leaning forward with glittering eyes. "Who wouldn't want to save the world?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Maybe," she finally said.

"Here are the terms. You agree to sell me your organs which will be retrieved on a set date, say a year from now, which means you'll have to stay alive for a bit longer. I hope that won't be too much of a problem for you." He gazed at her over his cup. "You see, I need the time to find the most optimum buyers. With a young, healthy body like yours, there will likely be a bidding war. Anyway, that's not your concern."

_A bidding war_? She'd never felt so popular in all her life, and she hadn't even died yet.

"After you sign the contract," Dr. Becker continued, "we will do a blood and DNA test and an overall health check. Then I will send a courier with a large sum of money to your door, cash, which you can leave to your loved ones or do with it what you wish."

"What if I have no loved ones?"

Dr. Becker took another sip, unfazed by her comment. "A favorite charity then?"

Emily shook her head. "I supposed I could find one if I have to. But so far, the money doesn't hold much appeal for me."

"How about using it yourself, then?"

"How so?"

"Well, you'll have about nine months to a year before I need your organs, so you could use the money to live the life you've always wanted. Spend with no concern. Live it up, provided you stay healthy and clean."

Emily swallowed hard. He didn't know who he was talking to. She wouldn't know how to live it up if it were her final night on earth, last night being a good example. "How much money are we talking about?"

"A million dollars."

Emily gasped. "A _million_?"

"Yes, at your door the same day you sign the contract."

"That easy?"

"That easy."

"And what if I change my mind after I sign the papers?"

Dr. Becker studied her with measured eyes. "A contract is a contract, Ms. Keane, so I advise you to know what you're signing and why. There is no going back. There will be many people depending on you."

Emily was silent.

"Are you having second thoughts?"

"Who said I had _first_ thoughts?" Emily snapped. "I can assure you, though, that I never change my mind once it's made up. I'm not the type." She paused. "I was just . . . wondering about those people who _do_ change their minds."

Dr. Becker smiled. "I always find a way to make sure my contract is enforced. It's the mark of a good businessman."

A chill went through her. What was she getting herself into?

All things considered, though, did it really matter? She'd planned on taking her life anyway. So what if Dr. Becker did business under the table or had his methods for enforcing a contract? If he was helping people and everyone was happy, who was she to judge? It _would_ be nice to help powerful people who were making the world a better place. By donating the traditional way, she didn't have a choice who her organs went to. Her organs could be distributed to people like the crazy Trans-Fed driver or airhead Simone, whose contributions to the world were arguable.

"I'd really be helping people?" she asked. "Good people who have the power to make a difference in the world?"

"Absolutely."

Emily and the doctor stared at each other for a long moment, their mugs now untouched on the scratched green table.

"How . . ." Emily stopped, trying to formulate her thoughts. "How do you . . . uh, you know . . . take care of me?"

"You mean euthanize you?"

_The man was nothing if not blunt_. "Yes."

"It's a painless procedure, probably a lot less complicated than how you'd planned on doing it. I simply inject anesthesia into your system and you go to sleep."

"What happens after that?"

"Once you are in a vegetative state, I harvest the organs."

Emily gasped. " _You_?"

"I never said I left surgery. Someone has to get the organs out, now don't they?" he replied in a mild tone. He took sip of coffee, gazing at her over his mug. "There's no surgeon who rivals me. Ask your friend. He knows. Would you rather have the best or a butcher?" He chuckled. "Besides, I like keeping it a one-man shop. I don't need the complication of business partners."

Emily sat frozen in her chair. After a long moment, she said, "I never knew such things were going on in the world, or even possible."

"You'd be surprised."

Emily looked down at her clasped hands. "You know, I hadn't planned on living past today. Didn't much see the point. Tell me, why should I go on another year, even with the possibility of saving such influential people?"

"Look at it this way. We're just delaying things a bit," said Dr. Becker. "You'll still be keeping with your plan. Think of the good you'll do in the long run. Don't underestimate what one powerful person can do, especially if allowed to live a long and fruitful life. Consider this: while we're waiting for the right matches, you could go out and enjoy life." He licked his lips, gazing at her. "Have fun, live large, do what you've always wanted to do but couldn't. Most people never get that chance because they're too concerned with paying the bills, going to work, making it through each day. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. You could make a bucket list and do everything on it. You'll now have the time and the means. Then, when the year is over, you will die peacefully knowing you've achieved all that you wanted in life, that there's nothing left to experience, and that your organs are going to make the world a better place."

Emily rubbed her face. "You make it sound so tempting."

"I don't know anyone in your shoes who would pass it up. What have you got to lose? Carpe diem."

_Carpe diem_. The words stunned her. _Seize the day_. The same words Tyler had said to her.

It felt like a sign.

Dr. Becker leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. "The poet Horace said to 'put as little trust into the unforeseen future as possible, scale back your hopes, and drink one's wine.' Why not do it with a million dollars and a year of luxurious, unplanned time?"

It was as if he knew her on some level, knew her Achilles heel. Knew her deepest fears. Knew why she was ending it all in the first place. She'd never drunk of her own wine. Didn't even know where the bottles were stored.

"How about it?" he urged quietly, watching her. "What do you say?"

"What would I do in a year? What if I just sit in my apartment and stare at the four walls?" she asked in a small voice.

"It's your life to live, Ms. Keane. It's your choice."

"My choice." Emily turned the words over in her mind. It had always seemed like the _world_ ' _s_ choice before, as though all of her decisions had been based on things outside of herself, having nothing to do with her. It had been about pleasing others, striving for things she was supposed to want but didn't know if she actually did. She'd been the perfect citizen in all ways, the perfect child, girlfriend, worker. What had it gotten her, except an empty life?

She'd believed the myth, that if you do all of the right things, life will reward you. It was nothing like that.

Dr. Becker eyes glinted as he opened his briefcase and shuffled through papers.

Emily's thoughts swirled in confusion. If she took the deal, she'd have to find hope again. She didn't know if she had it in her anymore. She was tired, worn out from the exhaustion of life and being Emily Keane. She'd had her life all planned out and had worked so hard at keeping it on track. She'd made charts and plans and strategies. She'd devoted herself to her job and Lenny and done all the proper things. She'd methodically checked off the boxes, one by one. But none of it had panned out, despite her hard work and sacrifices.

Maybe with Becker's deal, though, she could finally give herself the chance at an interesting life, if only for a year. Wasn't that the ultimate control she'd wanted? To shape her own destiny? To have a say over the outcome and results?

She stared at the doctor as he thumbed through a sheaf of papers. With proper analysis, his deal made sense. It was a low-risk proposition. She'd planned on ending her life anyway. She didn't have much to lose, when you really looked at it. She'd already lost herself a long time ago.

With trembling hands, she took the contract the doctor offered. It felt, in a strange sort of way, as if today were a sort of rebirth. Today _was_ her birthday, after all. Maybe another chance to get it right.

She took a deep breath and reached for the pen.

Signing was a start.

Emily handed her signed contract to Dr. Becker. He opened his black bag to reveal an array of medical equipment, including a syringe, tourniquet, and vials. After she'd gotten over her shock, along with some room-pacing, Emily finally allowed him to draw her blood.

"After I process your lab reports," he said, taping a cotton ball to her forearm, "I will courier over your funds."

She nodded, feeling a bit faint. This was all happening so fast.

Once he was gone, she sat at the green table for a while, trying to get her bearings. Her mind whirled with all that had happened. What had she done, and would she regret it? She had a year ahead of her now, stretching like an interminable blankness. How would she fill her time? What would she do with her hours?

She remembered Dr. Becker suggesting a bucket list of everything she'd ever wanted to do in life. She'd never had one before, but maybe now was a good time to make one. At the least, it would keep her busy.

Before she could over-analyze things, she seized a Sharpie permanent marker and quickly, without pause, wrote a list of twelve items on Lenny's green table.

She stared at the black permanent handwriting, surprised at how uneasy she felt with her spontaneity and at defacing the table. But it felt good, too. Fuck Lenny and his lousy table. She took a deep breath and looked over the list of things she'd always wanted to do if she were a different person in another life. It read in no particular order:

□ Learn to country dance

□ Have a one-night stand

□ Visit New York

□ Run with the bulls in Pamplona

□ Sky dive or parasail

□ Get rip-roaring drunk

□ Skinny dip at night

□ Get a tattoo

□ Adopt a pet

□ Visit a tropical island

□ Meet Woody Allen

□ Make love under the stars in Paris

As she read down the list, her heart sunk. Who was she kidding? That list was for someone else, not her. She didn't have the guts to do any of it, million dollars or not. Just the thought of attempting any of these things made her heart pound with anxiety. The bucket list sounded interesting and fun for _someone else_ —someone who didn't believe in common sense and safety. Someone who wasn't screwed down and pent up, who was used to living dangerously.

Someone like Simone _._

She laid her head against the table, a migraine threatening.

If Dr. Becker was good to his word, she'd have a million dollars in cash by this afternoon. Then what?

Emily picked up the Sharpie, ready to cross everything out and start over. What would a sensible bucket list look like? She chewed on her pen, thinking. Maybe she could do simple things that were still outlandish for her, such as go late-night grunion hunting at the beach, or grow her nails long and paint them a bright color, or attend one of those loud concerts that might damage her hearing. Maybe even go braless for once (wearing a thick sweater so no one would notice) instead of something outrageous like skinny-dipping. Jesus, skinny-dipping? Who was she kidding?

She started to cross off the first item on the list—"country dancing"—but something stopped her. This was _her_ bucket list, no one else's. She'd written it spontaneously. She hadn't stopped to plan or mull it over. She'd just let go, and this is what came out. Shouldn't she honor it? Wasn't this carpe diem?

She threw the pen down. This whole thing was outrageous, outlandish, completely ridiculous. And now she had a terrible, pounding headache.

With her luck, her organs wouldn't be good anyway.

It was all too much to think about. Her head was swimming with exhaustion. She'd deal with it later.

For now, she was going back to bed.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

She was awakened by someone pounding on the door. _What now_? Groggily, she pulled herself out of bed. Adrenaline shot through her veins when she remembered the deal she'd made with Dr. Becker. She tiptoed to the door and peeked through the hole.

Grinning back at her were enormous white teeth.

Heart racing, she opened the door.

Dr. Becker entered, dressed in a charcoal gray three-piece suit and smelling thickly of cologne. "Hello, Ms. Keane, so nice to see you." His eyes flicked over her pajamas. "You shouldn't be sleeping away such a beautiful day. What a depressing sight. Maybe some Prozac is in order?"

"Why are you . . . back?"

"So sorry, but I have some very bad news. I have to cancel our agreement." He pulled their contract from his briefcase. "You see, your blood type is all wrong, everything about you is wrong." He ripped the contract in half with a dramatic flourish. "I have no need for you or your useless organs. You can go back to your original plan now. Need some anesthetic? Some rope?" He grinned, his huge white teeth glimmering in the light.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

Emily awoke with a start. Her heart thumped. She was bathed in sweat. Was it a dream? Yes, it had to be. Clearly, the whole thing had been a very bad nightmare, including signing the contract. It filled her with both relief and terror. She must've had a psychological breakdown. Maybe this was her way of coping with all the changes in her life and her impending suicide. She'd mentally snapped.

Someone tapped on the door.

Her heart rate picked up. She tiptoed to the door, just as she had in her dream. Déjà vu.

Much to her relief, no super-sized capped teeth grinned back at her. Instead, a courier in a light green uniform stared impatiently. She could hear the tapping of his foot. When Emily opened the door, he thrust a pen at her.

"Sign here," he said, handing her an enormous box, so heavy that she staggered under its weight.

"Who's it from?" she asked, though she had an idea.

The courier shrugged. "Have a nice day." He trotted off down the stairs.

She staggered in and dumped the box on the table. She went to the kitchen and got a knife, then slowly, carefully cut through the thick black tape on the box. Inside was a large canvas pouch. She pulled it out with considerable effort. Slowly she untied the cord with trembling fingers. She gasped at what she saw: thousands of hundred dollar bills, bundled neatly and stacked in rows.

It hadn't been a dream.

It was real.

One million dollars in cash, just as Dr. Becker had promised. Her fate had been signed, sealed, and delivered . . . literally.

There was no going back.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

The next few weeks were spent dealing with the money: cleaning out her freezer and putting a good quantity of it in empty pizza boxes and ice cream cartons; opening up three large safe deposit accounts, where she stored a good portion of it; and buying up Visa gift cards and traveler's checks in the highest denominations possible.

After the money was dealt with, Emily fell into a daily routine that included housework and a long morning walk where she ruminated about how to get up the courage to tackle her bucket list and spend the money, in that order. Every morning at exactly ten a.m., her walk ended at Tea & Toddy where she treated herself to a cup of chamomile tea and a scone. She'd sit on a bench under a shady tree, sipping from her warm Styrofoam cup and outlining plans to get her life nicely in order. She figured once that was in place, she'd feel safe enough to attempt her bucket list.

Because every day was the same, there was a soothing aspect to her routine. She was beginning to feel a renewed sense of satisfaction and safety, a centeredness she hadn't felt since Lenny left. It was nice to have predictability again. She was a changed person, too, for she'd branched out by incorporating exercise into her routine. She'd never walked before, and the new sites and scenery made her feel adventurous. Okay, maybe the same streets, mailboxes and storefronts day after day weren't _that_ exciting, but still. It was change, and change was good. On top of it all, her extra pounds were starting to melt off with all the walking—a nice bonus. Things were looking up.

One morning during her customary walk, she became lost in thought and found herself in front of Tea & Toddy a whole thirty minutes earlier than her usual time. Anxiety flooded through her. She began pacing in front of the store, wondering if she should go in or delay the time by half an hour so she could get back on schedule.

She caught a glimpse of her wild-eyed face in the storefront window, and it struck her that this was not normal behavior. She should be able to deviate from her routine once in a while. Why was she trying to control her life so much again? Everything that had recently happened had thrown her, there was no doubt. And if past history was any indication, the more out-of-control she felt, the more she needed routine to feel in charge of her life.

She sat on one of the metal patio chairs and dropped her head in her hands, desolation flooding through her.

Nothing had changed. She had a bucket list, but she was still the same person, living a controlled, limited life. She was still afraid.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

After a long time huddled on the chair with self-loathing flooding through her, she suddenly sat up and turned on her iPhone. With determination, she gazed at the bucket list she'd emailed herself a few days ago. Nervous jitters started up in her stomach. She scrolled through the items, contemplating each one. Where to start? Just reading the list sent squiggles of anxiety through her veins. She'd have to work up to flying to New York or Spain on a whim. It was just so outside her personality. Granted, she always kept an updated passport on hand, but it was part of her survival plan in case the San Onofre power plant blew. She had never actually used it for traveling. She was terrified of flying, for starters.

No, traveling was out of the question for now.

She continued to peruse her list. An item jumped out at her: Adopt a pet. That should be simple enough to do, an easy way to take an item off her list.

But which pet? She'd have to do lots of research to figure out what kind of animal would be the best for her small apartment. A cat? But what if it turned out to be crazy, like those that bit and hissed for no reason? Or what if it yowled? She couldn't abide some tom prowling her apartment, spraying urine on the walls and screeching to get out. She had neighbors to consider. And what about claws? Cats had claws. No, she didn't need a cat leaving claw marks all over her good furniture.

Maybe a bird? A bird would be pretty low maintenance. But the _smell_. She'd heard they reeked of . . . birdness. They squawked, too. She didn't need a shrieking bird keeping her up all night and old Mrs. Koster banging on her door. Besides, birds left little gooey droppings. Ick. No, a bird wouldn't do either. If only there were such a thing as a poo-less pet.

A fish would probably be the safest and easiest. Fish just floated there. All you had to do was feed them. You didn't even have to deal with their poo. You just changed their water, easy as that.

So done, get a pet, one thing off the bucket list. Now all she had to do was research the best fish, the easiest to care for. It would only take a few hours, and then she'd be ready to go to the pet store and pick out the right fish. She'd know everything about what it ate, how to care for it, and how to keep its water clean. This bucket list thing was doable . . . easy, even. She was going to prove to herself that she could try different things. Take chances. Seize the moment.

_Seize the day_.

That meant no planning, no research. Exciting people grabbed the moment. They didn't play it safe.

Emily shoved her cell phone in her pocket and resolutely walked two blocks toward the pet store she passed every day. She would adopt a fish today without thinking about it. No planning, no research. Maybe even get something exotic, like one of those purple beta fish with the flowy fins. Or maybe she would even adopt a different kind of animal, like a hamster, if it appealed to her. Sometimes people just saw a pet and said, "That's it. That's the one. I'll take it." Those were the kind of people who lived spur-of-the-moment.

She could do it. She _would_ do it. She marched toward the store, determination in her stride.

As she approached Pet Palace, a cacophony of barking dogs reached her ears. In the parking lot, large wire pens had been set up bearing signs that said, " _German Shepherd Rescue Dogs, free for adoption_!" A woman wearing high-hitched "Mom Jeans" and sporting a gray braid down to her waist immediately approached Emily.

"Hello, I'm Wanda," the woman said. "Wanna look at some companions?"

"Not really." Emily cringed at the large, growling, barking animals rearing at her from behind their metal fence. "They look too big for an apartment."

"The space isn't important. It's the love you give the dog, and the love they give you," said Wanda in a cheerful tone. "What we look for in terms of placement is someone who will keep their dogs with them at all times. You know, sleep with them, eat with them, and treat them as a regular member of your family."

" _Sleep_ with them?" Emily pictured a big hairy beast drooling next to her on the pillow, waking her every morning with its toxic dog breath.

Wanda nodded with a serene smile. "All six of my dogs sleep in my bed with me. They're as happy as mud hens."

" _Six_ dogs?"

Wanda's smile dropped as swiftly as it had come on. Her eyes narrowed. "If more people _adopted_ these beautiful animals, then I wouldn't have to personally rescue so many."

Emily stared at the wedding ring on Wanda's hand. "What about . . . you know, your husband? Is he okay with that many dogs in the bed with you?"

"Of course," Wanda snapped. "He loves not needing a comforter. The dogs keep us so warm."

Emily pictured the woman and her husband lying naked beneath six sweating German Shepherds, trying to grope each other around ears and tails and panting wet tongues. Not a pretty image.

"Baaowwowww!" A large white shepherd enclosed in a tall, six-foot cage suddenly jumped with its full weight on the wire, rattling the metal mesh so loudly that Emily jumped back in alarm.

" _Down_ , Ass-Wipe!" yelled Wanda, snapping her fingers at the dog.

_Nice language_ , thought Emily. Good thing animals don't understand swear words _._

The dog jumped again, panting.

"Did you hear me? Down, _now_ , Ass-Wipe!" Wanda banged on the wire cage. The dog ignored her, bounding up once again so that his paws were eye level with Emily. He stared down at her with liquid brown eyes and a lopsided, toothy wide-open mouth that straddled between a snarl and a grin. His scruffy white fur stood on end and one chewed ear flopped forward as he scratched at the cage with large muddy paws.

"Aw, he likes you," said Wanda, appraising Emily with interest.

Emily stared in horror. Was this dog choosing her? She'd heard of these things—how people went into a kennel and walked out with the first animal that showed an avid interest in them. She wanted to be one of those kinds of people, but there was no way in _hell_ she was adopting this huge ragged beast.

"He doesn't like most people. He turns around and shakes his hindquarters at the people he hates; that's how we know. Literally puts his butt in people's faces, trying to wipe it on them. That's why we named him Ass-Wipe." Wanda chuckled. "Perfect, huh?"

Emily blinked. "His _name_ is Ass-Wipe?"

"Yep. Even answers to it." Wanda leaned toward the dog and shouted loudly, "Ass-Wipe!" The dog jerked toward Wanda, its eyes lighting up in anticipation. "Good dog, Ass-Wipe." Emily cringed, trying to ignore the stares of passersby.

"He thinks we're going for a walk," said Wanda. "Or that it's time to eat. That's when we usually call his name."

Emily backed away. "Thank you for your time, but I'll be on my way now. I'm going to look for a fish. That's what I came here for."

Wanda's eyes bulged. "A _fish_? Waddya gonna do with a fish? Stare at it? The only good fish in my book is a fish on a plate. Preferably with some tartar sauce." She gave a short laugh. "Nah, you don't want a fish. They're boring. Come on, take Ass-Wipe for a walk. He'd really like it."

_Fish are boring_.

Boring—that was all Emily needed to hear. It reminded her of why she was there in the first place. Carpe diem. Seize life by the balls or however the saying went.

"Okay, give me the damn dog. I'll walk him. But if he puts his butt in my face once, that's it. He's going back in the cage."

"Agreed." Wanda grabbed a stained leash and opened the wire cage. Ass-Wipe bounded out in one leap, nearly knocking the woman out of her sturdy Birkenstock sandals. Wanda seized him by the scruff of his neck and snapped the leash onto his collar. She handed it to Emily, a wide grin spreading over her leathery face.

Emily reluctantly took the leash. Before she knew it, Ass-Wipe was dragging her down the sidewalk as people dodged out of the way.

"Slow down, Ass-Wipe!" yelled Wanda from behind them at the top of her lungs. A man muttered in passing as he leapt off the sidewalk, "Yeah, _Ass-Wipe_ , get your dog under control."

Emily yanked on the leash with all her might, and suddenly the dog was sitting at her feet, looking up at her with soft coffee-colored eyes, its pink tongue lolling happily out of its lopsided jaw.

"Well," Emily said, puffing from exertion. "Aren't you an enigma?"

The dog smiled at her as if to say, "Damn right" and then was immediately off again, pulling her zigzaggedly behind him like a tangled kite. They ended up back at the cages where Wanda stood with her arms crossed, wearing a triumphant grin.

"I've never seen him do that before. He really loves you. You need to adopt him."

Emily shook her head. "I'm just not the right per—"

Suddenly, the dog snarled, yanking the leash out of Emily's hands. It lunged toward an older man who was looking at a dog in a nearby cage. Alarmed, the man jumped back, his hands up in a defensive gesture. Ass-Wipe turned, raised his tail, and began circularly shaking his bottom. The man stared, then burst out laughing. "What the hell is that dog doing?"

"He doesn't like you, that's what," Wanda stated, "so I suggest you move along. There's a nice brown shepherd two cages down that's fully trained with no personality issues. No hip problems, either. Go check her out."

The man moved away, snickering. The dog continued to shake its bottom, glaring at the retreating man. As soon as the guy was far enough away, Ass-Wipe turned to Emily and licked her hand.

Emily pulled her hand back. "Is he dangerous?"

"Naw," replied Wanda. "He's just territorial. He doesn't like most people."

"I can relate," Emily muttered to herself.

"He seems to like you, though, which is a good sign. He's never bitten anyone . . . yet. But he does make a big show of himself, shaking his butt when he's mad. Gives people a chance to run, which in my book, is a good thing."

Emily stared at her. Was this woman off her rocker?

The dog nuzzled Emily's hand again, looking up at her with brown smiling eyes.

"Aw, it looks like you've been adopted," said Wanda.

Emily stared down at Ass-Wipe and he stared back at her. This was her test. Could she do it?

"Do you have a return policy?" she asked. _What are you doing_ , _Emily_? _Are you crazy_?

"One year, no questions asked," Wanda replied.

_Good_ , _an escape clause_. She planned on using it.

"You do need to try him at least three months before you bring him back, though," Wanda continued. "Gives you both a chance to bond."

Emily chewed on her lip. Could she do it or not?

"What have you got to lose?" Wanda asked.

Emily sighed and held out her hand for the forms.

Wanda's face lit up. "You're going to love him. He's a sweetie when he's not rubbing his balls on you." She threw her head back and emitted a husky, smoky sound that sounded more like a cough than a laugh.

"Great," Emily said darkly.

"Normally we ask for a hundred dollar donation to cover his shots and stuff, but I'm going to waive it since Ass-Wipe has been such a challenge to adopt."

Emily gulped. She stared down at the dog that was now lying by her feet. "I can bring him back in three months, right? No questions asked?"

Wanda squinted at Emily, handing her a pen. "Yeah, but just give it a good try, all right? That dog deserves a good home."

Emily jotted her name and address on the form, considering the possibility that she'd lost her mind. Completely certifiable.

"You'll be fine," said Wanda, with a wink. "Just remember to feed and walk him. Nothing else to it. He'll have you trained in no time."

Emily nodded. Three months was doable. Other people had dogs and managed. She'd written ads for some of the biggest companies in the U.S. If she could do that—and deal with such an unpredictable boss like Darren—then she could surely handle a silly dog.

"Have fun," said Wanda as Emily turned to leave.

"Yeah right, carpe diem," Emily replied.

"Carp what?" asked Wanda. "Oh, you're still thinking about the fish. Don't worry, you made the right choice. Go buy some tartar sauce."

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

_Crash_! There went the lamp before Emily could catch it. Another _crash_ , and Emily's television fell, a pile of broken glass. AW, as Emily called Ass-Wipe, bounded through the apartment, knocking over everything he passed. She gave chase, trying to grab his trailing leash. He stopped and looked back at her, laughing with loud breathy pants, his long pink ham-tongue dangling out of his crooked mouth.

She lunged but missed, and he was off again, leaping around the room, ricocheting from sofa to chair to coffee table to floor, landing with loud thuds. Emily cringed, knowing the crazy Trans-Fed driver would be up at any moment due to the noise reverberating through the floor. She crawled over the sofa toward AW but he leapt away, whizzing around the living room like a demolition derby driver, until he ended up back on the sofa, smiling as if he belonged there.

She lifted her hand carefully, ready to grab his collar, but he bounded off again. She leaned against the couch, fighting back tears. The dog jumped up beside her, the sofa armrest creaking under his eighty pounds. He perched for a moment, then lost his balance and fell hard onto the rug, which skirted out from under his scramble. He then dashed toward the entry like an out-of-control racecar.

Emily ran to the door, opened it, and out he went. "Good riddance, damn beast!" she yelled, and slammed the door behind him.

She slid to the floor, surveying with horror the damage that had been done to her ordered living space in less than twenty minutes. Plants were knocked over, the soil scattered all over the carpet. The coffee table had long, deep scratches in it. Papers were scattered everywhere. Her tea mug was on its side, dark brown liquid oozing over her bills and onto her soil-covered floor. Her IKEA bookshelf was on its side, every porcelain knickknack broken. The sofa was covered in fur and muddy paw prints. Her books were scattered everywhere. The TV—her only contact with the world—was history.

Emily began to sob. Her apartment was her haven, her safe place, and now it was ruined. It would take her weeks to get things clean again, wash the carpets, and put things in order. It was so overwhelming she didn't know where to start.

Through the door, Emily heard a snuffling sound. The dog. She was hoping he would've run off by now, straight back to the pet store where he belonged.

"Go away, AW!" she yelled. The dog whimpered. She ignored him. He scratched at the door, whining. "I _said_ , beat it!"

More scratching, snuffling, whimpering. Then, finally, silence. Relief flooded through her. Maybe someone else would find him. What had she been thinking, bringing home an animal like that? She must be out of her mind. This carpe diem business was harder than it looked. Definitely for the dogs.

Someone pounded loudly on the door, startling her. She stood up and peeked through the eyehole. Damn, the crazy Trans-Fed neighbor.

"Open up, Emily, I know you're in there," he called. "I can hear you breathing."

She reluctantly opened the door. The Trans-Fed driver stood grinning, holding Ass-Wipe by the leash. The guy had a round face and thick neck and shoulders, which looked strange considering he had thin little pencils for legs.

"Hi, Bill," she said. "Sorry about the noise. It's just that I—"

"Is this your dog? It led me straight here."

The dog looked at her apologetically, its head cocked to one side.

"Well, I guess he's my dog," said Emily. "Sort of."

"What do you mean, _sort of_?"

"I'm . . . uh, kind of dog sitting," Emily said, taking the leash from Bill. "Thanks for bringing him back."

Bill leaned against the door, a grin spreading over his wide face. He partially lifted his t-shirt and scratched at his hairy white belly. "You know, that's a sign, man. He led me up to your place today because he knows I've been trying to catch up with you. And look, you're home for the first time in ages." His eyes rested appreciatively on her chest. "I've been coming by ever since I saw you crying by the curb the day your boyfriend left—man, you were bawling like a baby. I wanted to make you feel better." He looked her up and down with glittering eyes, licking his fleshy lips. "I figured you must be lonely."

Creep. Little did he know that she'd taken to walking lightly in socks, just so he wouldn't know she was home.

Bill shifted his body, arms crossed cockily across his chest. "See, Emily, I've been wanting to get to know you better. Figured you might like to hear about the newest jack-hole I ran off the road the other day in my Trans-Fed truck, some dipshit who flipped me off for passing him on the shoulder." He leaned against the doorframe in a macho stance. "I got in behind the guy and rode his bumper so hard he ended up spinning out and flying into a ditch. You would've loved it. Everyone thinks Trans-Fed drivers are slow-driving wimps, but not me."

Bill puffed out his barrel chest, like he was some tough guy.

"Uh, okay. I've got to get back inside," Emily said. If this was the only type of guy interested in her, she'd rather just kill herself now.

"Wait," said Bill, blocking the door with his hand. "I've been meaning to ask if you'll go to the Wrestle Mania event with me at the Forum. I've got tickets and—"

AW let out a low growl. Then he whipped around, thrust his sphincter straight at Bill, and began shaking his tail violently.

Bill backed away, his eyes bulging. "What the hell is it doing?"

"It's his way of showing he doesn't like you."

"That's not normal! What the—?"

AW snarled loudly, baring his teeth. He shimmied backward, shaking his bottom even more aggressively. Bill backed up.

"Stop it, AW!" shouted Emily. The dog ignored her, still gyrating.

"Hey, that dog is a freak—"

"Listen, Ass-Wipe!" Emily yelled. The dog jerked his head toward her.

"What did you call me?" Bill shouted.

"Not you! The dog. That's his name."

"What the hell is wrong with you, naming a dog Ass-Wipe?" Bill stared at her with beady pig eyes, sweat dotting his pink brow.

"Don't you think it fits him?" Emily said, smiling sweetly.

The dog began to shake his bottom again, inching backward. A low rumble came from his throat. Then he bared his teeth, his lip curled menacingly. He suddenly launched at Bill, his hind end shaking like a rabid hula dancer.

Bill turned and ran, yelling over his shoulder, "Your dog is fucking crazy!"

"Sorry!" Emily called after him. "I'll take care of it. So sorry!"

She dragged AW into the apartment. As soon as they were inside, the dog was all sweetness again, licking her hand and wagging his tail.

"What are you, bi-polar?" she asked.

The dog grinned at her, panting.

Emily smiled in spite of herself. Anyone who disliked Bill as much as she did got major points. Then she caught sight of her ruined apartment again. She exhaled and slid to the floor, remembering what was in store for her.

"What am I going to do with you, AW? How are we going to make it a whole three months?" The dog nuzzled her leg with a whimper, then offered a paw.

She took his warm furry paw in her hand. "Are you trying to make a deal with me?"

He looked so cute, staring at her with those quizzical eyes. Emily felt a twinge of something warm in her breast. She shook it away. "Okay, AW, listen up. I'm not able to send you back yet, so we have to figure out a way to live together. I can't lose this apartment because of you; I need the stability, you know? You've already trashed my place, not to mention scared the crap out of my neighbor. So how about it, huh? Will you behave properly if I invest in training?"

AW looked at her with warm brown eyes, and in them she thought she saw something. A flicker of acknowledgment? She let his paw go, patted him on the head, and breathed a sigh of relief. Dog training. That was the answer. She'd take him first thing in the morning.

When it was time to go to bed, she locked AW in the bathroom with bowls of food and water. She pulled on her favorite flannel PJs and crawled into bed. She fell into a deep, exhausted slumber . . . until she was awakened by the sound of crashing glass, shouts, a high-pitched scream, and the ominous growl of an angry dog.

Emily grabbed the mace from her purse and crept toward the bathroom, her heart pounding. More crashing sounds, more growling.

She crouched against the wall next to the bathroom, her body trembling.

More growling, then a male voice shouting, "Down, boy, down!"

Silence.

Her mouth was cotton-dry with terror, her knees shaking. Should she call 911? Would she have time to get to the phone before the intruder attacked her?

Another enraged growl reverberated through the bathroom walls, followed by a high-pitched scream.

The intruder didn't sound too dangerous, at least in the company of AW.

Emily peeked around the corner.

Cowering on the blue-tiled bathroom floor amidst broken pieces of a ceramic soap dish, was Lenny. AW's haunches shook menacingly in his face. Lenny flailed as he tried to push the dog away, but the dog only growled louder.

"Get it off me!" Lenny shrieked, clutching the shower curtain, which was hanging by one ring. AW peered over his shoulder at the intruder, baring his teeth as foam dripped from his mouth. The dog inched backward, his white fur vibrating like an automatic toilet brush. Lenny crab-crawled away, his eyes bugged out in terror.

"Lenny, it's five a.m. What the hell are you doing here?" shouted Emily.

"I forgot my pewter shaving mug. I still have the key and— _get this thing off me_!"

"Ass-Wipe, _down_!"

The dog rushed toward Emily. He jumped up and licked her, panting eagerly. She pushed him down, seized him by the collar, and dragged him down the hall to the entryway. She clipped on his leash and tied him to the front doorknob where he couldn't get into more trouble. Then she marched back to the bathroom to confront Lenny.

He was standing by the sink, looking stunned. "You got a _dog_? And you call it Ass-Wipe?" He stared at her as though she'd lost her mind.

"Yeah I got a dog." She jutted out her chin. "What of it?"

"It's a frickin' weird dog, if you ask me." He began looking through drawers. "I need my pewter shaving mug. The one my mother gave me."

Emily crossed her arms, rage rising. "You have no right to be here, Lenny. I could call the cops and have you arrested!"

Lenny glanced at her. "Why the hostility, Emily? You never asked for the key back, so I figured you wouldn't mind if I stopped by once in a while."

" _Excuse me_? This is breaking and entering. And yes, I _mind_!"

He assessed her critically. "Wow, you're different. I haven't been gone that long and look how much you've changed. You got a dog and everything. And you did something to your hair."

"Got it cut. Dyed, too."

He studied her appreciatively with his rabbit eyes. "It looks nice."

For a moment, she missed him. The comfort of him. His familiarity. Her chest pinched. "You didn't leave your shaving cup here," she said, sounding stronger than she felt. "There's nothing of you left, last I checked."

"Nothing?" He moved closer. "You know, the real reason I came over is because I sort of miss you."

" _Sort of_? Nice, Lenny. Makes a girl feel special. How's Si-Moan?" She spat out the name.

He shrugged. "I haven't asked her out yet."

"Why not?"

"Haven't had the chance."

"Couldn't get your guts up, eh?"

Lenny narrowed his eyes at her. "Yeah, well, she's a little out of my league."

"How lovely." Emily felt like kneeing him in the balls, but instead took satisfaction in the fact that she'd been right—Lenny was too cowardly to ask Simone out. Once a wimp, always a wimp. "You're truly in a league all your own, Lenny."

He shrugged with a smirk on his face, obviously taking this as a compliment, and turned to search another drawer.

It struck her that he and Simone would never end up together, not only because Lenny was too intimidated to ask her out, but because they were worlds apart. Maybe on some level, Lenny recognized this. After all, why was he here? This gladdened Emily's heart. Maybe he was finally coming to his senses, realizing what he'd lost when he left her. They were alike, she and Lenny. They understood each other. They could've had a happy, comfortable life together if he hadn't blown it.

She met his eyes. He was staring at her with that quizzical lopsided smirk, the one she used to think was so endearing. She looked away, swallowing hard. _What was he doing here_? He acted like they were still together, as if he could just waltz in like old times. Just when she'd finally accepted that he was gone from her life, here he was showing up here again with that damn crooked smile.

She took a deep breath, willing herself to be strong. He just needed to take his shaving cup and go. It was too early in the morning to be dealing with this stuff. A headache was starting to sizzle behind her eyes. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, trying to formulate the politest way to say, "Get the hell out."

Suddenly, Lenny's hot breath was on her neck, his arms pulling her close.

"I've missed you. I really have. I know it's only been a month, but . . ."

He began kissing her neck, his mouth slobbery and warm. Instead of pulling away as she should have, she found herself acquiescing, allowing him to draw her in. He felt comfortable, like old times. The smell of him was so . . . Lenny-like. It brought back all the memories of them together before her life had been turned upside down. Memories of a safer time. She found herself leaning into him. Maybe he was back. Maybe they could pick up where they'd left off. Their breakup had been temporary, a minor blip in their relationship, a bump in the road that all couples have. Things could go on as planned. _Couldn't they_?

"I want you, Emily." Lenny whispered. "Do you know what day it is?"

She shook her head numbly, her mind blank.

"My birthday," he whispered, nuzzling her neck. "I woke up thinking how you always used to make me that giant heart-shaped cookie."

His birthday? She was stunned. This was the first time since they'd met in college that she'd completely forgotten. Usually she spent a week planning what to do for Lenny, down to the dinner she made him, the heart-shaped cookie she baked, and the long pink silk nightgown she wore every year.

She'd forgotten all about it. She hadn't even sent him a card.

Being reminded of their history together brought back all the pain in a rush of memories. She pushed him away. "Why are you here?"

"I told you, I miss you," he said in annoyance. "I was hoping you'd make me the cookie again. Plus I need to find my shaving cup before my mom comes over."

"So you're here for me?" Emily hated the way her voice sounded. Needy.

Lenny moved closer. "You, babe. Of course, you." Suddenly, his mouth was on hers and they were kissing like old times. She dropped her mace and ran her fingers through his silky blond hair—hair she'd always thought was too soft for a man because of the expensive salon conditioner he used. _Her_ conditioner that she bought at Tyler's salon.

She flashed on Tyler and riding on the back of his Harley with his thick hair—masculine hair—tickling her nose as they zoomed through the dark streets. She forced herself to push Tyler out of her mind and focus back on the moment.

She wrapped her arms tightly around Lenny, trying to ignore the sounds of AW whining in the other room. Before she knew it, Lenny was carrying her out of the bathroom and down the hall. It was as if they were together again. The fact that he was here, carrying her toward her bed, must mean he still loved her. Now that he realized his mistake, maybe they could go forward with their future: their wedding, their house, the kids they were meant to have. All she had to do was get rid of the dog, get rid of the bucket list, give the money back to Dr. Becker . . .

_Dr_. _Becker_.

What had she _done_?

Lenny nudged open the door of her bedroom with his shoulder, grunting as if she were going to break his skinny arms, and staggered toward the bed. AW's loud bark in the other room made Emily cringe. Damn, that dog was going to wake the neighbors. Just what she needed, old Mrs. Koster pounding on the door and ranting while she and Lenny were in the middle of make-up sex.

Lenny dropped her on the bed and began to tug at his sweat pants, the old paint-stained ones he wore when lying around watching sports and scratching his blond fuzzy belly. For some reason, the sight of those sweat pants brought her back to reality.

She sat up abruptly. "What are you doing?"

He frowned irritably. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You can't just let yourself into my apartment and pick up where things left off without any explanation. It doesn't work like that."

"Who said I was picking up where things left off?" he asked. "I came for my pewter mug."

"Then what are you doing taking your pants off in my bedroom?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "I guess you haven't changed. You can't ever just go with it, can you, Emily? You always have to question and analyze everything."

His words hit her like a sucker punch to the gut. She wrapped her arms around her knees, fighting back tears. "How can you say that? You don't know how hard I've been trying to change."

"Well, it's not very obvious." He headed for the door. "I'll just get my mug and leave."

"Please. Give me another chance."

He returned to the bed and sidled up to her. "Can I take off my sweats now?"

She nodded, trying to ignore the whiff of his unbrushed teeth. He removed the paint-stained pants and nudged her back on the bed, his tighty-whities a tad less bunched in the middle from his negligible arousal.

"Wait. Give me a minute." She sat up again. "I need to go to the bathroom."

"Sure, babe. Take your time. I can wait." Lenny grabbed the remote and made himself comfortable on the bed. As Emily headed toward the door, she glanced back to see him absentmindedly stroking his floppy wiener, his tightie-whities lowered, as Sponge Bob shrieked about how much he loved Krusty Krab pizza.

In the bathroom, she sat down on the edge of the tub and put her head in her hands. Having Lenny here confused her. Everything was happening too fast. She needed to take time to compose herself, think things through.

If Lenny _was_ here for her, then why wasn't he romancing her, telling her how much he missed her? Why wasn't he making her feel loved?

And what did _she_ want—Emily Keane? Did she still want Lenny? If anyone had asked her before now, really looked into her heart past the hurt and anger, she would've said yes. She would've said she wanted to go back to her old life before organ brokers and crazy dogs entered the picture. But now, having Lenny actually in her bed . . . well, it turned her stomach into knots.

She rubbed her forehead as confusion swirled through her. The thought of climbing back in bed and letting Lenny make love to her—okay, _hump_ her, because that's all he really did—made her shudder. She pictured their old routine, the one they'd gone through every week for seven years: Lenny methodically climbing on top of her, giving her breast a cursory squeeze (if she was lucky), then pulling off his tightie-whities with that stupid smirk on his face. Next came the robotic humping with his face screwed up, his eyes bunched shut, his mouth clamped shut with no sounds coming out. It was the same way every time. When he was finished, he'd always sit up and look around for the remote. She'd silently hand it to him, watching as he flipped through channels.

That had been their routine, for seven long years.

She blinked back angry tears. _What was she thinking_? Lenny didn't love her. To him, she was just a comfortable old shoe. A well-worn slipper that dutifully warmed his feet. Well, damn it, she wasn't _that_ shoe anymore. She was a pair of black pumps—okay, Easy Wear comfort pumps—that got on Harleys and went to parties and adopted strange dogs. A shoe that went out in the world, or was at least trying to. She'd never be a bright pink stiletto like Simone, but she certainly wasn't an old slipper anymore. Not Lenny's slipper, anyway.

She jumped up, determination filling her, and opened the door. She passed the bedroom where Lenny was still reclined on the pillows with the remote, scratching his privates. She went out to where AW was tied up.

"Go get him, boy," she said, and let the dog loose. AW bounded away, knocking over another lamp in the process. She didn't care this time. The dog raced toward the bedroom. Emily leaned against the front door, counting down the seconds, a feeling of satisfaction spreading through her. Then she heard Lenny's shrill scream and AW's low rumbling growl.

"Get this thing off me!" he shrieked.

She waited. More screaming, more snarling. Then Lenny came rushing out of the bedroom, hopping as he tried to get one foot into his stained sweats. Ass-Wipe's head popped around the corner, snarl-grinning at Emily. Lenny's tighty-whities hung from his mouth.

"Your dog is nuts!" yelled Lenny. "I'm outta here."

"Good. I'd like my key back, please." Emily held out her hand calmly.

He glared at her. "You've turned into a bitch."

Her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"The old Emily would never just throw me out like this. What happened to you?"

"I got a life, notice?" She crossed her arms and cast him a serene smile.

AW appeared by Emily's side. He dropped the briefs and turned around, his bottom starting to vibrate. He backed toward Lenny, a low ominous growl coming from his throat.

Lenny scrambled to open the door. His face twisted in rage. "Guess what? I never liked any of Woody Allen's movies. I just pretended to!"

Emily's mouth fell open.

"Yeah!" yelled Lenny. "How do you like that, huh? In fact, I _hate_ Woody Allen!"

Emily gasped. Lenny was a fraud! They'd had even less in common than she'd thought.

AW began shaking his bottom, snarling loudly over his shoulder, his lip curled around his teeth. Lenny screamed.

Emily held out her hand. "Give me my key, Lenny. Now."

AW barked in agreement.

Lenny took the key off his key ring and threw it at her, then backed out the door. "If you ever want to see me again, you better get rid of that psycho dog. Otherwise, I won't be back! _Ever_!"

"Good, Ass-Wipe," she replied, and slammed the door behind him. And she wasn't talking to the dog.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

Later, after spending the morning cleaning up AW's latest mess, she sat at the table with a cup of tea and thought about what to do with her day. With Lenny finally gone for good, she felt a sense of exhilaration, as if anything was possible. Maybe she could finally begin tackling her bucket list with zeal. But before that, first things first.

Dog training.

She needed to find a good trainer right away, someone who could mold AW into the kind of dog she could live with, at least for three months. She didn't want to go to those Pet Palace clinics where people stood around with other dog owners and silently compared their pets like parents did with their children. She'd watched those classes in session, seen the triumphant faces of the people with well-behaved dogs, and the embarrassed, chagrined expressions of those with the "other" dogs: those hyper, uncontrollable animals that yapped, jumped, and urinated despite admonitions by their owners and teachers. AW, with his butt-wiping, flopping ear, snaggle-toothed face, and uncontrollable snarling at people he didn't like—which was 99% of the world—would be the laughing stock of the class. She couldn't bear the thought of it. It would take a very special kind of person to change her dog.

Who would know of a good dog trainer, the best in L.A.?

Tyler. He knew everyone.

Emily looked at her watch. It was seven a.m. Tyler got up early on weekends, and he'd said to call anytime. Maybe she could invite him to breakfast.

Alberto's Café on the beach was crowded with early morning risers. The little restaurant was known for its huge Mexican omelets, salsa bar, and excellent "view" of the boardwalk with slews of half-naked, tanned rollerbladers and joggers passing by. The smell of brewing coffee and bacon wafted over the dark gray sand where seagulls pecked at crumbs left by the previous day's beachgoers. Waves crashed a short distance away, and fishermen dangled lines off the pier, hoping to catch a few polluted fish for breakfast.

Emily had gotten to the cafe early but was told there would be a short wait for an outside table. She didn't like the idea of waiting, but she'd told Tyler to meet her there, having said she needed his help. Begrudgingly, Emily added her name to the waiting list. She untied AW from the bike rack and took a seat on the wall next to the popular boardwalk.

The title "boardwalk" perplexed Emily because it wasn't really a boardwalk at all but a concrete path with an orange line painted down the middle so people didn't crash into each other, which happened all the time, anyway, because it was so crowded.

The path stretched for miles along the beaches through the South Bay all the way up to Santa Monica. People in her old office had bragged about riding the entire distance on their bikes, which was the equivalent of thirty miles round trip. She couldn't imagine that being any fun at all. She'd once overheard Simone laughing about how she'd had to take a cab back from Santa Monica with her bike sticking out the back of the trunk because she hadn't realized it was so far. It had cost her fifty dollars in fare. No one but Simone would think that qualified as an exciting adventure. Some people were as dim as the morning sun. Which, actually, Emily realized, wasn't that dim at all. She squinted and fished around in her purse for her sunglasses. It was going to be another hot day—a typical winter heat wave in Southern California.

She looked at her watch. Tyler would be here any minute. She adjusted the flower print backpack that held a brick of bills. She'd thrown the bundle in last minute, figuring she might as well see what she could spend five thousand dollars on today. Carrying it felt surreal, dangerous. She hugged the backpack close, thinking it would be fun to treat Tyler to breakfast. They could order anything they wanted without thinking about it. Heck, she could even treat the whole restaurant if she wanted to, except she hated drawing attention to herself.

AW let out a low rumble at her feet. She nudged him, and he quieted. He'd been surprisingly good so far, sitting calmly by her side and watching the passersby with only intermittent growls. He hadn't done his usual butt-shaking yet, probably because the people were passing too quickly for him to decide whether or not he liked them. Emily wondered how he would react to Tyler, and what Tyler would think of AW in return. Part of her hoped he would be impressed that she'd gotten a dog.

"Hey, Emily," a voice called out.

She turned to see Tyler, wearing a baseball cap, shorts, a t-shirt, and pushing a tandem bike. Sporty sunglasses obscured his eyes, and his legs and arms were lean and tanned. Emily envied his healthy outdoor appearance. She probably looked like a blinding white blob of flesh in comparison—a Pillsbury dough girl.

He leaned the bike against the wall and hugged her, his arms strong and warm. She gazed down at his tattoo—the dragon one that intrigued her—and felt a little zing. She'd never hung out with anyone who had a tattoo before. She wondered what the dragon meant, and if it was symbolic for anything.

"What's with the double bike?" she asked, staring at the strange contraption and wondering what he had in mind. Tyler and his unusual wheels.

"I thought we could go for a ride after breakfast. Have you ever ridden tandem before?"

She shook her head.

He grinned. "I figured."

"Are you trying to kill me?" she asked.

"On the contrary." He glanced down at the dog at her feet. "Who's this?"

She tried to suppress a proud smile but failed. "This is AW. He's what I called you about. I got a dog."

He stared at her, shocked.

"Yep," she said proudly. "I did it. Saw him at a shepherd rescue place and just brought him home." She looked down at the dog with affection, and with a start realized that he wasn't growling or shaking his tail at Tyler. This was a first. She gaped at the dog, then at Tyler. "He likes you."

"How can you tell?"

"Just look at him."

Tyler shrugged. AW was sitting there like any other dog, tongue lolling out of his crooked mouth, gazing around like he was a normal, well-behaved German shepherd.

"Keane, party of two," the hostess called over the speaker system, her voice echoing across the sand.

After Tyler put his bike in the rack, they followed the hostess, who wore shorts and an enormous sombrero, to an outside table with a large striped umbrella. AW lay down by Emily's chair.

"Sorry, we don't allow dogs, even on the patio," the hostess said, turning and catching sight of AW.

"He's trained," said Tyler, flashing a charming smile. "He's my seeing-eye dog."

"You're blind?" the hostess asked, staring at him with a quizzical expression.

He nodded, pushing his sunglasses up on his nose.

"Aren't you supposed to have a cane?" she asked in a doubtful tone.

"I've got my friend Emily to guide me," Tyler said.

"Okay . . ." the hostess said, casting him a humored look as she walked off.

Emily leaned forward. "Why did you say that?" she whispered. "You're not blind!"

"Sure I am. Can't see a damn thing in the morning without my contacts," he replied, opening the menu and making a big show of holding it out for her to read it to him. "Feels pretty blind to me."

"Are you wearing them now?"

"Of course, but that's not the point."

"But what about saying AW was trained? That's not true either."

"He looks pretty well-behaved to me."

AW was lying under the table, his head on his paws, looking around quietly with his large brown eyes. _Should change his name to Jekyll_ , Emily thought _. Or Hyde_.

"Just wait," Emily replied. "He hasn't shown his true colors yet. The reason I asked you to breakfast is to find out if you know a good dog trainer."

"I do. But your dog seems fine. He came when you called him. He's sitting quietly. What's the problem?"

"You'll see. Give it time."

Tyler shrugged. "What's AW stand for anyway?"

Before Emily could answer, the waiter approached. He was a young guy, also wearing shorts and the same ridiculous giant sombrero as the hostess. The hat kept falling down over his eyes, and he tried to nudge it out of his way with his shoulder as he balanced a tray of chips and salsa.

"Ready to order?" he asked, starting to set down the tray. Just then, AW leapt out from under the table, snarling loudly, his lips curled menacingly around sharp teeth. The waiter jumped back, hat falling over his eyes. He staggered and dropped the tray. The salsa splashed over the floor and across the white linen lap of a well-dressed woman. She gasped and looked down at her red-stained crotch.

"Hey!" the woman's date shouted as AW whirled around and backed toward the waiter, who was struggling to get up. The dog raised his tail, and the hindquarters began reverberating like an electrified top. He snarled and growled in a rabid way, froth oozing out of his upturned lips.

People at nearby tables scrambled away, shouting and falling over themselves.

"Dangerous animal!" someone shouted.

A man yelled, "Grab it!"

"—Don't, you'll get bitten! It has rabies!" a woman screamed.

Emily and Tyler both lunged for AW at the same time, bumping heads. The dog dashed to the side, still growling. A waiter scurried out of the way but slipped and fell in the salsa, his sombrero sailing off like a UFO. AW snarled and leapt toward a trio waiters cowering together in a corner. He turned and wiped his bottom on them as they screamed in terror.

Emily grabbed for the leash but AW dashed off. He bounded around the patio as people cowered and shielded themselves with chairs. Staff tried in vain to stop him. One waiter threw a tray at the dog, but it hit an older gentleman on the head instead. The manager flung a pitcher of water, but it sprayed all over a table of teenage girls, who shrieked as if on an amusement park ride. Children howled, people shouted, and plates of food crashed loudly to the floor as the dog raced around the restaurant knocking into tables and overturning chairs. Soon the floor was an oozing mess that sent people slipping and sliding as they tried to get out of the way.

"AW, stop!" shouted Emily in vain.

"AW, get over here, now!" Tyler boomed. The dog continued its out-of-control leaping, running, spinning, and jumping.

The manager raced about, shouting and flailing his arms. AW galloped straight at him, knocking him backward into the laps of a middle-aged couple dressed in matching Hawaiian shirts.

"AW, stop! _Stop_!" Emily called, chasing her dog this way and that. Panic rose in her throat like a tidal wave.

AW dodged her, huge mouth snarl-grinning, as he raced under tables and between the legs of customers. He jumped on a large table seated with wet-haired surfers, knocking a full pitcher of orange juice into their laps. He stood for a moment, surveying the damage, then let out a thundering bark that sent the surfers ducking under the table. Then he was off again, leaping from table to table as patrons screamed in terror, his paws sliding over omelets and waffles and buttery pancakes.

" _ASS-WIIIIIPE_!" Emily's voice rang out shrill above the chaos.

The entire restaurant hushed and then went silent.

The dog turned and bounded to her feet, panting with tail wagging. He eagerly looked up for her approval.

People slowly emerged from beneath tables. Waiters stood motionless, looking stunned. Cooks peered out of the kitchen. Diners scrambled to their feet, covered in muck. Collectively, all heads swiveled toward Emily. Every eyeball was fixed on her as she stood holding AW amidst the mess of broken dishes, overturned chairs, and splattered food.

Then it began: the low, rumbling sound of a vigilante mob. Emily turned to Tyler in panic. He grabbed her hand and AW's leash. Before she could think or react, they were racing from the patio. They hopped over the low café fence and sprinted away from the restaurant as fast as they could go. Tyler grabbed his bike, she jumped on the back, and they peddled off furiously, racing down the boardwalk as bystanders dodged out of the way. Behind them, Emily heard angry shouts. She was afraid to look back. She leaned forward and peddled as if her life depended on it. AW jogging happily alongside.

They kept peddling furiously until they were far enough away to not hear the shouts anymore.

"Do you think the cops are going to come?" Emily asked finally, gasping from panic and exertion. Her chest squeezed so tightly she could hardly breathe.

"Don't know," Tyler said with an edge to his voice.

They rode on in silence, except for Emily's desperate panting that matched the dog's.

"Now I know what AW stands for," Tyler muttered after a while. "Where'd you come up with a name like that?"

"I didn't name him. The dog rescue people did."

"Something's wrong with that animal."

"I told you he needed a trainer," Emily said, her voice wheedling in a way that embarrassed her. But she couldn't help herself. She didn't know where they were headed, what was going to happen, or if Tyler was going to blow up at her. She didn't like his stony silence or the way he held his back in a stiff, rigid way as he pedaled. Everything about him—and this day—unnerved the hell out of her.

"The dog doesn't need a trainer, he needs a shrink," snapped Tyler, puffing as they pedaled up a small incline.

"Well . . . okay. Do you know one?"

Tyler ignored her. They rode on.

"Where are we going?" Emily finally asked, tentatively.

"We're getting the hell away from the South Bay today, unless you want to end up paying for that restaurant for the rest of your life," Tyler said. Then, muttering under his breath, he said, "I can't believe I got myself into this fucking mess."

Emily gulped. She'd never seen Tyler angry before. He was really, really mad. Even the back of his head looked pissed.

She remembered the money in her backpack, thinking that when she got back home, she'd mail a chunk to the restaurant to cover the damage. She'd call anonymously to see how much she owed, then send it by Trans-Fed overnight. The thought somewhat eased her conscience, but she didn't know a way to tell Tyler how she planned on fixing it.

They rode on in silence, both puffing now from the vigorous peddling. Only AW didn't seem tired as he galloped contentedly beside the bike, his long pink tongue streaming out the side of his mouth. Emily was tempted to take a momentary break but didn't dare stop peddling, even though her legs throbbed with exhaustion.

After a while, the path began to get less crowded as they left the beach area with its dense rows of houses and restaurants. The boardwalk stretched out in front of them through a long, isolated stretch of beach bordered by tall industrial plants spewing black smoke that smelled of rotten eggs.

"What is this place?" asked Emily, more to herself. They were coasting now, down a path that led through a seemingly endless desert of glistening sand. With the towering industrial buildings casting shadows and the expanse of beach on all sides, it was though they were on some weird planet. Even the small sand dunes dotted with patches of ice plant looked surreal, as if they belonged somewhere else. Like Death Valley.

"There's the Edison plant," Tyler said. "Huge, huh?"

She stared up at the enormous building as they passed. It was a steel monstrosity, bellowing smelly fumes from tall white smoke stacks. It supposedly powered all of the South Bay, but in truth seemed to exist for the sole reason of polluting the planet. It looked cancer causing for sure. Emily cringed, holding her breath against the fumes as they peddled past. Even AW's panting seemed more laborious.

"Where exactly are we headed?" she asked timidly, hoping Tyler would say they'd be turning around soon. She wasn't enjoying anything about this day.

"Venice," he replied. "Let's eat when we get there. I'm starved."

"Venice _Beach_?" Emily, for all of her years of living in Southern California, had never ventured to Venice Beach. She'd heard about the weirdoes who flocked there with their Mohawks and piercings and tie-dyed clothes; the hippie drum circles; the drug addicts who sat around singing their version of opera in front of pipe stores; the vendors selling crystals, hemp, and cheap t-shirts; and the shirtless jugglers on roller skates who offered to cornrow your hair for ten bucks. It was the last place she'd ever wanted to go.

"Venice is great. You'll love it," Tyler said.

He'd just assumed, without asking, that she'd never been. He was right, of course. But it was odd how well he seemed to know her in some ways.

Emily wondered how Tyler was so familiar with Venice. She'd heard there was an active gay lifestyle there. Somehow, though, she just couldn't picture him fitting in with the oddball Venice culture—at least what she'd heard about it. But then again, there was a lot about Tyler she didn't know. Maybe now was a good time to find out more about him as they rode captive on a double bike together.

"Tyler?" she ventured, "I'm curious . . . Who is the guy in the picture on your workstation?"

He didn't answer, but his puffing grew louder. He started to peddle a little more forcefully, and the muscles in his back grew taut again.

She stopped pedaling because it wasn't necessary. Tyler was doing all of the work. It seemed she'd hit a sensitive spot with him. She swallowed hard, gripping the handlebars as they flew down the path. Best not to push the subject. The photo was obviously a sore point for him, maybe an ex-boyfriend who'd hurt him. Or a current one who was giving him trouble. Either way, it was obvious he didn't want to talk about it. The pedals were spinning so fast beneath her that if she didn't keep her feet up on the frame, her legs would be ripped off.

"Tyler, you're scaring me. Could you slow down please?" Her knuckles whitened against the handlebars as she leaned into him, trying to balance herself as AW galloped beside her. What was it with this guy and speed? First the Harley, now this.

Tyler slowed a bit, still moodily silent. Emily sighed with relief, and AW's wheezing turned into a more normal pant.

"Why do you want to know about the picture?" Tyler finally asked, sounding winded.

Emily cleared her throat. "Just curious. Because I've always wondered—"

"He's someone I love very much," Tyler said curtly, cutting her off. "And, sorry, Emily, it's none of anyone's business. Including yours."

She gulped. "Okay. Sorry." She didn't realize he was so defensive about his preference. Most gay men wore it like a badge of honor, although some were clearly more private about it than others. If Tyler wanted to reveal himself to her someday, then he could do it in his own time. She just hoped that one day he'd trust her enough as a friend to talk about it. She wouldn't judge.

"Hey, I'm sorry. That came out harsh," Tyler said, his voice softening. "I just don't want to discuss it. It's private. Okay?"

"Sure. Whatever you want." She stared at his back, wondering when they were going to turn around. She was exhausted, more tired than she'd ever been in her whole life. All she wanted was to go home and take a long bath, then crawl into bed and watch TV.

"We're almost to Venice. You must be as hungry as I am," Tyler said, obviously changing the subject.

"Yeah," Emily replied, grateful for his change in tone and manner. But the thought of Venice intimidated and upset her. She didn't like the idea of going to the land of the cuckoos, she didn't like this long bike ride on a desolate path that made her legs ache, and she certainly didn't like venturing into the great unknown. She wished Tyler had a plan. A concrete, solid plan that made her feel safe.

"I know of a great café on the sand that serves mimosas," Tyler said. "But first we need to visit a dog trainer. He's a friend of mine. The best around. They say he's a dog whisperer. And he just happens to live in Venice."

Emily could've hugged him. Tyler had a plan after all.

Emily and Tyler dropped AW off at the dog trainer's—an enthusiastic man named Akio Kudo who looked down at the collapsed, exhausted AW panting at his feet and proclaimed him a piece of cake to train.

"No problem!" he cried out, clasping his hands together on the porch of his white bungalow. "I will have him back to you in two to three weeks, tops. This filthy mongrel will be rid of all street manners when I am finished with him. He will be so well trained people will stop you in the street . . . after which of course, you will then give them my card." He pressed a stack of glossy business cards into Emily's hand that read, "Akio Kudo, Concierge Dog Trainer to the Stars."

Emily and Tyler thanked him, said goodbye to the sedate, tongue-lolling form of AW, and headed to the beach café for lunch.

Although the beachside restaurant was situated on the boardwalk like Alberto's, it had a completely different feel. The wait staff was dressed in khakis and white button-down shirts, and the tables, covered with cream-colored cloths, offered a picturesque view of the ocean. Though the café itself had a feeling of decorum and modesty, the scenery outside was carnival-like.

As the hostess handed them their menus, Emily couldn't help but gape at the sights. Venice was in full swing. Pierced roller skaters dodged in and out of crowds, deftly maneuvering between camera-wielding tourists who pointed and gaped as if on a safari. Scruffy-haired surfers, bare-footed and bare-chested, laughed and high-fived each other as they moved between pizza joints and breweries, dodging the acrobatic bike riders doing leaps and jumps and twirls in the air. Musclemen lifted barbells the size of truck axles. Street musicians warbled drunkenly, strumming guitars with broken strings. Vendors sold everything from glittering peace-sign jewelry to hemp, calling out changing prices to passersby. There was even a snake charmer, her bronzed skin draped with slithering, twisting serpents and not much else, smiling into the eyes of a boa while a crowd cheered her on.

Emily had never seen such a strange place.

"So what do you think?" asked Tyler, studying her.

"It's . . . interesting."

"You've been doing some interesting things yourself lately," he observed. "That dog is unbelievable. Seems you've been pushing yourself outside your comfort zone. It's good to see. Even if you ended up with a damn crazy animal."

Emily shrugged. "I inherited some money recently. Made a bucket list for some things to do with it. Thought I might as well start having some fun."

"I thought you had no living relatives."

Emily swallowed. "I don't. Or at least I thought I didn't. But this money showed up. There's a time limit on it, though. If I don't spend it within a . . . well, a year, then it'll go back into trust. To be sent to a charity."

"Cool."

She took a sip of water. "So lunch is on me." She winked at him.

"Do you have something in your eye?"

She shook her head, embarrassed. Even her wink came out as more of a blink. Like she had a cinder in her eye.

"Well hey, thanks for offering to buy lunch, Em," Tyler said, glancing at the menu. "But drinks are on me." After a moment, he put the menu down and looked straight at her. "So tell me about your bucket list."

She looked down, feeling shy. Her list felt so . . . private. She didn't really feel like sharing it. He might laugh. Or worse, think she was weird.

But he was gazing at her with such an open, friendly expression in his green eyes that she couldn't help herself. She pulled her cell phone out, scrolled through to the list, and pushed it across to him. "Those are the things I'd do if I could live a different life. If I were a different person, actually. But I'm trying, I guess." She gave a short laugh.

Tyler perused the list, then let out a chuckle. "Well, I see you got the pet. But wow, some of these things are unexpected. A tattoo? A one-night stand?"

Emily's cheeks blazed hot. She lifted the menu to cover her face. Why did she ever show him the list? The long bike ride must've addled her brain.

"Woody Allen?" Tyler said in an amused tone. "Why Woody Allen?"

She snatched the phone back, stuffing it in her backpack.

"Hey, don't get defensive," he said. "I think it's kinda cool, actually, writing a bucket list. Everyone should do it. Your list surprises me, though."

Chagrined, Emily took a sip of her water.

Tyler appraised her with amused eyes. "Hey, why don't we cross another item off your list today? I know of a great tattoo artist not too far from here." He lifted the sleeve of his t-shirt to show her the full dragon on his arm. "Got mine there."

Emily gulped hard, choking on her water. "Today? No, no, I'm not ready. It's just on my list to do _some_ day. Not necessarily _today_."

"What better place than Venice Beach? They have the best tattoo parlors in the world."

Emily glanced out at the boardwalk. "I can see that." There didn't appear to be one person in the whole city of Venice without a tattoo, save for the pale, unblemished mid-western tourists who stood out like aliens in their polo shirts and sandals. _Strange world we live in when the non_ - _tattooed_ , _non_ - _pierced people are the odd ones_.

A waitress appeared, smiling brightly like the aspiring actress she probably was. "Ready to order?"

"I'll take the French dip," Tyler said. "And a pitcher of mimosas. Weird combination, I know, but— "

"A _pitcher_?" Emily stared at him. "Do you plan on drinking that yourself?"

He winked at her, and her heart did a little jump. He was so damn gorgeous. Even his wink was perfect. No cinder in _his_ eye, that was for sure.

The waitress continued smiling brightly, her eyes on Emily. "And for you?"

"I'll take the same," Emily replied. She loved French dip sandwiches, even if they were on the messy side.

"I'll be right back with your drinks," the waitress said, and disappeared.

Tyler smiled at Emily, the sunlight illuminating the yellow flecks in his pale green eyes. "So, back to your tattoo."

Emily paused, contemplating what kind of tattoo she'd want, _if_ she ever got one. She'd seen some women with small ones on their ankles. She might consider something like that, as long as it was very tiny and cute, like a heart or a butterfly. But it would probably hurt. How could it not, with a thousand sharp needles poking into your skin? No, she wasn't ready for that experience any time soon.

"Well?" Tyler asked, his eyes twinkling. "How 'bout it?"

"I'm not getting a tattoo today. I have to work up to these things. My list is mainly hypothetical. Things I'd like to do _if_ I had the . . ." She searched for the word.

"Balls?" He smirked at her, just as the waitress plunked down two large pitchers of frothy mimosas, each in its own compact bucket of ice.

Emily gasped. " _Two_ pitchers? We only ordered one!"

The waitress's bright smile faded. "You said you wanted the same thing as _him_ ," she said in a snarky tone, gesturing toward Tyler.

"I wanted the French dip, not the pitcher! A whole pitcher for one person? Are you crazy? Who drinks a whole pitcher of alcohol, by _themselves_?"

The waitress glared. Tyler waved her off. "It's fine, leave it." To Emily he said, "It's probably mostly OJ anyway."

The waitress stalked away. Emily stared at Tyler as he poured them each a tall flute of champagne and OJ, the foam bubbling over the sides. He handed a glass to her. "Cheers."

She took the alcohol reluctantly. What would one glass hurt? It couldn't _all_ go to waste. She clinked Tyler's flute and took a small sip. She'd never had a mimosa before—in fact, she'd never had any alcohol in the daytime—and was surprised at how good it tasted. The champagne fizzed in her nose, and the orange juice was sweet on her tongue. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was after their long bike ride. She took a longer sip, and glanced up to see Tyler grinning at her.

"Good, isn't it? I'm usually a beer guy, but this place makes the best mimosas. I don't know how they do it."

Emily took another sip, cooling her parched mouth as a pleasant warmness spread through her body. She relaxed against the chair, looking out at the glimmering ocean, letting her mind go blank. It was nice not to think about anything, not to worry, not to obsess. It was nice to just let go, if for a moment. If this was what it felt like to be on vacation, she wanted more of it. It suddenly struck her that maybe vacation was more a state of mind than a state of being.

She looked up to see Tyler watching her with an amused expression. "What's so funny?"

"I was thinking how we barely escaped back at Alberto's. That's some crazy dog you have."

Emily smiled. Suddenly, with the alcohol trickling through her veins, the whole café incident almost seemed funny. "Did you see how he went running over those tables like they were stepping stones?"

"Or the expression on people's face when they saw big dog paws trampling through their food?"

Emily burst into laughter with Tyler joining in. "I thought he was going to stop right in the middle of it all and start wolfing food straight from people's plates."

"If he was a typical dog, he would have. But that dog's not typical. He's got a serious case of ADD, for one."

"I never thought it was possible for a dog to ice skate over pancakes," said Emily, choking over her giggles.

"Or use his tail as a windshield wiper, sweeping everything behind him clean."

"They don't call him Ass-Wipe for nothing!" Emily gasped, clutching her side. Tyler threw back his head and roared with laughter, just as the food arrived.

The French dips were hot and steaming, and soon Emily and Tyler were digging in, laughing between bites as sauce dripped down their faces. Halfway through their food, Emily realized the pitchers must be actually smaller than she'd first thought, as they were now almost empty. As she ate the last of her French Dip and fries, draining her glass in between, she thought she'd never had a better meal. When they were finished, the waitress asked if they'd like dessert, and Emily didn't hesitate, loudly proclaiming that she'd never met a brownie sundae she didn't like. Tyler laughed at her, and then their spoons fought each other over the hot fudge.

"I'll take it," Emily said to the waitress when the bill came, pulling a handful of bills out of her backpack.

Tyler snatched the check. "I don't let anyone else pay for me when I have a perfectly good job."

Emily tried to snatch the check back but he wouldn't let her. He flipped an American Express onto the tray and handed it to the waitress.

"Tyler, I have money! You said you'd let me treat you. I'd really like to pay. How else am I going to spend all this . . . inheritance?"

"You'll find a way," he said, finishing off his glass.

She was silent for a moment. "I don't understand you. Why are you so nice to me?" She realized she was slurring her words a bit, so she concentrated on his chin stubble so she could focus and get her bearings.

"It's nice to have a friend," he said. "I don't have a lot of them in this town."

"You know more people than anyone I've ever seen."

"Acquaintances are different than friends. It's hard to find real people, I've learned. When I first came to L.A., I hated it. I'd only planned on staying for six months, then moving back to Texas. But things didn't work out like that." He paused, a shadow passing across his face.

"What happened?" Emily asked, pouring them both the last of the mimosas. The orange liquid swam a bit in front of her eyes, and she focused with determination, holding the pitcher as steadily as she could.

"A lot." Tyler grabbed the glass and downed it. "But that's not the point. The point is that I enjoy your friendship. There's no pretense with you. You are who you are.

"I'll say," Emily said ruefully.

"You act like that's a bad thing."

She shrugged. She still couldn't understand why a guy like Tyler would want to hang out with someone like her.

"Come on, let's go," Tyler said, standing up. "I've got another place to show you. A Venice landmark."

"If it's a tattoo parlor, you're dead meat."

"Don't worry, it's not."

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

The biker bar—called "The Hog's Tail"—was packed with people, though it was early afternoon. The place was dark, and smoke hung thickly in the room despite California's no-smoking law. Scruffy-haired bikers in expensive leathers sat around dark-wood tables, tossing back drinks and shots as hard rock blared from overhead speakers. A pool table in the corner was an active hub for tough-looking men standing around with long, wooden cues. They were watching a bleach-haired woman wearing nothing but leather chaps and a vest bending over the table, her tattooed haunches jiggling in the dim light as she aimed a pool cue. _Crack_! She hit the balls expertly with her stick, and nearly every ball found its way into a hole. The guys high-fived her, yelling, "Yeah! That's the way to do it, Tiffany!"

_Tiffany_? Emily stared at the woman. A hard-core biker chick named _Tiffany_? Only in L.A.

"Look," Tyler said, pointing to the walls. Every bit of space was taken up with Harley-Davidson memorabilia. There were framed, autographed photos of stars such as Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda, sitting with macho pride on their motorcycles. There were vintage Harley parts mounted to the walls behind glass, newspaper articles on the history of Harley-Davidson, framed t-shirts, and even a large poster of a spotted hog in dark sunglasses, riding—of course—a Harley.

"This place is something else," said Emily. "Okay, I've seen it now. Wanna go?"

"Nope." Tyler shook his head. "Let's pull up a chair and stay awhile. You've got to try their specialty, the Hog's Tail Ale."

Emily swallowed, looking around. A sense of uneasiness flooded through her as she assessed the mangy crowd. What was she doing here, in a place like this? Was Tyler trying to torture her? And more _drinking_? She was buzzed enough already. She held her backpack close and moved timidly out of the way of a huge, greasy-haired biker wearing a denim jacket and a do-rag who passed a little too near for comfort.

"This isn't my thing," she said. "I'd really rather not."

"Don't worry," said Tyler, "half these people are middle-aged accountants and tax attorneys playing tough guy."

"And the other half?" she asked nervously.

Tyler wasn't listening. He waved to someone across the bar. A tall man with a thick gray handlebar mustache strode toward them. He looked like a walrus. He slapped Tyler on the back. "Hey man, great to see you. How's the hog? Is it out front?"

"Took a different bike today," Tyler said, winking at Emily. "Hey, I want you to meet my friend. Emily, this is the owner, Charlie."

Charlie took Emily's hand and kissed it. His mustache was damp and tickled the back of her hand. She yanked it away.

Charlie looked at her inquisitively with bright blue eyes. "How 'bout a beer, Emily? Seems you need one." He grinned, then turned to Tyler. "The usual? It's on the house."'

"Thanks, man. Tell Emily how you invented the Hog's Tail Ale."

Charlie threw his head back and laughed. "That's a story for another time, my friend. A story for another time . . ." He walked off chuckling.

Tyler grabbed Emily's hand and led her to an empty table. She sat down reluctantly on the edge of a sticky seat, smoothing her sundress primly under her. She hugged her backpack and looked around. Her head swam with dizziness. She didn't know if it was from the smokiness, the loud music, or the mimosas. She just wanted to go home and take a nap. She wasn't going to be able to hold out long in this place. Maybe she should just call a cab and leave Tyler to his devices. She was seeing a side of him she didn't much approve of: a hard-drinking, Harley-riding kind of guy who hung out in dive bars in Venice. What the hell was she doing here? She checked her watch. If she left now, she could make it home in time to watch reruns of Oprah.

"Tyler, I think I'm going to—"

Before she could get the words out, Charlie was back, plunking a frothing pitcher of beer in front of them. "Ale of the Tail," he proclaimed, slapping Tyler on the back again before disappearing.

Emily stared at the pitcher. _Ale of the tail_? Sounded like anal leakage. Ugh, she felt ill. She'd never drunk so much alcohol in her life. It was time to stop, before she ended up in AA.

She shook her head when Tyler handed her a glass. "No thanks. I'm done for the day."

"Come on, Em. We're in vacation mode here. Just a taste. You'll never have better beer." He lowered his voice. "You don't want to hurt Charlie's feelings, do you? He worked on the Hog's Tail Ale for years. It's his own special concoction."

Emily glanced at Charlie, who was watching them from the bar. He caught her eye and raised his glass, grinning broadly.

Emily sighed. Her head was spinning from all the mimosas, but she hated hurting people's feelings. "Okay, just one sip."

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

The sun blasted through Emily's eyelids. Head throbbing, she groaned, rolled over, and got a mouthful of sand. She lifted her head groggily, spitting out the sand. Her mouth was dry and gritty. Her skull pounded with pain, making her wince. She squinted her eyes. _Where was she_? Waves crashed and seagulls cawed overhead. She looked over to see Tyler fast asleep on the beach next to her, his head using her backpack as a pillow. His hair was matted, t-shirt wrinkled, and his mouth lolled open with a long stream of drool coming out. Only Tyler could look halfway handsome in such a state. They were both fully clothed, lying on the beach.

_What time was it_? By Emily's calculations, it should still be nighttime. But it was obviously morning. _Early_ morning, based on the nearly empty boardwalk a few feet from their heads. Had they slept here all night? Emily looked around apprehensively. The beach was unoccupied except for a lone treasure hunter scanning the sand with his metal detector, and a skinny dreadlocked man talking loudly to himself as he pushed a shopping cart filled with ratty belongings. On the boardwalk, a fit-looking blonde woman in a sports bra and ponytail jogged by, puffing in healthy exertion and not in the least concerned with Emily and Tyler. They might as well be another set of homeless people sleeping inches from her feet.

Emily slowly pulled herself up on an elbow, moaning in pain. Her head swirled and nausea climbed rapidly in her throat. She swallowed hard against the bile before lying back down. She closed her eyes, trying to piece together the night before. She only remembered bits and parts: another pitcher with Tyler, then another. Rounds of cheers, beer mugs clinking with a group of people at their table. _How did strangers end up at their table_? Songs with the same people, arms linked, swaying. More drinking. Laughing at Tyler's jokes until beer sprayed out of her mouth. Charlie carrying her around the bar on his shoulders, her head thrown back like a pageant queen, as everyone cheered. Hitting the white ball into the side pocket and arguing with Tyler how she should get points for that. Throwing darts at the bulls' eye while people ducked, and hitting the wall above the clock instead. People cheering her on— _drink, drink, drink_ —as she downed another glass of Hog's Tail Ale. Then kneeling in front of a dirty toilet and vomiting and vomiting and vomiting . . .

_What had she done_? What had _Tyler_ encouraged her to do? She swiveled her head to glare at him. He was oblivious, snoring peacefully as the early morning sun illuminated his tanned skin and beard growth. One muscled arm—the dragoned one—rested comfortably behind his head. He might as well be at the Four Seasons. Emily felt like kicking him.

She tried to pull herself up, but suddenly her hip sent a shooting pain down her leg. What did she do to it? It throbbed like a bruise on fire. What the hell happened last night? Did she fall? She groaned and rubbed her hipbone. It felt as though she'd been hit with a wrecking ball.

"Hey, wake up," she said, nudging Tyler with her foot.

He breathed in deeply, a short snore erupting from his nose. Then he rolled over and hugged the backpack tightly, a soft smile on his lips. He was in a baby's dreamland. Emily nudged him again, harder.

"Wha, wha?" he mumbled, shooing her away with one hand.

"Wake up!" she said, irritation lacing her voice.

He blinked, slowly opening his eyes. He looked around, trying to focus. His eyes stopped on her. "Hey Emily," he said, and closed his eyes again.

"Tyler, wake _up_!" she yelled, then moaned in pain. Her brain was so sore, so tender, so _pickled_ , that even the sound of her own voice made it throb. She'd obviously killed off a huge chunk of it last night.

Tyler lifted his head, his eyes half-slits. They were red-veined and puffy.

"What did you do to us?" Emily said, her voice croaking like a frog's.

Tyler shook his head slowly, opening and closing his mouth as if trying to get the saliva working again. "A good time was had by all," he replied hoarsely.

"A _good_ time? How can it be a good time when I don't remember a thing? How much did you let me _drink_?" Emily carefully pulled herself up to a sitting position, then groaned, dropping her head into her hands. It felt as if every time she turned her head, her brain sloshed painfully in its own juices.

"Seems I recall," said Tyler, "no one was forcing the glass to your lips. Come on, Em, you had fun. Admit it."

"I don't _remember_ if I had any fun or not. Do you?"

Tyler shaded his eyes from the sun. "Man, it's bright."

" _Do_ you?" Emily persisted. "Or am I the only one with a Swiss-cheese memory? My head is on fire and my hip feels like an elephant crushed it. What the hell happened last night?"

Tyler shook his head groggily. "I only remember the parts up until you challenged Tiffany to a drink-off."

"I _what_?"

"Don't you remember? You bet Tiffany her chaps that you could drink a Hog's Tail faster than she could."

Emily stared at him, her mouth falling open. "I did _what_?" She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Who . . . won?"

"Check your backpack."

Emily snatched the bag and unzipped it. Inside was a pair of soft leather chaps, rolled into a tight ball. Emily dropped the backpack in horror.

"I won her _pants_? But . . . ?"

"She left the bar with a sweatshirt tied around her waist. It was all in good fun."

Emily had no words. She stared at Tyler, her head spinning and stomach roiling.

"I don't remember anything after that," Tyler said, rubbing his forehead. "So we somehow must've ended up on the beach." He pushed both hands through his hair, wincing. "Never slept on the beach fully-clothed before. Chalk that up to a new one."

"So that means you've slept on the beach _naked_?"

He turned his head to study her. "I think we need to go get you breakfast, a Pedialyte, and some Tylenol. Looks like Emily has the grumpies."

"The _grumpies_? What are you, five?" Emily couldn't control herself. She felt like shit: her head was pounding, her mouth was dry, she was about to barf, and she was just s _o damn pissed_ at him!

Tyler pulled himself to his feet. "Come on. Let's go before you say something you regret. Telling me I'm five is borderline."

Emily snorted, unable to stop herself. She snatched her backpack away from him and slung it over her shoulders. _The money_. Was it still there? What if it was stolen? She pulled the backpack off her shoulders and dropped it on the ground. She unzipped it with trembling cirrhosis-like fingers.

The money was still there, but the bundle looked significantly smaller. She looked up at Tyler, who was shading his eyes and looking at the ocean.

"Did I spend a lot last night?" she asked.

He glanced down at her and shrugged. "Don't remember."

"Of course you wouldn't," she muttered, and yanked up the backpack's zipper.

She followed Tyler to the boardwalk, limping. "Crap, my hip really hurts."

He looked both ways before he crossed the boardwalk. Emily did the same, hobbling behind him. It was strange to see the path so unpopulated. Just a few rollerbladers or joggers passed. Vendors were starting to set up for the day, opening their stands and laying out their wares. Street musicians tuned their instruments, laughing with toothless smiles as they shared stale-looking donuts out of a pink box. The snake tamer—Emily recognized her from yesterday—huddled under an Indian print blanket, a cup of steaming Starbucks in her hands.

_This is the last place in the world I should be_ , Emily thought. Waking up in Venice with _these_ people. Then she caught sight of herself in a storefront window, and realized with a start that she fit right in. She was a bedraggled mess: her hair tangled and matted, her sundress wrinkled, and her eye makeup smeared around her eyes. She groaned and tried to comb through her hair with her fingers, but just made it stand up more on end, like a bushel of hay.

Tyler looked at his watch and groaned. "Damn, I gotta get to work." He looked around. "Where's my bike? I remember bringing it to Charlie's, but . . ." He stopped and rubbed his face, looking perplexed. "Maybe Charlie has it in the bar."

"Is his place open yet?"

"He's usually there early. Practically sleeps at the place." Tyler leaned against the wall of a gelato store. "Man, my head hurts."

"Tell me about it." Emily rubbed her forehead ruefully. "This sucks."

Just then, they heard a loud rumbling sound—the sound of motorcycles gunning their engines—in the distance. _Roar, vroom, roar, vroom, vroom_! It got closer, a deafening sound that hammered Emily's head. _VRROOOMVRrrooomROAR_!

She cringed at the noise as Tyler craned his head, looking for the source.

"Do you always look so eager at the sound of a Harley?" she asked in annoyance.

He nodded, a smile creeping onto his lips. "The most beautiful sound in the world."

She rolled her eyes.

The sound got louder, a thunderous roaring that shattered the early morning peace and reverberated through Emily's skull. "God, make it stop," she moaned, covering her ears.

Just then, a large group of motorcycles rounded the corner. On the brightly colored hogs sat a dozen beefy men wearing leathers and denim jackets, their long hair covered in bandannas. Their chrome handlebars glistened in the sunlight as they sat idling at the stoplight, their engines rumbling like war tanks.

Emily surveyed them in wary disgust. They were a greasy bunch with stringy hair and smelly-looking outfits and big dirty boots. They also looked mean—like criminals, really, and who's to say they weren't—with their rough hands, do-rags, dark sunglasses, and cutoff shirts. They all had the same tattoo on their shoulders—a large flaming skull. Lovely. They probably had knives in their pockets, too.

The men sat there glaring straight ahead, idling menacingly at the stop light on their huge machines. Emily watched them warily, praying the light would hurry up and change.

All of a sudden, the biggest and meanest looking one of the bunch turned and saw them. "Hey, Emily!" he shouted, raising his gloved hand in a wave.

She stared back at him, her mouth dropping open. All of the other men turned their heads toward her, their faces breaking out in large smiles as they recognized her. Their toothy grins (those that still had teeth) dispelled the tough-guy aura around them.

"Hey, Emily!" " _Emily_! How you doin'?" "Great time last night!" The guys shouted greetings to her, their burly grizzled faces grinning at her like a dozen Santa Clauses.

Emily turned to Tyler. "What the . . . ?"

Tyler was staring at them, too, a look of recognition spreading across his face.

Emily stared back at the Harley riders, who were waving and grinning. "Hey, Emily, thanks for the drinks last night! And the tats!"

The _tats_?

The guys gestured to the flaming skulls on their arms and gave her double thumbs-ups. The light changed and they roared off, their long stringy hair blowing behind them in the wind.

Emily gaped after them in horror. _She_ bought those horrid skull tattoos for them?

She turned to Tyler in panic.

He inhaled deeply, looking at her in trepidation. "Some of last night is starting to come back to me."

"What _happened_ last night? I was buying . . . _tattoos_ for people?"

Tyler shifted his feet. "Now I remember why your hip hurts."

"My _hip_?" Emily stared down at her throbbing hipbone, covered by her floral print dress. She looked up at Tyler, who met her eyes with a chagrined expression. A tiny amused smile played around his lips. It looked as if he was working hard to suppress it.

With trembling fingers, she slowly lifted the hem up over her thighs, not caring that she revealed her comfortable white granny panties.

There, on her hipbone, was a large, freshly inked tattoo.

A grinning, flaming skull.

"This can't be real. This can't be happening," Emily said, staring down at the skull tattoo on her hip. She bit her lip, trying not to cry. "Tell me this is a nightmare."

Tyler leaned over to touch the tattoo with his finger. "He did a good job, considering."

"Considering _what_?"

"Considering you were screaming and jerking around when the needles hit your skin."

Emily gaped at him. "Tell me why I don't remember that and you do." Then pieces of memory came flashing at her: the tattoo artist handing her a tequila shot, the Harley guys cheering her on, hugging Tyler when it was over.

Tyler rubbed his chin as he met her eyes. He looked as though he was trying not to smile. "I vaguely remember you promising you wouldn't regret this in the morning."

Emily dropped her backpack with a thud on the sidewalk. Her hands balled into fists, bunching the fabric of her dress. "How. Can. I. Not. _Regret this_?" She yanked up her dress again, gesturing wildly at the skull on her hip. A group of passing teens, pierced to the gills, snickered.

"What are you laughing at?" she screamed after them.

Tyler put his hand on her arm. "Calm down. It's not that bad. It's a pretty cool tat. Bad ass in all the right ways."

" _Bad_ _ass_?" She stared at him. "Do I look like a 'bad ass' kind of girl?" She punctuated the air angrily with her fingers. "Do I _look_ like the kind of girl who wants a goddamn flaming skull on her body for _the rest of her life_?" Her voice rose high and shrill, echoing against the buildings.

Tyler took a step back, his hands raised. "You need to get a grip."

She knew she was making a spectacle of herself—if that was even possible in Venice—but she didn't care. She was crying now, angry sobs bursting out of her like small volcanic waves. "It's your fault. You let this happen."

"Whoa. I didn't drag you in kicking and screaming. I seem to remember it was your idea."

"Don't you realize that a person can't make a rational decision when they're _intoxicated_? And you kept feeding me pitchers and shots and . . ." She moaned, gripping her head. "Oh god . . ."

Tyler took a step toward her. "I'm really sorry, Em. I wasn't thinking clearly, either."

She raised her head to glare at him. "You should've stopped me. You should've just stopped, period. The whole thing is your fault. How am I ever going to wear a bathing suit with this . . . thing?" She stared mournfully down at her hip. She could almost see the skull grinning maniacally through the fabric.

A fresh sob erupted from her throat, sounding like an angry hiccup. This god-awful tattoo made her look like some sort of lowlife who drank Johnnie Walker Red for breakfast, bought cigarettes with food stamps, and beat her kids. Any visions she'd ever had of lying on a beach wearing an elegant one-piece bathing suit while reading Jane Austen, well, _poof_! She could kiss that fantasy goodbye. With this giant flaming skull etched permanently into her skin, she might as well buy timeshare in a trailer park.

"It's not that bad," said Tyler. "This is Southern California. Everyone has tattoos. It's not a big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal." She poked her finger at her hip. "This thing makes me look like a crystallized meth addict."

"It's _crystal_ meth. Not crystallized."

"Whatever!"

"Jesus, Emily, you're driving me nuts with your high maintenance," he said, running his hands through his hair. "You're acting like a drama queen."

Blood pounded behind her eyes. "Drama queen?" She glared at him. "I'm not the queen here." The minute she said the words, she regretted them. And by the look on Tyler's face, he regretted _her_.

His eyes went stony, his jaw clenched. "I don't appreciate homophobic slurs. I wouldn't expect such ugliness from you. Then again, nothing surprises me about you lately. I think you're starting to lose it. In a big way."

" _Lose_ it?" Rage flared up in her chest. "Isn't this what you wanted? For me to _lose_ my inhibitions? Let loose, live on the edge? Get crazy?"

"Get crazy, not _be_ crazy." He shook his head, disgust and irritation mixing his features. "Part of you wanted that tattoo, but now that have it, you can't own it. You've got to blame someone else."

"Why would I want to own something I don't even remember getting?"

Tyler crossed his arms, staring at her with dark eyes. "Wasn't a tattoo on your bucket list?"

Emily faltered. "Well, yes. But only if I were . . . you know, a different sort of person."

"There's no being a different sort of person. You need to start being _you_. What kind of tat would Emily Keane get?"

"Well," she replied, hesitating, "it would be something small and discreet. Like a little rose or heart, in a place where people can't see."

"And what's the point of that?"

" _I_ ' _d_ know it was there. It would be for me. Not everyone needs the world to know they've arrived, Tyler. But wait, don't _you_ have a secret you're hiding, too? Something you want to keep discreet?" She said the words sarcastically, and from his expression he registered their full meaning. She couldn't stop herself, even though she knew she was hurting him. "Or am I the only one who's ashamed of who I am?"

He shook his head at her. "This conversation is over." He turned and walked away.

Emily chased after him. "So that's it, you're just going to leave? End of friendship, just like that? Because I dared to speak the truth?"

He ignored her as he strode, his jaw clenched and eyes straight ahead. He stopped in front of The Hog's Tail and banged on the door. He turned toward her as Charlie unlocked the door. "You wouldn't know the truth if it bit you in the ass," he said in a steely tone. "And actually, it did. You'll never admit it, though, because you're too busy being scared and dishonest with yourself. Look closely, Emily, the truth is right there in plain sight. It's staring back at you in the form of a fucking flaming skull."

Tyler stalked into the bar, the door banging behind him.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

The limo driver poked his head out of a long, faded black car and grinned. "Ms. Keane?"

She nodded wearily and opened the door, throwing her backpack inside.

"Hey, I'll get it," the limo driver said, bounding out of the car and around to her door.

But she was already inside, leaning against the musty faux-leather seats. The old Emily would've called a cab, but she was rich now. She needed to start acting like a person with wealth. And buying tattoos for a Harley gang wasn't exactly a highfalutin' way to spend one's money. She cringed at the memory of the biker guys, waving and calling her name as if they knew her, sporting the same hideous tattoos as she did.

She thought of Tyler having to peddle the long distance back to the South Bay on his double bike without her. For a moment she felt a twinge of guilt. But then she remembered his words, and they twisted in her like a knife. To hell with him. He could ride back alone.

The limo driver started the car. The engine wheezed and coughed, turning over with difficulty. Weren't limos supposed to be new and fancy? When she'd searched for limos on her iPhone, she'd chosen this particular one for its upscale name: "Ultimate Limo for the Stars." She'd expected a luxurious experience, but this rusty old bucket didn't seem like anything a celebrity—or even a normal person—would ride in. Oh well, the car was here now, and all she wanted was to get home. Down the 405 and she'd be there in thirty minutes.

"Where to?" the driver asked, peering at her in the mirror.

Emily handed him a piece of paper with her address scrawled on it, and he punched the numbers and letters into the GPS. As they eased onto the street, she leaned her head back against the seat, her head throbbing. Maybe she could nap on the way. She was so tired. But the headrest smelled like sweaty horsehide. In fact, the whole limo smelled like a musty attic mixed with overpowering Febreeze and something else. A toxic cleaning chemical? Emily jerked her head up, looking around at the interior.

This car certainly was less well-appointed than a limo should be. Not movie-star material in the least. The company should be sued for misrepresentation. She'd always thought riding in a limousine would be a lavish, extravagant, experience. But not so, according to what her eyes and nose were currently telling her. The carpet was old and filled with holes, curling up from the sides of the floor. The walls were scuffed and the dark windows were peeling from a bad tint job.

Just her luck. She leaned her head back against the horsehide, feeling bitter at how her time with Tyler had turned out. They should have had a nice breakfast on the beach, but AW had ruined that. Then there was Venice, and the drinking, followed by the tattoo, and now this piece-of-junk limo taking her home. A fitting end to the weekend.

As they slowly climbed the onramp to the freeway, the limo's engine churning loudly against the incline, Emily's seat suddenly shifted beneath her as if the thing hadn't been bolted in properly. She grabbed the hand rest.

"How old is this limo?" she asked.

The driver met her eyes in the mirror. "It's from the fifties."

"The _1950s_?"

He nodded. "Been refurbished."

"I'm amazed it still runs at all," she muttered.

"It's been a reliable little pony, so says the owner. Carried a lot of famous people in its day."

"Like who?" Emily asked skeptically.

"Well . . ." The driver scratched his head. "They say Marilyn Monroe. Her casket was the fanciest, apparently. They called it the Cadillac of coffins. It was pure bronze with—"

"What do you mean, Marilyn Monroe's _casket_?"

"Yeah, yeah, her coffin. This used to be a hearse. Been refurbished nicely, don't you think? Like I said, carried a lot of famous people in its day. All dead of course, but that's a minor point." He chuckled amiably.

Emily clutched at her throat and swallowed hard. A hearse? Well, of course. That explained the name—The _Ultimate_ Limo for the Stars—and the faint rancid odor she smelled.

Formaldehyde.

She seized the ice bucket and retched into it, gagging loudly.

"Rough night, huh?" asked the driver, peering at her in the mirror.

She moaned, wiping her mouth with a cocktail napkin. She leaned back weakly against the smelly seat. She couldn't believe this was happening to her, that she was driving back from Venice in a clunkity old funeral coach, hung over and sick with a hideous tattoo etched into her hip. At this moment, she hated her life with a passion she didn't know she had. She closed her eyes, wishing she would wake up from this bad dream. Only Emily Keane would end up in a hearse before she was even dead.

A short while later, they exited the freeway on 190th Street and headed in the direction of Redondo Beach. The tall palm trees waving in the distance meant Emily would soon be home, and she couldn't wait to take a long bath and crawl into bed.

Suddenly, the engine made an abrupt, clacking noise. The car began to slow, losing power. The driver pulled over to the side of the road, muttering to himself.

"What's wrong?" asked Emily in alarm.

"Hang tight," he said, opening the door. He went around to the front of the car and lifted the hood, its hinges creaking as if they hadn't been oiled in years. He returned with a grim look on his face.

"Seems we got engine trouble, Ma'am," he said.

"You think?" Emily couldn't contain the sarcasm in her voice. She gazed out at the cars whizzing by a little too close for comfort. With her luck, one of them would clip this pile of scrap metal and scatter it all over the freeway.

The limo driver hunched over the steering wheel, turning the key in the ignition and pumping the gas pedal vigorously with his foot. The only result was the whirring, crunching sound of metal on metal. He turned back to her apologetically. "Sorry about this, Ma'am. Don't worry I'll call for backup. They'll send another car in about an hour or so, as long as one's available. And I'll make sure the owner gives you a discount. He's usually good about giving five to ten percent off in these situations."

_Just great_. _A perfect way to end a perfect day_. Emily gritted her teeth. "Five to ten percent ain't going to cut it, pal. After the night I had, this is the last thing I need." She yanked open her backpack and searched for her phone. She wasn't going to wait around for hours in this sweltering carcass-carriage for "backup" to arrive.

"Hey, don't get testy. It's not my fault." The limo driver turned back to the ignition.

Emily's phone was dead, all of the battery juice drained. It would've been nice to call a friend to come pick her up, but no dice. There was no one to call, anyway. She didn't have any friends, not even Tyler. This bitter realization enraged her further. She thumped the seat with her fist, sending a cloud of dust—probably Humphrey Bogart's ashes—up into the air.

"These things happen," the driver said, eyeing her in the mirror. "Best to just chill-ax until we can get things squared away."

"These things happen, these things happen," she mimicked the driver's tone. "Why does everyone keep telling me that I should just suck it up and accept things that go wrong? Why should I? Tell me, _why should I_?"

She didn't care that she was yelling at this guy. Maybe she had lost her mind, like Tyler said, but who wouldn't after the few days she'd had?

"Lady, don't blame me for your bad night. It's obvious you drank too much and are not thinking rationally. If you hang tight, I'll get you out of this mess in no time." He tried to start the car again, leaning forward as if sheer determination alone could bully the car into compliance.

Emily gripped her thighs, creating white dents in them. She winced, her tattoo throbbing. "You're telling _me_ I'm not rational? Do you realize who you're talking to? I'm the most rational, logical, sensible person you'll ever meet. I just happen to always have crappy things happen to me, things I can't _control_!" Her words were shrill, pinging painfully around the interior of her skull. She groaned and looked around for a bottle of water. "Isn't there anything to drink in this dump?"

The limo driver was on his phone, dialing. He glanced nervously at her in the mirror. "Ma'am, we don't supply alcohol unless the customer specifically requests it ahead of time and pays a cleaning deposit."

Emily snorted. "I don't want _alcohol_ , you numbskull. What do you think I am, some sort of alkie? And what do you need a _cleaning_ deposit for anyway? Have you seen this heap?"

The limo driver muttered something into the phone, periodically regarding her in the mirror. Then he pressed a button so the interior window barrier went up between them.

Emily flung open the door. "This is ridiculous. I'm not waiting around for a damn backup ride."

She caught her reflection in the window. She looked like a bag lady on meth. Great, with her luck someone from work would drive by and see her since half the office commuted from the South Bay. She could just picture Darren's smirk when he saw her staggering down the street with her haystack-head and bedraggled sundress. "I almost didn't recognize her," he would say to the people at the office. "Looks like she's gone soft in the cranium since quitting. That's what happens when you make rash decisions like that."

Emily slammed the limo door, irritation swelling in her chest.

"Hey, lady, you gotta pay!" the driver yelled out the window.

She yanked open her backpack and stomped over to the driver's side, fishing around in the bag for her money. The driver jumped out of the car, glaring at her. He thrust out his hand, wiggling his fingers impatiently. She grabbed a few bills and threw them at him, just as the leather chaps fell out onto the pavement. The driver stared at them, then at her. She was too angry and frustrated to try and explain. She snatched the chaps and stuffed them back into the backpack, her face flaming.

"Keep the change." She stalked off, holding her head high despite the dull pain thudding at her temples. The car door slammed behind her and the gear grinding started up again.

She trudged down the street, limping. Her hip ached as though the skin had been torn up in a catfight. Cars zoomed past, throwing spirals of dust and exhaust at her face. She pulled up the top of her sundress to cover her nose and mouth, cursing her life. This carpe diem business was a joke. An illusion. Good things happened to other people, not her. No matter how much money she had or how much she tried to change her life, things would never go according to plan for her, even if she had no plan.

A sob escaped her throat. She limped along, feeling sorry for herself. The bright sun blazed down on her head. She was hot, dizzy and thirsty. Her head ached, thumping double-time to her footsteps. She had a long walk ahead of her, ten miles at least. Tyler, gliding down the boardwalk from Venice to the South Bay, would probably beat her home.

As she hobbled along, she remembered the guy she'd heard about on the news who'd cut off his own arm and then walked for days with no food or water with the sun blistering his skin after he'd used his shirt as a tourniquet. If he could endure, so could she. A bubble of resolute determination rose up in her. She was tough. She was a survivor, like Tourniquet Guy. She would persevere. Even if she was on the verge of puking again.

She heard the screech of tires. She looked over to see a car making a swift U-turn in the middle of the street. The car pulled up next to her and skidded to a halt with its stereo blaring. "Emily Keane, is that you?"

Simone grinned at her from the wheel of a cherry-red convertible, her long hair fanned attractively around her face.

Emily groaned and turned away. Si-Moan Stevens was the icing on this shit-cake of a day.

Simone's car crawled along beside her. "You look like crap. I thought you were a crack-whore returning from long night. Need a ride?"

A ride? Now that was a thought. If the amputee guy had had an offer of a ride, even from his worst enemy, he would've taken it. Right? This was a story about survival.

Emily walked to the car, opened the door, and eased herself in, wincing from the tattoo. "Thanks."

"What happened? Why are you walking?"

Emily ignored her question. "Aren't you going to be late for work?"

"It doesn't matter. You know how Darren is in meetings all day on Mondays."

Wow, today was Monday. The start of the working week. Emily hadn't experienced a normal routine in so long that she almost forgot what it felt like. Seeing Simone in her tight black and yellow checked suit and glossy pumps struck a chord of envy in her.

"How's the promotion going?" she asked, unable to hide the bitterness in her tone.

"Fine, great, excellent," Simone replied in a cheerful tone.

"I'm happy for you," Emily said. She looked glumly out at the passing streets. Her hair whipped frenetically around her cheeks. Her reflection in the side mirror was that of a woman who'd stuck her finger in a light socket. A deranged scarecrow. She pressed the button to roll up the window, but it was no use. The whole point of a convertible was the wind.

"Am I taking you home?" asked Simone.

Emily nodded. "Just follow this street all the way down to the end."

They rode in silence for a while. Emily noticed Simone wasn't her usual talkative self, which was strange. Emily welcomed the quiet as she leaned her head back. Simone's headrest smelled like new leather—much better than the limo's.

"Hey," Simone said abruptly. "I lied."

"Excuse me?"

Simone pressed her lips together. "I lied. It's not going well at work. At all."

Emily's head jerked up. So here was the news, what she'd predicted all along. Had Darren finally realized who he'd promoted over Emily?

"I've been thinking of calling you. You know, for advice." Simone looked over at Emily, her eyes shielded behind large dark glasses. "It's lucky I ran into you."

Emily pretended to fiddle with the seatbelt. "So tell me what's going on."

Simone's face clouded over. "Well, they keep rejecting my ads."

_Hmm_ , _this is better than I_ ' _d thought_.

"I'm afraid I'm gonna get fired," Simone continued. "Darren keeps yelling at me. It's making me a nervous wreck."

Emily suppressed a smile. Ha, there it was! Validation, confirmation. Darren _was_ seeing the truth. Maybe the universe was fair after all. Maybe there was rhyme and reason. In due time, Darren would call up her and offer her old job back, along with the promotion he'd given Simone. He'd grovel for sure. Emily smiled to herself, wanting to cheer. To gloat.

Then she caught sight of Simone's face. Her cheeks were pinched in and she was biting her lip. She was obviously struggling not to cry. Emily's heart squeezed in sympathy. She knew how Simone felt.

"I don't get it," Simone said in a tight voice. "I've written some great ad copy. What's wrong with 'Lick Harry's Stick" to sell Harry's Popsicles? I think it's catchy and funny. But apparently not."

"Simone," Emily said patiently, gently. "Don't you see? Not everyone likes sex jokes."

"It wasn't a sex joke, just a play on words. I'd buy a box of popsicles with that logo."

Emily sighed. "Of course you would. But you're not . . . like everyone else."

Simone smiled, taking this as a compliment. "Thanks." Her face dropped again. "I can't lose this job, you know, at least not for a little while longer. I need the money. I've got a trip to Jamaica planned."

Jamaica? Ranking a vacation over her career? Wow, this chick sure had her priorities straight _._

"Hey, it'll be okay," Emily said, trying to keep her voice light. "Just hang in there. Things will get better." She knew those words were cliché, but she didn't know what else to say.

"Thanks. You're making me feel better already. I'm really glad I ran into you." Simone gave an appreciative smile. "Hey, you still haven't told me why you were walking on the side of the road in this . . ." she gestured to Emily's appearance, "state."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Simone stared over at Emily from behind her large, owl-like sunglasses. "What _happened_?" she asked, her tone urgent. "It must've been bad. You look terrible. Like you were . . ." her voice dropped to a stage whisper, " _raped_ or something."

Emily snorted. "I wasn't raped, Simone. Just a bad night, that's all."

"Oh, okay. One of those." Simone visibly relaxed. "Drink too much?"

Emily nodded sullenly, looking out at the passing buildings. She vowed to never touch another drop of alcohol again as long as she lived.

" _Yeah_ , baby, that's what I like to hear!" shouted Simone, whooping so loudly she startled Emily out of her seat.

"Do you need to screech like that?" This chick had more personalities than a Jerry Springer rerun.

Simone grinned, her red hair whipping around her wildly. "I'm just glad you're lightening up, Emily. See, it's fun to have a drink or two! I remember when you only had soda water at the charity ball. I felt so sorry for you."

"You felt _sorry_ for me? Whatever on earth for?" Irritation punctuated Emily's words.

"Well, anyone who can't have one little drink and loosen up has one sad and sorry life."

Emily rolled her eyes. "I'm sure AA would applaud you for that."

"I'm just sayin'. You don't need to always be so . . . good. It's fun to be a little bad, don't you think?" Simone leaned over and nudged Emily with her elbow. "So how'd you get ditched by your ride?"

"I didn't get ditched," Emily said, gritting her teeth. "The car I was in broke down. A limousine."

"Why were you in a limo?"

"Long story."

"Sucks it broke down. That's never happened to me before."

_Of course not_. Emily stared glumly out the window, watching the buildings whiz by. She couldn't wait to get home.

Simone fiddled with the radio dials. "Sure is a long way to your house. Lucky for you I came along."

"Yeah, lucky for me."

Simone turned up the music, the wind blowing her hair wildly around her face. She hummed along to a country song, off-key in the most excruciating way.

"You like country music?" Emily asked. She wouldn't have expected Simone, of all people, to enjoy dung-kicking music. Emily herself had been known to listen to a country station once in a while on the sly, though Lenny used to ridicule her. She even owned a few Garth Brooks CDs.

"Yeah, I know it's weird in California," Simone said, "but country music reminds me of Dillon's."

"Who?" Emily was just glad to not hear Lenny's name on this woman's lips.

Simone laughed. "It's not a 'he.' It's a place. Dillon's is a country bar."

"That's right, I remember you mentioning it at the office." Come to think of it, that place was all Simone had ever talked about: dollar drinks this, body shots that, and getting laid practically every weekend. Emily suppressed a scowl.

"It's packed with _gorgeous_ guys," continued Simone, "and I've had my pick since I won the hot-body contest a few months back."

"I bet."

"You should go with me sometime. Fridays are dollar drink night, and they're having their first-ever hot-body contest for men in a few weeks. It'll be awesome."

"Thanks, but I'll pass."

"If you change your mind, I'm always there before eight to avoid the cover charge. They have great potato skins. At least come to the hot-body contest. It's the Saturday after next. Maybe you could help me with my ad copy." Simone scrunched her face at Emily in a puppy-dog way. "Pleeease?"

Emily paused, considering the idea. She wasn't a bar person, especially after her disastrous Hog's Tail experience, but she'd heard country nightclubs were cleaner and less raunchy than others, more of a family experience. She did like country music, so going with Simone might be an interesting way to spend an evening. And Emily _was_ a better ad copywriter, so naturally Simone would turn to her for help. Maybe if she helped Simone write good copy, Darren would find out, and then . . . who knew what could happen? It might be nice to get her old job back, _with_ the promotion of course, if only to have the last laugh during her final year of life.

Still, the idea of going to a bar with vulgar, hard-drinking Simone dismayed her.

"I don't think so," Emily said.

Simone shrugged.

Tyler's words rang in Emily's ears, taunting her: " _You_ ' _re high maintenance_. _You_ ' _re scared_."

Eff Tyler! What did he know about her, anyway? She'd show him. Maybe even cross a few things off her bucket list, like a one-night stand. That would sure shock the hell out of him!

"On second thought, I'll think about it," Emily said. "I guess I have been sort of lonely lately." She caught herself. She hadn't meant to blurt out the part about being lonely, and she regretted the words the minute they left her mouth.

Surprisingly, Simone didn't laugh or make fun of her. Instead she replied in a sympathetic tone, "Hey, hon, don't worry about it. We all have moments like that."

Emily stared. "Even you?"

"Of course, even me. What do you think I am, a robot?"

"I just meant . . . well, I can't picture you ever being lonely."

Simone was quiet for a moment. "Well, my best friend recently got engaged so I don't have anyone to go to Dillon's with anymore. I've been going alone, but it's not as much fun hooking up with gazillions of guys all by myself. Most women are jealous of me, too, so I don't make friends easily."

Emily internally rolled her eyes. What a sob story. Simone's definition of loneliness wasn't the same as hers, that's for sure. Oh well, what could she do? The beautiful people just lived differently.

"Sometimes I just stand in a corner and watch everyone," Simone continued. "Not often, but it's usually on a night when I don't feel very social."

Now _this_ was a feeling Emily could relate to. She was always the wallflower, always the person in the background watching everyone else have fun. Except for last night at The Hog's Tail, of course, but that was a different story. An anomaly fueled by liquid brain killer.

"Wow, you've always seemed so . . . brave," Emily said.

"Actually, you're the one who's supposed to be brave."

"Come again?" She wasn't following. Simone had her own sort of conversational logic, not always apparent to everyone else.

"I'm into genealogy and names," Simone replied, as if that should clarify.

_Okay_? Emily rubbed her temples. Simone was the queen of loopy non-sequiturs, but this was ridiculous.

"I like looking up the origins of people's surnames. I think they tell a lot about someone."

Emily rolled her eyes. This chick was too much.

"Did you know our boss Darren's last name, Maultier, means jackass in German?" Simone giggled. "Fits him to a tee, don't you think? And my last name—Stevens—means crown, which is exactly right 'cause I'm a total princess."

"And why are you telling me this?" _Just get me home_ , _please_.

"I think people's names reflect who they really are."

_What_ ' _s next_ , _tarot cards_? This hippy dippy stuff was too much. Emily exhaled in annoyance, looking out at the passing palm trees. They were getting closer to her neighborhood, thank goodness.

"Your last name means courage."

Emily whipped her head around. "You looked up my name? Why would you do something like that?"

Simone shrugged. "I looked up everyone in the office. Keane means courage. In England, I think. Or Ireland. Someplace like that."

Emily pondered this. Keane meant courage. Well, that was a joke. "I'm not brave, so your theory goes down the toilet."

"Well, you should try to live up to the meaning of your name. I think every person has a duty to. They need to honor it."

Emily shook her head. "Okay, whatever." Then she smirked. "It does seem like Darren is doing a good job of honoring _his_ name, though." For some reason, this tickled her. A giggle began making its way up, ruffling her insides like a feather. She couldn't help herself. She let out a loud guffaw, which made her head hurt like hell. Simone glanced over and giggled, too.

Emily tried to suppress the laugh bubbles building inside her like a pressure cooker begging to blow its lid. What the hell was so funny? Darren was an ass, so what? But she couldn't help it. She threw back her head and unleashed giggles into the air like steam.

Simone began laughing, too, and hard. "Darren's honoring his name. That's so freaking funny!"

Soon they were trading jokes about the people in the office and what their names meant—or should.

"Jacob Weiner's name goes without saying," Simone said, guffawing. "I didn't even have to look that one up."

"What about Mary Bromidosis in accounting? You know, that older lady who always hogged the copy machine? Her name has to mean something good."

"It does," Simone said, bending over the steering wheel in a fit of giggles. "You won't believe it."

"What? Tell me."

"Smelly crotch. In Greek."

Emily gaped. "No way."

"I swear."

"Her name means _smelly crotch_ in Greek? You're lying."

"It does. I'm not shitting you."

Emily doubled over in laughter. "Why wouldn't a person change a name like that?"

"She probably doesn't know. Or maybe she's proud of her family history." Simone grinned. "A whole lineage of stinky pussies."

"Oh my." Emily's laughter mixed with Simone's and floated away in the breeze as their car raced down the quiet, apartment-lined street. She could smell the salty beach air as they drew closer.

"Hey, what about John Allen, the cute database guy in computers?"

"His last name means handsome."

"Wow, definitely honors his name," Emily said. She thought of something. "Does that mean Woody Allen is supposed to be handsome, too?"

"Woody Allen? Holy crap. Now that's a tragic waste of a surname," Simone said, giggling. "But wasn't he born Allen Stewart Konigsberg?"

Emily blinked. How did Simone know that? Her head wasn't only filled with rocks, apparently.

"Either way, Allen is part of his name, so it was destined to be his." Emily paused, the subject of Woody Allen reminding her of something. "What about Bertrand? Do you know what it means?" Bertrand was Lenny's last name.

"Oh, like Leonard Bertrand upstairs in legal? His name means intelligent."

"Well, he's not," Emily snapped, the laughter draining from her. How did Simone know of Lenny, anyway? He rarely came down to the second floor. Had they run into each other? Talked? And what was Lenny doing with a surname like that when he was dumb enough to leave her?

They pulled up to a stoplight. Simone checked herself in the rear view mirror, rubbing her lips together to redistribute her gloss. "Didn't you used to date that guy?"

Emily swallowed hard. "Yeah, for a quarter of my life. Dumped me cold."

"Oh, that sucks," Simone said sympathetically. "Well, he's not that great a catch, anyway, even if he is an attorney. You could do better."

This surprised Emily. "You think?"

"He's got something wrong with his eyes."

"That's true," Emily said, laughing. "He does."

"Yeah, blink, blink, blink." Simone took off her sunglasses and imitated Lenny, squinching her eyes together repeatedly until Emily was choking on her spit.

The light turned green and Simone gunned the accelerator, peeling out with a shrill squeal. Emily gripped the hand rest in terror. They were racing through the streets so fast that the world blurred past them like a smeared painting.

"Slow down!" Emily yelled. "This isn't the Autobahn."

"Sorry," Simone said, laughing, her hair curling high in the air like flames of the sun. "I just like speed. But since you're my guest, I'll take it easy." She de-accelerated, and they slowed to a humanely safe speed. She reached over and blasted the music, grinning. "But if I have to go slow, I at least want my music loud."

As they zipped along through the streets of Redondo Beach with the wind whipping through their hair and the radio blaring a song about doublewides and rodeos, Emily wondered if this was what it felt like to have a friend.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

When they pulled up in front of her apartment building, Emily noticed that old Mrs. Koster was peering out from behind her faded floral curtain, as usual. Was it her imagination, or did the old lady's white eyebrows raise sky-high to see Emily exiting the sporty red car with her blonde hair wind-whipped, her dress stained and wrinkled? _I should lift my hem and show her my tattoo_. _That would give the old fart something to talk about_!

Emily grabbed her backpack out of the seat and closed the car door. "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem," Simone replied, her pink-lipsticked mouth stretched into a wide grin. "We sure had fun, huh?"

Emily nodded, agreeing. But exhaustion was starting to creep back in. Her hip was throbbing, and she was suddenly so bone-tired. All of the adventures had caught up with her. She looked up at her drab, gray apartment building and felt relieved to be home. She couldn't wait to crawl into bed.

"So you'll put the hot-body contest on the calendar?" Simone asked. "You don't want to miss it."

"I'll let you know. I gotta get inside. My head is killing me."

"I totally understand. You must feel like hell," Simone said, adjusting her shades. "Now go take a long bath and deep condition your hair. Maybe even a nice manicure, if you have time. A good tooth brushing will help, too. And mouth wash. Definitely don't forget the mouth wash." She winked. "You'll feel better. Look and smell better, too."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Thanks. I appreciate the advice and well wishes." She was too tired to be sarcastic. And for some reason, Simone's words didn't sound as obnoxious to Emily's ears as they normally might have. In fact, they almost sounded like something a misguided friend might say, someone who cared.

Simone revved her engine. "I'd better see your ass at Dillon's," she shouted out, her voice bouncing shrilly off the apartment buildings. "We'll find some hot bodies to fuck!" She laughed raucously, gunned her engine again, and then peeled out. She raced off around the corner, her shiny red car glistening in the sun.

Emily gulped as Mrs. Koster's curtain moved again. She smoothed her dress and hair, and hurried past the window with her head down.

As she slowly climbed the stairs to her apartment, she thought about falling straight into bed for a long nap, even before she bathed or ate. She would wash the sheets later. She was so exhausted that she just needed to sleep, sleep, sleep . . . that's all her body needed. The steps swam in front of her eyes as she trudged up. She gripped the railing to steady herself. The thought of her soft bed with its down comforter had never sounded so good.

"Hello, Emily," a deep voice said above her, startling her.

She looked up to see Dr. Becker standing on the landing by her front door, wearing a brown three-piece suit and smiling politely with his large, white teeth.

"Dr. Becker." Emily stared at him. She was not happy to see the man. Her head throbbed. The doctor blurred before her eyes. She needed food, water. Fast. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm just checking up on my investment," Dr. Becker said in a pleasant tone. "You can expect these visits from time to time."

"Can we do this another time?" She moved past him to the door. "I'm not feeling very well."

"Oh?"

Emily pushed open the door and flipped on the light in her apartment. At first glance, the place looked both familiar and strange. AW had pulled the stuffing out of the couch and knocked a painting off the wall before they'd left, so it looked decidedly less ordered than usual.

"May I come in?" asked Dr. Becker behind her.

Emily pressed her lips together. "Fine. But make it quick."

He followed her in, and she dropped her backpack on a chair—her grandmother's antique—that was now scratched and covered with fur.

Dr. Becker took a seat on the couch, carefully avoiding the gaping hole in the cushion that exposed the springs. Emily took a seat across from him, wincing as she sat. Damn tattoo.

Dr. Becker's eyes flicked from her matted hair down to her grimy feet. "So, you aren't feeling well?"

"No. Had a late night."

Dr. Becker raised an eyebrow. "Drinking, I presume?"

She crossed her arms. She was tired of being judged. The limo driver assuming she was an alcoholic begging for an early morning swig had been the last straw.

Dr. Becker studied her with narrowed eyes, his nostrils flaring slightly. "You smell like a drunken sailor at low tide."

"I beg your pardon?" She jumped up. How dare this man waltz into her apartment and insult her like this?

"I advise you to sit, Ms. Keane. We have some important things to discuss."

His tone meant business. Emily sat.

"As I said, I am here to check on my investment," he continued coldly, his eyes flicking over her body as if she were a product on an assembly line. "And to see how my organs are doing."

" _Your_ organs?"

"Of course, my organs. Bought and paid for, in case you forgot." His face was hard, mask-like.

Emily swallowed. Of course they were his organs. What was she thinking? She had a bagful of money to prove it. Money she didn't even know how to spend properly. She gazed at him glumly.

Dr. Becker leaned forward. "We need to get a few things straight," he said with a sharp edge to his voice. "Since those are _my_ organs, which will soon be in the bodies of _my_ very important clients, then I am relying on you to take care of _my_ investment. Clear?"

She met his eyes, heart racing.

"As part of our contract, Ms. Keane, you are not to pollute my organs with alcohol or other substances that will diminish their value. I paid top dollar for them." Dr. Becker stared at her with black obsidian eyes.

She uneasily fingered the hem of her dress, feeling dizzy. She didn't know what response he expected of her, so she remained mute.

"Since you have the blank stare of a mule, let me reiterate," he said, enunciating each word. "You will not drink alcohol or otherwise contaminate my valuable organs that happen to reside in your body. Are we in agreement?"

She nodded numbly. She didn't plan on ever touching alcohol again, so that shouldn't be a problem.

"I am glad we're clear. Let me warn you, if I find that you are going against protocol, I will be forced to take your organs early."

Emily gasped. "Excuse me?"

Becker leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes glittering. "It wouldn't be my first choice, of course, as shortening our timeline would affect my ability to line up enough clients, therefore reducing my revenue. I am committed to using all the parts to maximize profit, you see. And as it so happens, you have a very unique blood type and genome in low supply, which equates to a much higher value. You must realize that I wouldn't have paid what I did for an average set of organs." He paused, watching her. When he spoke again, his tone was menacing. "But if I must harvest them early, I will."

Emily gulped, her throat dry with fear. She gripped her damp hands together in her lap, trying to stop their trembling.

"Ah, Ms. Keane. I see I've frightened you again. Why do you distrust me so?" Becker smiled, his teeth glimmering in the light. "If you follow the rules, there shouldn't be a problem. No problem whatsoever."

"Could you . . . refresh me on the rules?" Emily asked, her voice quavering. Maybe Dr. Becker didn't realize that he'd never spelled out the exact rules to her. Or maybe her brain was murky after her booze-fueled night.

"The rules should be self-evident to any person of average intelligence." He leaned forward, pressing his hands on the maple coffee table with chewed corners. "But let me make them explicitly clear, if I must." His voice rose with each syllable, until he was shouting: "Do. Not. Endanger. My. _Investment_!" He banged his fists on the table with each word. Emily cowered against her seat, shaking.

He stood up, looking down at her with dark, unsmiling eyes. "Do we have an understanding?" His voice was eerily low now, almost a whisper, and more frightening than his shouting.

Lightheaded with fear, Emily nodded. Tears pricked her eyes. Even though she knew the bargain she'd made, it was still hard being reminded of it in such a detached, calloused way.

"You see, Ms. Keane," Becker said softly. "I already have an important person lined up. A great leader of a small country was recently injured during an attempted coup and may be in need of a liver. You understand why we must keep it in optimum condition?"

"A coup?" Emily whispered. "You're giving my liver to a dictator?"

Becker narrowed his eyes. "Did I say dictator?"

She shook her head, fighting back tears. She turned her head away from him, her chest pinched tight. Sobs crept up in her throat.

He stood watching her for a moment, then turned on his heel. "I'll let myself out. Do remember that I'll be dropping in from time to time, and that I do keep tabs on you. I hear The Hog's Tail bar has quite a lovely microbrew."

Then he strode out, slamming the door behind him. Emily huddled on the couch, shaking and crying, with acid rising up in her empty stomach.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

The next few weeks passed in a haze. Emily went through the motions of getting her apartment—and life—back in order as she tried to put the encounter with Becker out of her mind. With AW away at the trainer's, she could focus on organizing, especially if it kept her mind off things.

She occupied herself with all the big and small necessities of life, trying to create a routine that would lull her into a temporary feeling of security. She paid her bills, backed up her computer, and scrubbed every square surface of her apartment. She sent a packet of money off to Alberto's Café with an anonymous note, apologizing for the damage AW had done. She called Goodwill to pick up her old furniture, and threw out the half-chewed, unsalvageable rest. She perused high-end stores for new furniture, plunking down wads of cash without having to think about money for the first time ever.

Despite her attempts at creating a safe routine, however, her mind kept wandering to Dr. Becker's words. What did he mean, he would "take her organs early" if he had to? Did that mean he would track her down and kill her on the spot? Would he harvest her organs right there, or would he drag her into a back-alley butcher shop somewhere? Every time she thought about such things, a chill tiptoed down her spine.

She had only a year to live, but the thought of Becker keeping tabs on her the whole time unnerved her. It was as if her short life still wasn't her own. She hated the idea of him changing their contract—the _plan_ —if it suited him. She wanted to be able to rely on this year, to have the structure of a finite twelve months. Knowing the time could be cut short at any moment, if she broke one of Becker's rules, gave her the feeling of being on quicksand all over again.

The worst part of all, the part she couldn't shake no matter how much she compulsively scrubbed between the kitchen tiles with a toothbrush, was that Dr. Becker had lied to her. Her whole intention had been to help the world, and he'd let it slip that he was supplying to dictators. She couldn't bear the thought of her body parts ending up in people who would do harm in the world. It defeated the whole purpose of donating her organs in the first place.

She didn't know what to do next or how to get out of her contract with Becker. Everything was such a terrible, convoluted mess. So day after day, she scrubbed and cleaned and organized, trying in vain to create a sense of order and anesthetize herself from the truth—and horror—of her situation.

At the end of two weeks, her new apartment with its matching furniture and pristine knickknacks looked like a page out of a catalog. The whole place was beautiful, sparkling clean. Orderly. The only familiar thing left was Lenny's scuffed green table, which she couldn't part with, because it'd be hard to explain her bucket list to the Goodwill people. She dug out her grandmother's lace tablecloth and covered the table with it, along with some doilies. Topped with a pretty vase and some fresh flowers, you'd never know what was underneath.

Soon it would be time to pick up AW. The trainer had promised that he'd be the perfect lapdog when the training was over, an obedient animal that would respond to commands and behave properly. Emily looked forward to seeing her new and improved dog. She'd even bought him a matching set of sterling silver bowls with his initials engraved on them. It would actually be nice to have him back, someone to hang out with and break up the quiet. A loyal friend.

On Saturday, Emily was on her knees cleaning out the bottom cupboards when someone knocked. She got up, wiping her hands on her new "Dog Hair Adds Flavor" printed apron, and went to the door. Because she was distracted, assuming her new Sur La Table dishes had arrived, she opened the door absentmindedly without looking through the peephole.

Bill, the crazy Trans-Fed driver, leaned against the door jam, grinning. "Hello, beautiful." He held out a large, meaty bone. "This is for you." Seeing her expression, he chortled. "I mean for your dog. To bribe him into liking me."

She took the oily bone gingerly between her fingertips. The thing was covered in a slimy substance. Drool? She could almost picture Bill gnawing on the bone himself before bringing it over. He looked greasier than usual with his hair slicked back from his wide forehead and a tight Guns-n-Roses t-shirt stretched across his damp barrel chest. He caught her glance and puffed out his chest.

"Been working out. Got a new max on the bench press."

"Okay, well, thanks for the bone." She started to close the door.

Bill blocked the door with his body, craning his neck past her. "Where's ol' Ass-Wipe, anyway?" He looked around the apartment with hooded, wary eyes.

"At the dog trainer's. Thanks for stopping by." She forced a bright smile and tried to close the door again. He stopped it with his foot.

"You never did get back to me about those wrestling tickets. The event's tonight, you know. I'd kinda planned on us going together."

Frustrated, Emily shook her head. "Thanks, but I'm really not interested. I have other plans tonight."

He assessed her suspiciously. " _You_ have plans?"

She didn't like his tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He crossed his arms and smiled, his thick cheeks folding backward like an accordion. "You aren't the type."

She gaped at the meathead, enraged. "Excuse me?" This idiot was clearly affected by his steroid use. He had an unusually aggressive attitude, along with an abundance of acne, hair growth in the wrong places, and man boobs. She could only surmise that shrinking testicles were also part of the, um, package.

"No, you're definitely not the type to have plans on a Saturday night," he repeated, grinning.

"How dare you? You don't know anything about me."

"Oh yeah I do. I've watched you come and go for years. You're exactly like me. You go to work, run your errands, go food shopping, and come home. Your life is predictable. You watch TV on the weekends and, before Lenny dropped you like a bad habit, went to see a movie once in a while, but only on a Friday night. Never Saturday. You've never done anything on a Saturday night but stay home. You're a creature of habit, Emily, so there's no way you have plans tonight. No fucking way."

The hairs on the back of Emily's neck sprouted up. "For your information, I do have plans. I'm going to a bar with my friend." She swallowed hard against the lie. She'd decided against going to Dillon's with Simone, but now might have to reconsider. "Have you been stalking me?" She vowed to add a restraining order to her to-do list, ASAP.

Bill glared in outrage. "Why would I do that? I'm not some creep or weirdo. I'm just a guy who knows your patterns, just like you probably know mine. What the hell do you take me for?"

"I don't know your patterns, Bill, and I'm not interested in them, either," Emily said coldly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got cabinets to reorganize." She tried to close the door again, but his large shoe was still in the way. "Can you move your foot, please?"

Bill's eyes narrowed. "So you think you're too good for me, huh?" His face had become pink, and beads of sweat trickled down his temples. "You're turning down Wrestle Mania, the best show on earth? Last minute? They're fucking _expensive_ tickets!"

Emily backed away. She'd barely gotten her bearings after Dr. Becker's visit, and now here she was with adrenaline racing through her veins again. "I'm not canceling 'last minute' because we didn't have plans in the first place. I'm sorry there's been a . . . miscommunication." Her voice faltered. The last thing she needed was this nut-job pissed off at her.

Bill assessed her. "You're flat out dissing me. I know a blow-off when I see one." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "But hey, let me give you something to think about."

She stared at his boat of a shoe, wondering if she slammed the door hard enough, he'd be forced to move his foot out of sheer pain.

"The apartment management doesn't allow dogs," Bill said. A large drop of sweat traveled down his bulbous nose. "It's in the lease."

She stared at him, wondering what he was getting at.

"They don't know about your ass-wiper yet," he continued, "or they would've thrown you out. But they could find out somehow. Yeah, they could."

Emily couldn't believe what she was hearing from this loser. "Are you trying to blackmail me?"

He shrugged. "Naw. Just sayin'." He smirked. "You'll love Wrestle Mania. How 'bout if I come get you at seven?"

Rage hit her like a Trans-Fed delivery truck. "Are you _joking_? You think you can threaten me into a date with you?"

"Whoa, what's your problem?"

"I can't believe this! What is wrong with you?" Emily knew she shouldn't be shouting at him (because after all, would you shout at Jeffrey Dahmer?), but she couldn't help herself. She was close to her breaking point with this crazy slob.

"Is that a no?" Bill asked, his eyes bulging.

"That is most definitely a no! You can take your Wrestle Mania tickets and . . ." She wanted to say "shove them up your ass," but by the look on his face, she thought better of it. ". . . and . . . give them to someone else!"

Bill moved toward her, his fleshy face deepening to an interesting shade of purple. A blue-green vein popped near one eye, and his globular fish-lips clenched into an angry frown. He looked like a Play Doh character, the kind that kids liked to squash with their fists after making it. She took a step back, her heart racing. She didn't want him to know she was scared, so she forced her expression to remain impassive.

"You're gonna be sorry," he said through clenched teeth. He shook his fist in her face like a schoolyard bully. "You're gonna pay."

She'd heard somewhere that you should never let a potential attacker see you scared. So she drew herself up and said, "Fine, whatever, go tell it to the hand." She'd heard that expression somewhere and, although she didn't quite know what it meant, the phrase sounded tough. Strong. Like what she needed to feel inside but didn't.

Bill removed his foot from the door and stomped off, shouting over his shoulder. "You're gonna fucking regret this, bitch!"

She slammed the door and went to the kitchen, where she dropped the slimy dog bone into the trash. She sank into a chair with wobbling legs. She put her head in her hands, taking deep breaths to calm herself. She hoped Bill didn't make good on his threat. She couldn't lose this apartment. Her home was the only anchor left in her life that kept it from completely spiraling out of control, the one safe haven in the swirling shit-storm of her existence.

She was just so worn down by everything. Tired of being threatened. Tired of being scared. She wished she had a friend to call. Someone who could calm her down, tell her everything would be all right.

Tyler.

She wished she could call Tyler.

He would make her feel better. He always did. Should she call him? Maybe she could make a hair appointment. She was due for a trim anyway. Then, when she was in his chair, she would apologize. Tell him she'd gotten used to the tattoo, even though that wasn't true. Tell him she was sorry for the things she'd said in anger. All she wanted was a hug from him and to hear his calm voice offering her perspective she didn't have, telling her things would be fine.

She suddenly missed his friendship so much that her heart physically ached beneath her breastbone.

She dialed the number to his salon and asked for his next appointment, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice.

"Let me check his schedule," the receptionist drawled into the phone.

Saccharine music blared in Emily's ears as minutes ticked by. Finally, the girl came back and said, "Sorry, he's booked for the rest of the month."

Emily gasped. "Booked? But I'm always able to get in."

"Nothing I can do. He's gotten a lot of new clients lately. Booked solid. Sorry."

Emily clicked off, stunned. Tyler was shutting her out. She'd never had trouble getting an appointment with him in the past. Now he was saying he was booked. Clearly, he was avoiding her. But it was more than that. The friendship felt over.

Done.

A small sob escaped her. She walked, zombie-like, into the bedroom and fell onto her new plush comforter. She lay there for a moment, the blood rushing in her ears. Then she began to cry, long endless sobs that shook her body. She wept, more deeply than she'd ever cried before except when her mother and grandparents had died. She let it all out, everything she'd been holding in all this time. Waves of pain and anguish engulfed her like a storm. She sobbed about Tyler and the tattoo and Lenny and the damn dog and her lost job and Dr. Becker and her organs that weren't hers anymore even though they resided in her body. She cried about the money that she wished she didn't have, and how nothing in her life ever seemed to change, except to get worse. She cried about how she was completely, undeniably alone.

She wept until the last of her energy was spent and she was nothing but a squeezed-out rag, curled up limply in a ball. She lay listening to her breathing, not knowing how much time had passed. After a while, she got up and dragged herself into the bathroom to splash water on her face. It was Saturday night. Pizza and TV night. Her usual routine would be the perfect comfort. Nothing sounded better than getting in her flannel PJs and eating with the covers pulled up around her, nestled in a soothing cocoon.

As she studied the takeout menu, trying to decide between pepperoni and sausage, Bill's pig-face floated across her brain. He'd be watching her door tonight, waiting for her to leave for her "other plans." If he knew for sure she'd lied, he'd go postal on her. The thought of him chasing her down the hallway in his brown uniform, waving a machete at her, was all she needed to change her mind about staying home. She picked up the phone. Maybe a night out would do her good.

"Ya-hoo!" shouted Simone on the other end. "Dillon's, here we come! Dollar drinks, hot men, and all-you-can-eat fish tacos. We're gonna have fun, fun, fun!" Her voice was irritatingly sing-songy.

"I'm not really up for drinking tonight."

"I knew you'd say that. But you can't stand around sipping tonic water all night. Come on, girl, live a little. A drink or two won't kill you."

_Yeah_ , _right. Not with Dr. Becker around._ "I'll pass."

"Okay, whatever," Simone said. "I'll pick you up at seven."

"Do you still want me to help you with your ad copy? We could discuss it on the way—"

"Hell, no!" Simone retorted. "We'll do that another time. Tonight's all about the fun. We're gonna find us some sexy cowboys with big . . . hats." She giggled her awful horse cackle.

Emily cringed. "What should I wear?"

"Dress _hot_." Simone clicked off. Emily checked her watch. She had just enough time to drive over to the mall for a new outfit.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

At ten minutes to seven, Emily did a last check of herself in the mirror. She wore a new pair of black pants, a sheer black blouse over a purple tank, and inch-high ankle boots dotted with small silver studs. She'd lost weight recently due to all of her recent physical activity, and the clothes hung nicely on her, gently accentuating the curves of her body. She was proud of herself, thinking she might have actually pulled off sexiness. That would be a first. She'd stepped up her makeup too, with mauve lipstick and a double coat of mascara. She'd even gone out on a limb with her hair and tried something new with the curling iron. The result was a blonde mop of tiny ringlets that framed her face. Perfect, she'd nailed it. Simone would be proud.

Someone tapped on the door to the tune of "Shave and a haircut, two bits!" That cheery little knock had to be Simone's, but Emily wouldn't put it past the crazy Trans-Fed driver either. She peered out cautiously and saw Simone's face, distorted and cartoonishly close to the peephole, grinning with full pink lips as she popped her gum.

Simone's smile dropped the minute she saw Emily's outfit. "I told you to dress hot," she said impatiently, her eyes wandering up and down Emily's ensemble.

"This is my version of hot. Take it or leave it," Emily said, matching Simone's tone. She was upset that Simone didn't appreciate all the time she'd put into her outfit.

"This—" Simone waved her hand up and down in front of Emily's outfit as if she were waxing a car, "is _not_ hot."

Emily gritted her teeth. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Simone pushed past her into the apartment. "You need an intervention. Let me see your closet. There's got to be something good in there. What you're wearing doesn't cut it."

Emily took note of Simone's outfit: tight blue jeans with a huge belt buckle engraved with the words, "Ride 'em;" a form-fitting short tank top—a jogging bra, really—that exposed all of her tight tanned belly (which also sported a glittering belly ring); and scuffed cowboy boots. Emily gaped at Simone's paper-thin top stretched precariously over her large round breasts. She wondered how Simone could ever think of walking out in public like that.

Begrudgingly, though, she had to admit that Simone looked good. Sexy and beautiful. Her eye makeup was dark and smoky with long fake eyelashes enhancing her wide turquoise eyes. Her pink lips were glossy—wet-looking in fact—and she had something glittery smeared over her cheekbones. She wore an old straw cowboy hat with curled sides that somehow looked gorgeous on her, and her long red hair flowed in waves down her back.

She looked, in a word, hot.

Emily led Simone to the bedroom, irritably kicking her backpack out of the way, and pointed to her closet. Simone flicked through hangers of black suits, pastel cardigans and conservative long dresses, sighing and groaning. She finally turned to Emily, her hands on her hips.

"This is a terrible situation."

Emily rolled her eyes. "It's not that bad. You make it sound like the end of the world."

"It is. I can't go into the club having you look like . . . this." Simone waved her hand in front of Emily's body again. "Don't you have any low cut shirts? Or tight jeans?"

"I have some Levis, folded on the bottom shelf."

Simone grimaced. "Levis? I guess they're better than nothing, as long as they're not high-waisted 'mom-jeans.' You don't have any Cult Denims?"

Emily shook her head.

Simone bit her lip, thinking. "No Bleu Bums? Those would work, even though they're more for kicking around. But at least they're tight."

Emily shook her head again. She assumed Simone was talking about those ridiculous two hundred dollar jeans with strange names that the fashionistas wore. Even with all of the money in the world, she wouldn't be caught dead in a pair of those things. It was the principle of the matter.

"What are those?" Simone was staring at the leather chaps spilling out of Emily's backpack.

Emily gulped. "Those? Nothing. Just something I won in a stupid bet."

Simone snatched up the long, buttery-brown fringed chaps and held them up against her body. "These are awesome!"

Emily had to admit the chaps did look good against Simone's lean figure, paired with her boots and hat. "You can wear them if you want. I have no use for them."

Simone turned to her. "Are you kidding? These are for _you_. They're perfect. Try them on."

Emily shook her head vigorously, panic climbing in her throat. "No way, Simone. No."

"Yes," Simone said, dragging Emily off the bed. "Put them on."

"They won't fit. You wear them."

"They'll fit. We're almost the same size now but you'd never know it with all the shapeless, baggy out-of-date clothes you wear. Clothes that belong in a retirement community, by the way." Simone dangled the chaps in front of Emily. "Try them on. They're hot."

"What do I . . . wear under them?" Emily remembered Tiffany from The Hog's Tail with her naked, tattooed butt cheeks hanging out. She cringed. Emily's own flabby white ass would be the laughing stock of the bar. Never mind that the chaps were cut in such a way—flimsy strings holding the leather together in a few places—that her flaming skull tattoo would be on display for all to see.

Emily sat on the bed, feeling woozy. "I think I should stay home." Even chancing crazy Bill would be better than leaving the house dressed like that.

"Don't worry, we'll find the right thing to wear under them." Simone began rummaging through Emily's neatly ordered shelves, throwing folded sweaters and shirts and leggings into a pile on the ground. She found the Levis and held them up. "No, these suck. They look like they're from the eighties, all acid-washed and baggy and shit." She rooted around on the floor and found a pair of black leggings. "Here. These might work. At least they're tight."

Emily picked up the chaps. Okay, maybe with leggings under them they wouldn't be too bad. Maybe. But they were still _chaps_. She hoped she wouldn't be able to get them up over her thighs in the first place. Then Simone would be forced to get off her back.

Even if the chaps _did_ fit, Emily would make sure they wouldn't. She'd make a big display of pretending to pull them up, like OJ did with the bloody glove, and then tell Simone it was useless. Then she'd wear her comfortable clothes and be done. She grabbed the chaps and went into the bathroom.

"I'll look for a top," called Simone behind her. Emily groaned as she heard more piles of clothes hitting the floor.

The chaps slid over her hips like butter. The damn skull tattoo grinned its approval. The zipper pulled right up, too, no problem. Emily looked down at herself. They fit. Perfectly, in fact. Well, she was just going to have to pretend otherwise. She unzipped the chaps midway, then slumped her posture into an S, deliberately puffing out her lower abdomen. The material gapped and the zipper strained against her distended flesh. Simone would take one look at her bloated muffin top and say that tight leather chaps were a bad idea.

Emily emerged from the bathroom, pretending to struggle with the pants. "I can't get them on."

Simone marched over. "Nonsense." She yanked the chaps up with both hands in a swift, deft move. "See? They're supposed to be tight."

"Ouch."

"Wow, those look awesome."

Emily turned reluctantly toward the closet door mirror. The flowing leather fell about her legs—long flaps of fringed cowhide that rustled like a millipede when she moved. With her curly ringlets, she looked like a bad cross between Annie Oakley and Little Orphan Annie. Oh yes, a man magnet.

As if reading her mind, Simone grabbed her and turned her around. "We need to do something with your hair. Don't worry, we're just getting started here, hon. When I'm finished with you, you'll be the hottest babe in Dillon's. Well, okay, the second hottest." She giggled as she set about brushing the curls out of Emily's hair. Emily gave in and let her. She had no more fight left. She just wanted to be done with it, make Simone happy, and get out the door before the lunatic Trans-Fed driver came pounding.

A half hour later, Emily was transformed. Her make-up was as dark and smoky as Simone's, her blonde hair flowed in soft waves around her shoulders, and she wore a tight white t-shirt that Simone had ripped and tied and transformed into an interesting tank top. The chaps gave Emily a sexy look that even she couldn't deny.

"There," said Simone, putting the finishing touches to Emily's lips. She stood back and gave her pet project a once-over. "Well, I guess those boots will have to do for now, although they're absolutely hideous." She stood back, hand under her chin, assessing Emily as if she were a inspecting a horse. Then she took her cowboy hat off and plunked it on Emily's head. "That's better, but there's still something else . . . " She leaned forward and brazenly reached into the front of Emily's tank top.

Emily recoiled. "What the hell are you doing?"

Simone ignored her, digging around in Emily's bra until she found her breasts. With authoritative cupped hands, she yanked Emily's breasts to attention, pulling them up and together in such a way that Emily had cleavage. Then Simone snatched two wads of Kleenex from the box on the dresser, and shoved them under the squeezed tits to hold them in place.

Emily gaped at herself in the mirror. She looked like she'd been born with D's instead of A's. It was the first time in her life that she was happy to get a low grade.

"How do you know these kinds of things?" she asked, incredulous.

Simone shrugged. "It's my God-given talent."

"I don't recognize myself."

"Good," said Simone, grabbing her purse. "Now let's go. I don't want to be charged a cover." She breezed out of the bedroom, leaving a trail of expensive perfume behind her.

Emily stuffed a wad of bills into her utilitarian black purse, then followed Simone out.

Simone was standing by Lenny's table, staring at it with her nose wrinkled. "That tablecloth is hideous. Have you no taste?"

Emily crossed her arms. "You need to learn to hold your tongue sometimes. I've had enough of your insults tonight." If this chick didn't stop, she was going to politely offer her a knuckle sandwich.

Simone gazed around the apartment. "The rest isn't so bad. But a lace tablecloth? And _doilies?_ Those things make it look like a grandma lives here."

"Those _are_ from my grandma."

"Well, that's sweet and everything, but they belong in a drawer somewhere. Not on display." Simone yanked the lace tablecloth off the table in one quick flourish and tossed it at Emily. She stopped when she saw the Sharpie list scrawled on the old green table.

"What's that?" She leaned forward, scrutinizing the list. She turned her eyes toward Emily, her mouth open. "Did you write this?"

Emily nodded, her cheeks on fire. "It's a bucket list."

"Okay. That's a little weird. Why?"

"I wrote it for kicks, picturing what I'd do if I had only a short time left to live."

Simone gaped at her. "There's some wild stuff on there. Stuff I can't picture you doing."

"I know."

" _Have_ you done any of it?"

Emily nodded, chagrined.

Simone looked intrigued. "Like what?"

"Well . . ." Emily said. "I got a dog."

"Where is it?"

"At the dog trainer's. He had some . . . issues."

Simone opened the door, her car keys jangling. The night air blew lightly across their faces. "You can tell me the rest on the way. I'm dying to know what else you've done."

Emily stuck her head out and peered both ways down the hall for Bill. No sign of him. He wasn't lurking on the porch landing or the concrete stairs leading down to the first floor, thank goodness.

"I also got a tattoo," Emily said casually, locking the door behind her.

"You did _what_?" Simone's turned, her jaw falling open. She seized Emily's arm, dropping her purse. "A tattoo? _You_? I don't believe it."

"I swear I did."

"What kind?"

Emily didn't answer.

"I have a smiley face tat on my ankle," Simone said, giggling. "And a small heart on my ass. I bet you ten bucks you got a heart, too. That's really popular for girls. Or a butterfly or a rose."

Emily shook her head, biting her lip. "No, my tattoo's quite different from that. It's . . . extreme. Big, too."

"I don't believe you. You wouldn't."

"I did, I swear."

"You're not the type to get something wild." Simone narrowed her eyes at her. "Are you trying to impress me?"

Anger flashed in Emily. "Why does everyone keep saying 'I'm not the type, I'm not the type.' What the hell does that mean, anyway? I got a tattoo, end of story. You can believe me or not, I don't care."

Simone crossed her arms. "Prove it."

"Excuse me?"

"Prove it." Simone's eyes challenged her. "I want to see it."

Emily blew air through her lips in annoyance. "I'm not going to show you my tattoo just to prove something. Let's go."

"See, I knew you didn't get one."

Emily gritted her teeth. "I got a damn tattoo, all right?"

"Fine, whatever. I don't believe you. You're just pretending to be cool, trying to keep up with me." Simone grabbed her purse and began to walk toward the stairs, tossing her hair in annoyance.

" _Excuse me_?" Rage boiled over in Emily. "I'll show you the fucking tattoo, okay? But only if you shut up about it!"

Simone turned, smiling. "Let's see it."

"Now?"

"There's no one around. Quick, show me." Simone crossed her arms. "We're not leaving until you do."

Emily thought she heard Bill's door open downstairs. Damn, she didn't need him showing up and making a scene, grilling her about where she was going. Simone might mention Dillon's, and then Bill would show up there after Wrestle Mania with his bad breath and sweaty hair. If she was going to show Simone her tattoo, she'd better be quick so they could get the heck out of there.

"Are you going to do it or not?" Simone asked, her tone challenging.

"Okay, okay." Emily swiftly untied her chaps, yanked down the waistband of her leggings, and inched them down around her thighs. She lifted the side of her white granny underwear. Simone gasped. Another loud gasp sounded out behind them.

Emily whipped her head around to see Bill standing at the top of the stairs with the gray-haired apartment manager. Their mouths had dropped open at the sight of Emily in her lopsided cowboy hat and ripped tee, thrusting out her naked butt cheek with leather chaps around her ankles and a large flaming skull grinning back at them.

Emily yanked up her pants and turned around to face Bill and the apartment manager, her face flaming with embarrassment.

"Miss Keane, my word. I'm shocked," the older woman said, her eyes roving over Emily's attire with a stunned expression.

Ignoring her tone, Emily tried to gather herself and internally calm her shaking nerves. She took a deep breath and said, "What can I help you with, Mrs. Greely?"

"I need to speak with you," she said. "About the terms of your lease."

"Oh?" Emily turned her eyes to Bill, who smirked.

"Yes." Mrs. Greely paused, still staring at Emily's attire. "Goodness, look how you're dressed. I've heard from Mrs. Koster that you've been up to some wild . . . antics lately, but I had no idea . . ." Her voice trailed off and she glanced at Simone, who was popping her gum loudly with her arms crossed as she assessed the situation. Emily could see Mrs. Greely taking in Simone's paper-thin tank top with the faint outline of nipples showing through. Bill's hooded eyes roved over Simone's chest as well, and he licked his lips appreciatively.

Simone smirked at them, tapping her foot. "Is this going to take long? We have somewhere to go."

Mrs. Greely put her finger up warningly. "Just a minute, young lady. I need to speak to Miss Keane about an important matter." She turned to Emily, her lower jaw jutting out. With her short gray hair and small gray eyes, she looked like an old bulldog. "Mr. Davis here has kindly brought it to my attention that there is a large beast living in your apartment. Is that true?"

Emily gasped. Bill, leaning against the wall, grinned smugly at her with a wicked expression that said _I told ya_ ' _I was going to screw you_.

Simone quickly jumped to Emily's defense. "There's no dog here. What a weird accusation to make." She glanced at Bill disdainfully, dismissing him with a roll of her eyes as a total loser.

"No dog," said Emily vigorously, taking Simone's cue. "You can see for yourself."

Bill jerked his neck forward. "Hey, they're lying! The dog's at the trainer's. But it's living there, I swear. It's a _huge_ white shepherd." He waved his hand thigh-high to show how big.

Emily shook her head emphatically. "Nope, not true. No dog here."

Mrs. Greely looked from Bill to Simone to Emily, narrowing her eyes. "I'd like to see the inside of the apartment, please."

Emily turned and put her key into the lock. She shoved the door open, her heart rattling in her chest. What if Mrs. Greely asked to inspect all areas of the apartment? She'd see AW's bowls and the dog-joke apron, and then she'd know. Emily's fingers were clammy as she flipped on the light.

Mrs. Greely glanced around the apartment shrewdly, taking it all in. Her eyes flicked here and there, roving over the new hair-free furniture. "Doesn't appear to be an animal living here."

Emily almost fell over from relief, hoping the woman wouldn't venture further in.

"There's a dog!" Bill's face was beginning to swell and redden. "It's a crazy one, too. Wiped its butt on me . . . like this." He imitated AW's swiveling haunches, his jean-clad bottom circling round and round as Mrs. Greely looked on with an appalled expression. Simone snickered loudly.

Mrs. Greely peered back into the apartment, squinting her eyes. She turned to Emily. "If I find out you're not telling the truth, young lady, I will be forced to evict you. We have a strict rule on animals, you understand. It's in your lease."

Emily gulped, nodding. What was she going to do with AW? She had to figure something out. She couldn't afford to lose this apartment. This had been her home for so long, her last refuge of stability amidst all of the recent changes in her life. Sure, maybe she could go rent a better place—heck, even buy one with all the money she had—but everything had been happening too quickly. She needed a home base, some feeling of comfort and familiarity in what felt like a very unpredictable existence. No, she didn't want to move. _Couldn't_ move, not if she wanted to remain sane, anyway.

She'd have to figure out how to keep AW here in secret, at least until the time was up and she could return him to the dog rescue place. She'd call the dog trainer and ask him to teach AW not to bark. She'd pay extra, leave him there for another week, whatever it took.

Bill's face was now splotched purple, his lank hair gummy with sweat. "She's got a huge dog, Mrs. Greely, you gotta believe me. She calls it Ass-Wipe!"

Mrs. Greely turned and fixed her eyes pointedly on Bill. "Mr. Davis, please watch your language. I am a Christian woman."

Bill clenched and unclenched his fists by his side, glowering at Emily. "It lives there, damn it! It's big and white and has pointy fangs and wiggles its ass like a hula dancer."

" _Mr_. _Davis_!" Mrs. Greely glared at him, her hands on her hips.

"Fine," he said, raising his fleshy hands. "But you'll see I'm telling the truth. Just wait. You'll see." He crossed his arms, staring Emily down.

Mrs. Greely turned to Emily. "Young lady, I have been hearing some troublesome reports about you. Mrs. Koster says you have disturbed the peace on numerous occasions." She flicked her eyes over Emily's outfit again and cleared her throat. "When you first signed a lease here, you seemed like such a lovely young woman. Conservative."

Emily pushed her cowboy hat off her forehead as a bead of sweat dripped down the back of her neck. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Greely. I didn't realize I'd disturbed the peace. Things have been difficult since my fiancé left and . . ." Well, maybe Lenny hadn't technically been her fiancé, but he _should have_ been.

A flicker of sympathy crossed Mrs. Greely's face. "Yes, I know. I heard about that, too. Mrs. Koster said you were wailing like a sick duck. Sad when those things happen. But there are other good men in the world, Miss Keane, you must remember that. There's no need to go off the deep end."

Simone gripped Emily's arm, hissing in her ear, "Can we get out of here already? I will _not_ pay a fucking cover charge!"

"You know," Mrs. Greely continued, "Mr. Davis here is a lovely young man. He just needs to clean up his potty mouth." She glanced at Bill, who was slumped against the wall with a frown. "He's so conscientious. He was the one who let me know about those partiers in 4B, the ones I evicted last month. He also has a good job, right Mr. Davis?"

_Yeah_ , _running people off the road_.

Bill ignored Mrs. Greely and stared stonily ahead with his arms crossed.

Simone grabbed Emily's arm. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need to get going."

"Certainly," replied Mrs. Greely, trying in an obvious way to avoid staring at Simone's jiggling breasts. "We're finished here. Go right along girls. I assume you're not heading to church?" Her attempt at a sarcastic little joke came out sounding like a dig, and Emily winced.

Simone snorted. "Funny, lady. No, we're not going to _church_."

"Probably a strip joint with them as the main act," muttered Bill under his breath, but Mrs. Greely was already heading off down the hall.

"Come on," said Simone loudly. "If we're late for the soup kitchen, they'll be short of volunteers!"

Mrs. Greely turned and gaped at them as Simone dragged Emily off down the stairs. When they got to the bottom landing, Emily thought she heard Bill kick the wall.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

Dillon's nightclub in Hollywood was a zoo. The place was dark and loud, with a long bar against one wall. It was so crowded that Emily and Simone had to push their way through neck-to-neck sweaty bodies to get near the dance floor. Neon beer signs blinked in time to rowdy country music that blared from overhead speakers, and a large steer skull with long horns gazed down at a DJ who was busy behind a small booth. Small tables encircled an expansive, elevated dance floor—the center of attraction—that was crowded with fit, sexy line-dancers wearing modern-style cowboy attire.

_No hokey cow_ - _pokey place_ , thought Emily. _Definitely L_. _A_.' _s version of country_.

She watched as the gorgeous, smiling dancers moved in unison to the music as if they were competitive aerobics instructors rehearsing for a Broadway show. Her heart sunk. What was she doing here? This was the big leagues, no ordinary bar at all. This was an urban Hollywood saloon: glamorous, pretend cow-folk wearing new jeans and stylish tops, flashing bleached smiles and waxy-clean boots. They held on to their belt loops as their feet moved in time to the music, executing a variety of choreographed-looking kicks and stomps. These dancers looked as if they belonged in a Western burger commercial and nowhere near a horse. In fact, half of them looked as though they'd been kicked in the head by one, with their wide, lobotomized grins. They were clearly auditioning in every sense of the word, using the country nightclub to show off their wares in this strange, glamorous land of Hollyweird.

"Want a beer?" asked Simone, craning her neck for a cocktail waitress.

Emily shook her head in case Becker was lurking in a dark corner somewhere, watching. She stared at a lanky, pockmarked cowboy doing fancy moves on the dance floor. He was spinning around, shaking his hips, and jumping in the air, clearly adding new steps to the line dance in an attempt to impress the gaggles of young women standing in groups around the dance floor.

"That's No-Balls," said Simone, popping her gum.

"Pardon?"

"That guy. The one doing the crazy moves up there. His nickname is No-Balls."

" _No_ -Balls?" Emily stared at the guy in horror, wondering if a birth defect or terrible accident had befallen him. Or maybe the poor fellow was known for a cowardly, spineless personality.

"Watch." Simone leaned back and crossed her arms, giggling. "You'll see how he got his name."

The guy pulled his hat down low over his forehead, smirking at his audience of women with smoldering bedroom eyes.

"He's getting ready," said Simone. "Just wait."

Emily stared at the guy, who was swiveling his hips in time to the music, looking more like an exotic dancer in Vegas than some schmo at a bar.

The women cheered him on, giggling and laughing and high-fiving each other. Suddenly, the guy leapt into the air and came crashing down into the splits, the seams of his tight jeans stretched precariously to the limit over his groin and legs.

Emily gasped.

The guy leapt up again in one motion, then jumped into the splits again, crashing scissor-like to the floor. He did this again and again as the backs of his cowboy boots thumped loudly with each set of splits. Then he paused, standing at the edge of the dance floor like a male model, pulling his hat down low over his eyes, and blew a kiss to the ladies. The women hooted and hollered. As an encore, he repeated the maneuver three more times, doing what looked like a set of jumping jacks off his crotch— _up, down, up, down_ —as the ladies screamed shrilly, egging him on.

When the show was over, he crossed his arms and leaned back, his crooked lips smirking proudly as he waited for a final response. The ladies cheered and whistled, raising their drinks at him. No-Balls tapped his hat in thanks then continued on with his dancing.

Emily stared at Simone. "My god, doesn't that hurt?"

"If you got no nuts, why should it?" Simone threw her head back and cackled. "Now you know why everyone in the place calls him that."

" _Everyone_?" Emily was aghast.

Simone leaned back, giggling uncontrollably. "He thinks he impresses the ladies with those splits, but little does he know."

"That's terrible," said Emily. "Poor guy." She stood there feeling bad for him, until she saw him look down at Simone and grab his crotch, winking arrogantly.

"He deserves it," said Simone. "He's a cocky motherfucker. He's one of the best dancers here and it's gone to his head. He's butt-ugly but has the pick of the girls because so few guys know how to dance well. He even had the nerve to turn _me_ down for the East Coast Swing once. Said I was 'in the queue,' whatever the fuck that meant!"

"Wow," said Emily. This place was a whole new experience, a culture unto itself.

"Yeah," said Simone. "My friends and I tell everyone that he's proud of his nickname which why he's always touching himself down there. We spread the rumor that he goes around bragging 'The splits don't hurt 'cause I got me no balls!'" She imitated a thick, Southern twang, then doubled over, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. "Everyone believes it!"

"Oh, you're terrible," said Emily, but when No-Balls swiveled his hips in her direction and caught her eye, smirking in a lewd way, she felt glad he had such a demeaning nickname.

A new song came on and Simone started moving sexily in time to the music. Guys threw approving glances her way.

"Let's find a cute cowboy so we can dance to some songs before the hot-body contest," she said, her eyes roving over the crowds.

"I can't dance," said Emily. "I'll just watch."

Simone ignored her. "Oh good, the twins are here!"

"The twins?" Emily had visions of the blonde Doublemint twins whirling around the dance floor, their white identical smiles gleaming. She wouldn't be surprised to see them in this place.

"Over there. Those gorgeous guys by the bar."

Emily craned her head and saw two men leaning against the bar wearing tight Wranglers and straw cowboy hats, holding Budweiser bottles casually near their enormous belt buckles. They were indeed twins: identical sandy-colored hair, bright blue eyes, square jaws, and tight t-shirts that showed their biceps. They were movie-star handsome, not rugged and edgy-looking like Tyler, and almost too cleanly perfect. Probably aspiring actors.

"Aren't they hot?" asked Simone. "They just started coming here, so I don't know their names yet." Simone tossed her hair and thrust her chest out, trying to catch their attention.

Emily watched as the twins' eyes methodically scanned the crowd, looking for their next prey, sizing up each woman as she passed. _Assessing the goods_ , Emily thought. They were clearly used to getting any woman they wanted. She shifted her feet in her new, too-tight ankle boots—the ones Simone had laughed at—and brushed some imaginary lint off her ripped tank. She knew those type of guys would immediately smell a poser in her. She was wearing a costume and felt uncomfortable in her own skin. They'd surely sniff it out and crack jokes at her expense.

"I think I'll go sit down," she said, looking around for a seat. The few chairs in the place were taken with couples nuzzling each other or giving each other foot massages. Maybe there was something in the back, by the pool table.

"Wait," said Simone. "I think they saw us." She tossed her hair again, standing surreptitiously on her tiptoes so she was above the crowd. She thrust her chest out again, pretending to look around. The twins were staring at Simone now, nudging each other and trying to catch her eye. She finally glanced at them, smiled coyly, and gave them a long, come-hither look.

She giggled, turning to Emily.

"Hooked 'em. They'll be here in a minute."

Sure enough, the guys began making their way over, pushing through the crowds as lesser-endowed women admired them and tried to catch their attention. They grinned when they reached Simone and Emily, in a way that said they were bestowing these "chosen women" with their presence.

"Wanna dance?" one of them asked Simone, touching her shoulder. Soon she was in the arms of her cowboy, whirling gracefully around the dance floor to a fast George Strait song as her long red hair flowed out behind her like a fan.

The other twin sidled close to Emily, looking her up and down. "How 'bout you?"

"No thanks. I don't dance much. At all, in fact." She crossed her arms and looked away, feeling like an actor, pretending to be something she wasn't. Just like everyone else in the place, come to think of it. _Hey_ , _maybe I fit in after all_.

"There's nothing to it. All you have to do is follow. Don't think. Just be a totally passive rag doll and let me whip you around. Guys need to know how to dance. Girls don't."

Emily quirked an eyebrow. The idea of being thrown around like a rag doll didn't sound too appealing. "Thanks, but no."

"Do you know how to follow?" he asked. She noticed his jaw was too square and eyes too close together. It looked like the sculptor had tried to make a masterpiece but had messed up, as though the tool had slipped.

"I don't think so," she said. She assumed "following" meant just doing the same steps as the guy, and she'd heard it was an important component in dancing. But she didn't know how to actually apply it. She couldn't bear the thought of going out there and making a fool of herself.

Simone whirled by on the dance floor above them, so close that Emily caught a whiff of her perfume. "One of the items on your bucket list—learn how to dance!" she shouted as she passed.

Emily's face heated up. She shook her head at Simone.

"You wanna learn how to dance?" the cowboy asked, leaning close. "Come on, I'll teach you. It's easy. I've taught lots of girls."

Emily shrugged, staring at the dance floor. Maybe she should give it a try. Simone was right; it _was_ on her list. And this guy made it sound so easy. Maybe there really was nothing more to it than being passive and following his steps around. She vowed to concentrate hard, so she wouldn't make a misstep. It would be embarrassing to trample all over this guy's shiny, polished boots.

The twin's eyes traveled down her body, over her ripped t-shirt and chaps.

"Smokin'," he said, meeting her eyes with a grin. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed her hand and deftly maneuvered through the crowds, leading her behind him to the dance floor. Emily followed reluctantly, wondering if letting a guy yank you behind him like this was the first step in following.

They entered the dance floor just as a slow song came on. The cowboy pulled her close. "This is an easy song. Just remember two things: the steps are quick, quick, slow, slow. And don't think, just follow."

_Don't think_ , _just follow_. Just what Emily, who'd always prided herself on being a strong, independent woman, had always wanted to do.

She reluctantly placed her arms around the guy's cleanly-shaven neck, just as Simone passed by with her long tanned arms draped around her own cowboy. She gave Emily a broad wink. Emily abruptly looked away, feeling shy and embarrassed. Compared to Simone, she must look awkward with her too-big straw hat, flopping chaps, and silly, studded ankle boots—so different from the stylish cowboy boots everyone else wore.

The guy pulled her close, whispering in her ear, "Quick, quick, slow, slow." Emily gazed down at his feet, trying to follow. She clomped along clumsily, apologizing each time she stepped on his boots. She noticed they were becoming dull and scuffed.

The guy began to become irritated, breathing impatiently through his nose every time she came down on his boots. As she scuffle-tripped along, he barked commands at her in an increasingly exasperated tone that said he was losing some of his inspiration to teach her. The music, a crooning love song, grew uncomfortably louder in her ears with each failed step. " _I_ ' _ll love you until I'm in a big_ , _wooden box_ ," the song blared. It should have sounded romantic, but instead it was a taunt reminding Emily of the love she didn't have. What she'd never have, at this rate.

The guy kept repeating his mantra, his voice rising impatiently, as he tried unsuccessfully to show her how to be light and graceful on her feet.

"I said, quick, quick, slow, slow!" he barked. "You're doing quick, quick, quick! Come on, all you need to do is _follow_."

Emily glanced over at other people gliding past them. She studied their feet, trying desperately to follow their dance pattern. Quick, quick, slow, slow. Or was it slow, quick, quick, slow? She counted to herself, concentrating, trying to get her feet to comply, but all they did was trip along in a most uncoordinated way. No, it didn't feel right. Her feet wanted to shift in all the wrong places. The song's tempo kept changing and every time she tried to adjust, she kept tripping her partner at regular intervals. He gripped her hand tightly, trying to hold her away from his feet while barking orders in her ear in an aggravated tone.

She galloped along clumsily, gritting her teeth. She vowed to get off the dance floor at her next opportunity. She thought she saw people looking at her and laughing, and her face flamed in embarrassment. Everyone else was gliding by effortlessly, like swans on an ice pond, and her partner was saddled with a donkey with four left feet.

"Damn, my boots," the guy said, looking down at his feet. "I just bought 'em."'

"Sorry," said Emily. "Maybe we should stop."

The guy hesitated for a moment then pulled her closer, running his hands down the back of her chaps. "Naw," he said in her ear. "You're over thinking it. Don't stare at your feet so much. And stop pulling on my arm. Remember, you're not supposed to lead. I am."

She shrugged away from him, but he pulled her close again. He smelled nice, like musky cologne. He was sexy, in his own way. When had she ever danced with a cute guy like this, the type of guy that Simone usually got? She tried to relax, thinking that maybe if she closed her eyes, she'd get a better feel of the music. She leaned into him, trying with all her might to get the rhythm of the music, to understand and experience the steps. Her feet clunked along noisily between them, shuffle-clomping like mule hooves, as the song wailed, " _You_ ' _re my love_ , _my life_ , _my everythiiing_!"

The guy swore, and Emily opened her eyes. Her partner's large jaw was clenching and unclenching in a most unattractive way as he looked down at his severely marred boots.

It was no use. She had two left feet and always would. She wondered hopelessly when this interminable song would end. Dancing was worse than a thousand paper cuts.

Suddenly, the song changed and sped up. The twin, instead of leading her off the dance floor, said, "C'mon, Chaps, let's give it another try. Maybe you'll do better on a fast song. Just keep your feet off my boots."

Before she could protest, the guy was pushing Emily smoothly backward. She tried to keep up, quickly counting off the steps in her head: _Quick_ , _quick_ , _slow_ , _slow_. _One_ , _one_ , _two_ , _two_.

"Yes, that's it," her partner said. "You're getting it now."

A bubble of hope soared in Emily. She suddenly felt it, the music in her feet. Then, her boots and the music were working together in unison, and she was gliding. She let him push her along, his hand firm around hers, the other one pressed on the small of her back, as the rhythm took over her body. _Quick_ , _quick_ , _slow_ , _slow_. She had it! She was doing it. She was _dancing_!

Simone whirled by and cheered. "Woo-hoo, you go, Emily!"

_Quick_ , _quick_ , _slow_ , _slow_. Emily was on an ice pond now, a figurine twirling and whirling in her partner's arms as the music carried them like a scent on a breeze. The song, something filled with fast-paced fiddles that soared up high with her heart, had taken over her body so she didn't feel her feet anymore as they slid effortlessly over the dance floor.

Under this dusty cowboy hat

_Is the face you_ ' _ll always see_

Lying on the pillow each mornin'

A-waitin' for my coffee

Emily felt the guy's arms tighten around her, and as people whirled by on the dance floor, she realized she wasn't a bystander any longer. She was one of the dancers she'd always envied. She was beautiful, graceful, and desired. The old cliché of being "one with the music" was happening to her, right now, with this gorgeous cowboy. She'd never thought it could happen to her.

Emily looked up into her partner's eyes and saw that he was smiling at her. His eyes looked really blue, as blue as the sky she imagined soaring through as they glided around the dance floor together. It was perfect. This was dancing. She was a cowgirl, sailing down the range on a beautiful stallion as the wind blew in her ears, a handsome cowboy holding her protectively in his arms . . . a dream.

Suddenly, Emily's foot shot out in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the twin stumbled over her boot. He tried to break his fall by grabbing onto a dancer next to him. The man—a huge (real) cowboy with a thick mustache and a faded denim shirt, cursed at the twin and called him a "Pansy motherfucker who can't dance." Then there was shoving and pushing and posturing as the men traded insults. Punches were thrown. The dance floor parted and came to a halt. The two men scuffled and pushed and swung at each other, cursing and shouting at the top of their lungs. Other men jumped in to break up the fight. Two burly bouncers rushed to the dance floor, just as the twin clocked the big cowboy on the ear. The bouncers seized the twin and hustled him toward the door. His brother followed after them, yelling and gesticulating.

Emily stood on the dance floor, stunned. Simone rushed up to her and grabbed her arm. "Let's go with them."

Emily turned on her. "No way. Are you insane? This whole thing is my fault. I _tripped_ the guy."

"I know, I saw," said Simone. "But this is our chance to have the twins to ourselves, without all those vipers vying for their attention." She nodded toward the gaggles of overly made-up young women who whispered amongst themselves, craning their necks after the twins.

"Okay, people, show's over," said the DJ through the speakers. "Boot-scooters, get ready. Next up, the first ever men's hot-body contest! A hundred bucks is on the line. Guys, start takin' off your shirts."

A Brooks and Dunn song came on as hordes of men began pushing toward the dance floor.

Simone gawked at them. "Oh damn, I'm gonna miss this."

"Just take me home, please," Emily said irritably. The last thing she wanted to do was stand around watching Simone cream her pants over a bunch of half-naked dudes.

Simone whipped around, glaring at Emily. "Don't even think it. You owe me."

"I _owe_ you?"

"Yes." Simone placed her hands on her hips, her full lips pursed angrily. "If I have to leave early—and I _do_ , because people know we came together and you embarrassed the _crap_ out of me up there—then the least you can do is go along with the program so we can save this shitty night!"

Emily blinked. She'd never met such a selfish woman. "Wow, Simone. You never cease to amaze me."

"Thanks," replied Simone, clearly taking it as a compliment. "Now come on. Let's go find the guys."

Simone marched off toward the door with Emily trailing behind her, muttering to herself. This woman was too much. Emily should have known better than to ever befriend such a self-centered, vacuous broad.

Outside, the twins were standing there with brooding expressions, talking to each other. One of them had a swollen eye that was turning purple, and a split, bloody lip. He caught sight of Emily and crossed his arms, looking away with his jaw set in stone. The other twin grinned at Simone, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

"Hey, babe," he said. "I was hoping you'd show up. They kicked Jack out, but the guy we came with is still in there. Can you give us a ride home?"

Jack glowered at Emily out of his good eye. She felt bad about the other eye, which looked painful. It was swelling up like a bloated apple pancake, all puffy and oozing.

"I'd love to take you home, Zack," Simone said, practically purring. "It's the least I can do." She glanced at Emily pointedly, narrowing her eyes. "Right?"

Emily glanced at Jack's face again. His lip was ballooning up as well, crusted over with dried blood. He looked as if he'd been hit with a two-by-four. She felt a twinge of guilt.

"Okay," she said reluctantly. How long could it take, anyway? Maybe thirty minutes out of their way, depending on where the twins lived—forty-five minutes tops? It would get Simone off her back plus ease her guilty conscience. Two birds, one stone. She checked her watch. She'd be home by eleven, early enough to catch the late night programs. She shifted her feet, rubbing her arms. She just wanted this night over with.

Jack pointed his finger at Emily. "Is _she_ coming?"

Zack grabbed him. "Whoa, bro', chill." He pulled his twin off to the side and whispered something in his ear. The brothers looked over at Emily and Simone and smirked.

"Okay, let's go," said Zack, strolling over and putting his arm around Simone. She tossed a gleeful glance at Emily as they headed to the car.

Striding next to her, Jack was silent. Emily tried to ignore the angry clomping of his scuffed-up boots on the parking lot gravel. It wasn't _all_ her fault, she reasoned crossly. This guy was a square-faced hothead who picked fights at the drop of a hat. She had no respect for people who couldn't control themselves. Tyler flashed across her mind—calm, cool Tyler who so rarely let things get to him—and wished he were here instead. Then she remembered their last heated conversation and bit her lip. Well, even Tyler was capable of losing his cool sometimes. It seemed Emily always brought out the best in people.

Zack debonairly opened the driver's door of Simone's cherry-red convertible. She giggled as she got in, looking up at him with big flirtatious doe eyes. Jack climbed into the back seat, scooting as far away from Emily as possible.

Zack slammed his front passenger door with a whoop and a yell. "Damn, woman, this is some hot car!'

"It's my little red cherry popper," replied Simone.

Zack hooted with laughter, high-fiving her. Emily looked out at the dark gravel lot, gritting her teeth. It was going to be a long ride home.

Simone turned up the music and yelled, "Yee-haw!" long and drawn out, at the top of her lungs. Zack threw his head back and joined her in the hoot. Emily rolled her eyes in annoyance and looked out the window. Beside her, Jack was silent. She avoided looking at him as they drove through the dark streets. The warm night breeze ruffled her hair while Simone and Zack laughed and traded jokes up front. She could feel Jack's disdain for her, as thick and sour as lemon pudding.

Emily sighed and closed her eyes for a second, letting herself go back to that moment on the dance floor when everything was perfect, before one of her donkey hooves tripped her partner and ended the evening. She hadn't imagined it, had she? Had she really been up there, dancing? _Truly_ dancing?

Yes, she'd actually been whirling about on the dance floor, feeling beautiful and graceful like those people in the movies—Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers—for one blissful, perfect moment.

"Hey," Jack said softly beside her, nudging her arm and interrupting her thoughts. "I'm not holding it against you." He grinned at her with one eye completely swollen shut and his bottom lip hanging down, round and bulbous like a rectal balloon catheter. "It was kinda funny, actually."

Emily blinked. Flummoxed, she replied. "You think?"

"Yeah." He leaned back, one finger reaching out to lightly twirl the fringe of her left chap. "Come here." His arm slunk up and around her shoulders, and he tried to pull her close. Her body refused to react, sitting rigidly in place like a wooden plank. This guy was coming on a little too strong for her liking. She couldn't just shift gears like that, as if she were a fast car. She had to ease into a situation. He didn't seem to notice her reluctance, though, and sidled up close, his breath hot on her neck.

"Hey, let's go to the beach," said Simone, meeting Emily's eyes in the rearview mirror. "I've got a bottle of JD in the trunk."

"Yeah, babe!" shouted Zack, one hand intertwined in Simone's red whipping hair. "Now we're talking. You on board, Jack?" He turned around to look at his twin, and Jack gave him the thumbs-up.

"How about if you drop me off at home first?" asked Emily.

Simone's eyes narrowed at her in the mirror. "Don't forget, you _owe_ me."

Emily suppressed a sigh. Okay, so maybe she'd ruined Simone's night. Simone had been talking about that hot-body contest for weeks now, and Emily knew she was disappointed. But why should everything always be blamed on her? It wasn't fair.

Jack's fingers lightly stroked Emily's hair at the nape of her neck. "You're sexy," he whispered. Had she heard him correctly? _Sexy_? No one had ever called her that before. This guy was certainly a charmer. Despite herself, she warmed at his words, craving to hear him say it again, even though she knew what he was up to. Inside, a feeling she'd had on the dance floor was being awakened again, that sense of being beautiful and desired and graceful and sexy. Simone-like.

"I love blondes," he continued. "Blondes with hot bodies." His fingers stroked the back of her neck, sending little tingles down her spine. "You're really special."

_You're special_. What did he mean by that? He didn't even know her. Even Tyler had never said that to her before, and certainly not Lenny. Her own grandmother had never even told her she was special. She knew this guy was trying to charm her, but for a moment she didn't care. That word, _special_ , was like a drug. Like a medicine on a wound she didn't know she had.

Suddenly, they were kissing. His mouth was soft and warm on hers, and she didn't even mind that he tasted like blood. And that scent—the sexy musk scent that she'd smelled on the dance floor—was rising up off his body and wisping around her like the smoke from a genie's bottle, intoxicating her. She found herself leaning into him and being carried away on the moment, the music crooning in her ears, the warm air caressing her bare skin, and the kisses of a cowboy lulling her away from her common sense.

The beach was dark and deserted when they pulled up, barely illuminated by the half-moon. Simone had chosen an isolated beach. Nothing but shadowy expanses of sand stretched out in front of them. Simone opened the trunk and seized a large bottle of Jack Daniels. They hiked through the sand and sat down together. Simone opened the bottle and passed it around. The twins each took long swigs, but when it got to Emily, she shook her head and passed the bottle. For all she knew, Dr. Becker was hiding behind a clump of ice plant with night vision goggles.

"No, thanks. I'm still recovering from the last time I had too much to drink." This sounded like something a cool person would say, the kind of person who was used to going to parties and socializing. It seemed to appease the twins.

Soon, Simone was giggling uncontrollably about something, slurring her words as Zack laughed and ribbed her. Emily cuddled against Jack, thinking how strong and warm his arms felt in the cold night air.

Simone fell back on the sand, her taut belly stretched out long and lean. She lay there giggling so hard her belly ring bounced. Zack leaned down and began kissing her stomach. She let him for a while, completely unaware that others were around, then sat up and pushed him off. "Let's go skinny dipping."

"Yeah!" said Zack, hoisting Simone to her feet. "Awesome idea."

Jack looked at Emily. "How 'bout it, Chaps? The waves are small." His eyes traveled appreciatively down her body. She pulled away, feeling self-conscious.

"It's on Emily's bucket list," said Simone. "She's always wanted to do it."

"A bucket list?" said Jack, chortling. "Plan on dying soon?"

Emily cringed. "It's just a silly list."

Simone staggered over and pulled Emily to her feet. "It's something she really wants to do. Don't let her tell you otherwise."

"I'll go first," said Zack. He stripped off his clothes and ran straight for the water. His naked tanned body jetted across the sand as he waved a fist above his head and whooped at the top of his lungs. Soon his head was bopping in the ocean as he called out to them.

Then Jack was off and running, shedding clothes as he went. He streaked naked straight for the water, his butt cheeks taut. He splashed through the dark waves, hooting and hollering. Then he and his brother were two identical floating heads, calling to Emily and Simone.

"C'mon, girls!" "Get those fine booties out here!" "What are you waiting for?"

Simone looked at Emily, and Emily looked back at Simone who'd started giggling with both hands clasped over her mouth. She staggered slightly, holding on to Emily for support. "Did you see their schlongs? A foot long for sure."

"Gosh, Simone, only you would notice their penises when it's this dark out."

"Let's join them," said Simone, starting to unbutton her jeans. "I love night swimming."

Emily shook her head. "Not up for it tonight."

"The water's warm, girls!" yelled one of the guys.

"C'mon, it'll be fun," urged Simone.

Emily started to say no again but hesitated. Here was her chance. Maybe she should give it a try.

Just then a twin shouted, "Come suck our cocks!"

The brothers bobbed in the water, high-fiving each other. Their laughter floated over the crashing waves.

Emily turned to gape at Simone. "What did they just say?"

"It sounded like they said to suck their dicks."

"That's disgusting."

"Hey, bitches, what's taking you so long?" hollered one of the guys. "Come get your pussies wet!"

More laughter, more hooting, more high-fiving.

Emily and Simone stared at each other.

"What the hell," said Simone. "That's not cool."

More drunken laughing. The guys floated in the water, small waves lapping around them, waving their arms to the girls. "Get in the water, beached whales! Our harpoons are ready for you." The guys were laughing so hard now that they sounded like high-pitched howler monkeys, the kind that cackled as they threw their poo about.

Simone's brow furrowed angrily. "How _dare_ they call us whales! I work out five times a week and don't have an ounce of fat on me."

"They're really drunk. They drank more than half the bottle themselves."

Simone began angrily gathering up her things. "We're ditching these pricks."

Emily looked around for her purse and grabbed it off the sand. "Do you have your keys? I'll drive."

"Wait." Simone marched down the beach and began gathering up the twins' clothing.

Emily stared. "What are you doing?"

Simone ignored her, piling her arms high with jeans, shirts, socks, and belts.

"What's taking you so long?" yelled one of the guys. "We're shrinking out here."

"Yeah, we need CPR for our Shrinky Dinks!" shouted the other twin, and then they were doubled over laughing again, guffawing so hard that waves slapped them in the face.

"I'll show you a fucking Shrinky Dink," muttered Simone, stalking back with her arms piled high with clothing.

"What are you _doing_?" asked Emily, horrified.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm taking their stuff."

"You can't do that!"

"Watch me." Simone stomped toward the car with Emily loping alongside.

"Simone, you can't. How will they get back home? They'll have no money and they're _naked_."

"Exactly," said Simone. She met Emily's eyes and grinned. "They deserve it."

"Hey!" one of the guys called faintly behind them. "Where are you going?"

Simone threw the clothes into the back of her car and tossed her keys to Emily. "Thanks. I can't risk another DUI."

Emily gasped. " _Another_ DUI?" Who _was_ this person she was hanging out with?

"Where the hell you going?" a male voice shouted behind them. Emily turned to see the twins sprinting up the beach, their genitals slapping limply against their legs like week-old lunchmeat.

"Hurry!" squealed Simone. Emily swiftly started the engine.

"Hey!" the guys shouted again, panic in their voices.

Emily put the car in reverse and stepped on the accelerator, roaring backward at full speed. Spirals of dust illuminated in the headlights and rose up on all sides of them. She put the car in drive and spun the steering wheel. The car fishtailed sideways. The twins were in front of them now, banging on the hood and shouting, their naked bodies glistening under the headlights. Emily yanked the steering wheel hard to the right and the guys jumped out of the way. She gunned it with a squeal of tires, spraying sand into their faces. The car roared out of the parking lot. The guys shouted faintly behind them, growing smaller in Emily's rearview mirror.

Simone stood up on the seat and yelled out the window at the top of her lungs: " _Serves you right, motherfuckers_!"

Emily yanked her back into her seat. "Sit down, damn it! Do you want to die?"

Simone doubled over, laughing so hard that tears squeezed out of her eyes. "Did you see their faces? They were so fucking scared!"

"They're going to have to walk home naked, you know."

"Not completely. I left their boots." Simone doubled over again, cackling and holding her sides, gasping for air.

"We have their wallets, cell phones, everything," said Emily, chagrined. "They won't even be able to call a cab. They'll have to walk all the way home on the side of the road, butt-naked." In spite of herself, she smiled. "No one will dare pick them up if they try to hitchhike." She couldn't help but join Simone in giggling at the image of those naked twins trudging along the two-lane highway in nothing but their steel-toed boots.

"I can just see a cop arresting their nude asses," said Simone, "and Zack and Jack trying to argue their way out of it. Hard for them to be taken seriously with their big hairy balls dangling in plain view." She threw her head back and laughed so hard that her voice became hoarse and cawing, a rough gravelly sound coming from her throat.

"We should drop their clothes off at Dillon's, though," said Emily.

"What the hell for?"

"Because someone will get their stuff back to them. That way that can't accuse us of stealing it. That way it's just a joke."

"Fine, if it makes you feel better, Miss Goody Two-Shoes."

Emily was glad Simone was capable of at least _some_ logic in this situation. "We should also call them a cab."

Simone shook her head vehemently. "Don't you dare. Let them walk."

Emily pulled out her cell phone. "It's the right thing to do."

"Okay, but only because they'll get their punishment when the cab driver pulls up and sees them naked." She started giggling again. "He'll probably drive off."

"I have a better idea," Emily said. "Let's send them home in style." She searched her recent call list.

Grinning, she dialed the number for Ultimate Limo for the Stars.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

After dumping off the pile of the clothing in front of Dillon's with a note saying they belonged to the twins Zack and Jack, they pulled up in front of Emily's apartment building. Simone was passed out in the passenger seat, head lolling back on the leather, her mouth open and snoring.

Emily nudged her. "We're here."

Simone mumbled something incoherently. Emily sighed. Simone was in no shape to drive herself home. She would have to spend the night. Emily didn't know how she was going to get her up the stairs, though. Carrying her was out of the question.

Emily got out of the car and went around to the passenger side. She opened the door, unlatched Simone's seatbelt, and pulled her drunken friend out of the car.

"Wazzup," Simone slurred, her head falling back as she tried to stand. Emily grabbed Simone to prevent her from falling. Simone leaned on her, giggling. She was dead weight, a hundred and ten pounds of pure, drunken, whisky-logged flesh.

"Wazzup, bitch?" shouted Simone, craning her head at Emily and cackling. "I love you, Emily, you know that? I laaaaav ya', sister."

"Shhh," Emily hissed. "My neighbors will hear you." She glanced nervously toward Mrs. Koster's darkened window. It was way past midnight.

"I don't give a fuck about your neighbors. I just laaaav _you_ ," Simone yelled out, slurring her words. She fumbled through her purse and pulled out the empty bottle of JD, trying clumsily to unscrew the lid.

Emily snatched the bottle away, horrified. "What are you doing?"

Simone snatched the bottle back, but it slipped out of her hands and fell to the ground, crashing into a hundred pieces.

A light flicked on in Mrs. Koster's window.

"Oh my god," Emily murmured, seizing Simone's arm. "We need to go."

Simone mumbled incoherently. Weaving, she grabbed on to the car to steady herself. "I'm gonna barf."

"Oh, no." Wildly, Emily looked around for a patch of grass or a bush.

Simone began coughing loudly, then retching. Sputtering, she opened her mouth wide. A torrent of chunky, alcohol-infused vomit poured out onto the sidewalk, splashing all over her snakeskin boots. She gasped and wretched and choked as Emily gingerly patted her on the back. Dribbles of stinky liquid snaked off in different directions, traveling down the sidewalk and into the gutter. Emily glanced nervously toward Mrs. Koster's window. The flowered curtain moved.

"Let's get upstairs," she said, tugging on Simone's arm. "You can spend the night."

Simone moaned loudly and lurched forward again, opening her mouth as wide as a guppy fish. She blew chunks all over the sidewalk once more, this time leaving a patch as big and wet and gooey as an extra-large pizza.

Finally, she straightened up and wiped her face. "You're a good friend, Emily," she slurred. "A really good friend. I'm sorry." She began to wail, tears running out of her eyes and down her cheeks, leaving a trail of wet black mascara.

Emily patted her on the back. "It's okay. You've just had too much to drink."

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!" Simone repeated, howling drunkenly at the top of her lungs.

"Shhh!" Emily hissed, looking around to see Mrs. Koster's curtains part and the shadow of a gray-haired, curled head poke out. Another light switched on, in a different apartment above them. Then another.

Emily gulped. "Let's go before someone calls the cops!"

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," Simone sobbed loudly, her voice echoing through the apartment complex and bouncing off the walls. Her face was stricken, despairing, under the smeared vomit and make-up.

"Don't worry," said Emily, patting her shoulder. "It's just a little vomit. No big deal." She pulled on Simone's arm. "Come on."

Simone stared at Emily with bleary eyes. "No, it's not the barf. It's not the barf." She began wailing again, like a dying coyote.

Emily seized her with a strength she didn't know she had and dragged her toward the stairs. She had to get this drunken mess into bed before every tenant in the whole apartment building rushed out to surround them like a group of Salem witch hunters.

"I'm a bad friend, a bad friend," Simone said, slobbering and sniffling through her tears. "I lost my job and didn't tell you."

Emily stopped. "What? When?"

"Last week. But that's not it. That's not it at all. It's something else, something I really, really, need to tell you. Oh, I've been a bad friend!" Simone started crying again, wailing so loudly that another two apartment lights flipped on.

"What, _what_?" Emily wanted her to hurry up and say it so they could get inside before the cops came. It was probably something stupid, something Emily wouldn't care about anymore, like Simone plagiarizing parts of her old ad copy and passing it off as hers. Something like that.

Simone sniffled, staring at Emily with red, drunk eyes. "I . . . oh, Emily, I'm so sorry."

"What is it?"

"I slept with Lenny."

Emily didn't sleep that night. It wasn't because Simone was in the living room on the pullout couch, snoring like a military helicopter. Nor was it because Emily's head was whirling from the night before: No-Balls, the way she'd felt dancing, or the twins they'd ditched at the beach.

Nor was her insomnia due to the fact that Simone had slept with her ex-boyfriend, the guy who was supposed to have become Emily's husband and give her two point five kids and a future she could count on.

No, Emily couldn't sleep one wink because she was trying to figure out why she didn't feel a thing.

Shouldn't she be upset that Simone and Lenny had had sex? Shouldn't she be crying or wailing or throwing things all night long, raging at Simone for her betrayal?

She felt nothing.

Not even a twinge of resentment or sense of loss.

When the morning sun peeked through her blinds, Emily felt surprisingly bright and cheerful despite her lack of sleep. She decided to get up and make breakfast.

She tried to be quiet in the kitchen as she pulled out a pan for eggs, another for bacon, and a kettle for tea. But the rattling soon awoke Simone, who dragged herself out of the foldout couch. She padded over to the kitchen, her hair wild and matted, face smeared with last night's revelry.

"I told you about Lenny, didn't I," she mumbled, plopping down on a kitchen chair. She groaned, rubbing her forehead.

"Here, have some tea." Emily plunked one of her new turquoise mugs in front of Simone, then pulled up a chair while the bacon fried on low at the stove.

Simone gingerly took a sip, avoiding Emily's eyes.

"I don't care about Lenny," Emily blurted out, surprising herself. "I don't care anymore." She savored the liberating words.

Simone gaped at her. "You don't _care_? Are you just saying that?"

"No. It's weird, but I truly don't feel a thing. It's like my relationship with Lenny happened to someone else, a long time ago."

Simone was quiet for a moment, fingering the handle of her mug. "But . . . aren't you mad at me?"

Emily shook her head. "Disappointed I guess. But not mad."

Simone looked at her warily. "Disappointed?"

Emily took a deep breath. "Yes. I wonder about you. I worry."

"You _worry_? You sound like my mom."

"Lenny should have been off limits to you, but it seems no one is."

Simone bit her lip and looked down at her tea. She twirled the cup in her hands, face pensive. "All I can say is, I blew it. I'm really, really sorry. I was so upset the day Darren fired me, and then Lenny followed me out and offered to buy me a drink. He seemed nice, like he cared. He took me to Sir Drinkalot's Pub in Hawthorne." She grimaced, rubbing her forehead. "I ended up having too many beers. It was ladies-drink-free night."

That sounded like Lenny. As cheap as a dollar store going out of business. For some reason, it tickled Emily that he hadn't taken Simone somewhere nice. Couldn't spend a dime, not even on the hot number he'd left her for.

"Before I knew it, I was in Lenny's bed," Simone said, avoiding Emily's gaze. "I feel terrible." She swallowed. "It won't happen ever again, I promise. If it makes you feel any better, it was the worst sex I ever had. Just awful."

Emily raised her eyebrows. Although she didn't want to hear the details, she found her curiosity piqued. "Really?"

Simone nodded, a frown forming on her beautiful features. "First of all, it took him forever to get a boner. It was like trying to coax a snail out of its shell. Then when he finally got it up and we were having sex, he looked constipated, like he was trying to take a shit on me. Or give himself an aneurism."

Emily gasped. She remembered Lenny's face, scrunched up and red with effort, a sound never coming out of his mouth as he humped away at her. She'd always thought it was her, that he had no interest in _her_!

She'd always thought it was her fault for not turning him on.

She threw back her head and laughed. Simone stared at her with bleary eyes. Emily covered her mouth with both hands, trying not to cackle like a crazy woman, but she couldn't help it.

Simone's face twisted. "See, you _are_ pissed. You're glad it was such a torturous experience for me. Served me right, huh?"

"No, no," said Emily. "Don't you see? It's Lenny. It's been him all along. It's _Lenny_!"

"Of course it's Lenny," Simone said irritably. "I thought we'd established that."

"What I'm trying to say is that it isn't _me_. Or us. It's Lenny _._ It's _his_ problem. Don't you see? He _is_ constipated, in every sense of the word."

Simone grimaced. "Yeah, I'll say. The guy should eat fiber or something, or drink a bottle of prune juice before sex. I thought he was going to drop a load between my legs."

The thought of Lenny's scrunched up face, the one that used to fill Emily with such a lingering sense of doubt and despair, now seemed ridiculous. Stupidly funny. Hilarious, even. She threw her head back again and peals of laughter rang out in the kitchen, the sound bouncing off the walls like a bell.

Simone assessed her warily.

Emily wiped her eyes. "Lenny always said I was the one with the problem, that I couldn't let go, that I was pent up and screwed down. But it was him all along. It was _him_!"

Simone shook her head. "Whatever. He needs a laxative." She smirked, the old Simone coming back. Soon, they were trading jokes at Lenny's expense as their laughter and the smell of sizzling bacon filled the room.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

After breakfast and a shower, Emily put their clothes (sans chaps) into the wash and gave Simone a fuzzy, pink bathrobe to wear while they waited. She brought a new kettle of tea to the table and sat across from Simone. Simone had tied her wet, matted hair into a messy bun on top of her head. Despite dark circles under her eyes, she still looked pretty. Fresh even. Emily wondered how that was possible, how Simone could still look good after their late night. It wasn't fair.

Emily shrugged the thought away. She didn't have it in her to be jealous anymore. Even someone like Simone could end up with a guy who wouldn't pay for her, yelled insults at her on the beach or couldn't get it up when they were in bed together.

Even Simone—gorgeous, charming, confident Simone—could end up with a Lenny.

Emily poured them each a cup of tea, and they sat together in comfortable silence.

Then Simone pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and cleared her throat, "Hey, I was wondering what you meant earlier when you said you worry about me."

"It's not a big deal."

"Tell me."

"Well," said Emily. She paused, trying to think of the right words. "I don't know why you need to sleep with every guy you meet. It's not healthy."

Simone was quiet for a moment, contemplating this. "I guess if I were to psychoanalyze myself, I'd say it's because I want love."

Emily blinked. It seemed like a bass-ackwards way of getting love. Putting the proverbial cart—or vagina—before the horse, so to speak.

"I had a single mom," Simone continued. "She worked two jobs my whole life. She was never home. And when she was, she had a different guy in her bed each night. I saw her searching for love all the time. I guess it affected me." Her face clouded over.

"Did she ever find it? Love, I mean."

"With 'Uncle' Steve, 'Uncle' Roger, 'Uncle' Mike?" Simone snorted. "No, of course not."

"Well, then why would you think it would be any different for you? It seems like you're repeating the same pattern."

"It's not the same. My mom was trying to find someone to rescue her, someone to sweep her away from her life. A prince. I don't need rescuing, and I know princes don't exist. I just want to have fun. And on the way, find a nice guy to love. Someone I can be friends with first. Someone who appreciates me."

Emily stared at her. "But you'll never be friends with a guy if you sleep with him first. Don't you see?"

Simone shrugged. "Whatever." She was quiet, gazing into her mug. "My first experience with a guy was only about sex, so I guess I don't know any other way to relate to men."

Emily didn't know what to say to this, so she stayed silent.

Simone bit her lip. "I never had the traditional boyfriend who held your hand and brought you flowers. I never went to the movies. I never went to prom." She was starting to fight back tears. "My first boyfriend was one of my mom's dudes."

Emily gasped. "What?"

"Yeah," Simone said sardonically, blinking back her tears with obvious effort. "A thirty fucking year old man climbing into the bed of a fourteen-year-old girl while her mom slept. He was my mom's longest boyfriend. And mine, too, all through high school. He wouldn't let me go. I had to move out on my own at eighteen, away from my mom and everything I knew, in order to end it. Drove from Oregon to L.A. with ten bucks in my purse and nowhere to live just to get away from dear ol' Uncle Freddy. No wonder I'm fucked up about men."

Emily gulped. "Oh, Simone. I'm so sorry."

Simone shrugged, swiping a tear away with a long, manicured nail. "It is what it is. I just wish I could find him now. I'd cut his dick off. Frederick Fucking Viola, but everyone called him Freddy." She picked at something on the tablecloth, her face dark. "Do you know what his last name means?"

Emily shook her head.

"It means violin. He was so proud of it, said it was Catalonian. Have you heard of Catalonia?"

Emily nodded. It was somewhere in Spain.

Simone's eyes were filling again. Emily moved her chair closer and placed her hand gently over Simone's.

"He was so good looking," Simone continued. "Especially to a fourteen-year-old, you know? Black hair, strong arms. Manly." She blinked hard against the tears, her voice pinched. "Well, of course. He _was_ a man."

Emily was silent.

"He was really Spanish looking, like one of those Zorro guys you see on TV. Like Antonio Banderas."

Emily cringed. She'd always had a crush on Antonio Banderas, but at this moment, hearing Simone's story, the thought made her ill.

"He used to tell me all about his ancestors in Catalonia," Simone said. "They made instruments or something like that. That's how I got into learning about names and genealogy, because of him." She sat staring at her cup, her eyes brimming with tears. "Can you imagine? A violin is a beautiful instrument that plays songs. It brings people happiness. I don't know why his name means that." Her eyes welled over, two large dripping mud puddles. Emily handed her a Kleenex.

"I think they got it wrong, you know?" Simone continued, her voice becoming thin and high-pitched. "Don't you think his name sounds like something else?"

Emily shook her head. She didn't know what Simone was getting at. Simone's hands trembled as she twisted the Kleenex in her fingers. Tears streaked down her face and her lips quivered. Emily wondered if she should change the subject.

Simone's large blue eyes flashed. "Don't you think his name sound like 'violate?' It's closer to that than 'violin.' Don't you think? That's what it should mean. To _violate_." Her voice warbled, and then she began sobbing deeply. She dropped her head down onto the table, her thin shoulders shaking. Emily gripped Simone's hand, fighting back her own tears.

Simone sobbed as if she'd needed to for a long time. Emily was silent, her throat constricted. She rubbed Simone's back, unable to speak, unable to find the right words to make any of it better. As she watched her hand going round and round over Simone's slumped spine, she realized she was only touching the surface, and that she could never get inside to heal the real wounds. She understood now. She got it. Simone wasn't the confident goddess she appeared. She was broken, damaged, a wounded little girl who still didn't understand what had happened to her or why.

She was in pain.

Emily wondered why she hadn't been able to see that before.

"You can overcome this," said Emily. Her words sounded hollow, like something in a script, but it was the best she could do at the moment. Her heart was breaking for Simone but there was no way to properly express it.

Simone raised her head, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed. "Thanks, Emily, for being so good to me. And I'm so, so sorry." She put her head down on the table again, the white lace tablecloth becoming a myriad of dark, wet spots. Black mascara rain, falling.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

After Simone had calmed down, she went to the bathroom to freshen up. She emerged forty-five minutes later, still puffy-eyed but with her makeup perfectly applied and hair blown out into a fluffy mane. She flitted breezily around the room, gathering her things and avoiding Emily's eyes.

"Feel any better?" Emily asked from the kitchen.

Simone nodded sheepishly. "Sorry I laid all my crap on you."

"That's what friends are for."

Simone met her eyes. "Yeah, friends."

They smiled at each other for a long moment, then Emily went back to cleaning the teapot.

"I should get going," said Simone, fluffing her hair with her fingers. "You won't believe how much I have to do these next few weeks. I have to get ready for Jamaica."

Emily almost dropped the teapot. _Jamaica_? Only Simone could change gears so quickly. "I thought you lost your job."

"I did. But I'm putting the trip on my credit cards. I booked it for the first week in July. I'm not going to let Darren keep me from my dream."

"Simone." Emily shook her head. "Do you think that's wise?"

Simone jutted her chin out. "I'm going to Jamaica."

Emily sighed internally. Well, maybe having a dream was good for Simone right now. But maxing out credit cards to achieve it? It didn't sound too smart. "What's so important about Jamaica?"

"Have you heard of Bob Marley?"

Emily inhaled with exaggerated patience. "Yes, Simone, I've heard of Bob Marley. I haven't been living under a rock my whole life, you know."

"Okay, whatever." Simone waved her hand dismissively. "Well, Bob Marley is the reason I want to go to Jamaica."

Emily blinked. "But he's dead."

"I _know_ , stupid! I want to go to Jamaica because it's the birthplace of his music and my favorite song in the whole world."

"Which song?"

"Easy Skanking."

"Excuse me?" Emily didn't know if she'd heard Simone right. She had expected Simone to name a romantic song, like "One Love" or "Woman No Cry." But _Easy Skanking_? Emily had never even heard it. "You want to go into debt because of a song about . . . ?"

"It's not what you think." Simone glared. "It's a song about dancing. It's about all the good things in life: dancing, drinking, and having fun. And that's what I need right now."

Emily opened her mouth, about to lecture Simone, but then clamped it shut. It wasn't her place. She couldn't change Simone. Only Simone could change herself.

"Hey, you should come with me," said Simone, her face lighting up. "You're not working."

Emily shook her head. "I can't. I've got too many things to take care of right now. I have to pick up AW, for one." She didn't want to admit the real truth, that she was terrified of flying.

"That's no excuse. You could find a place to board him like _that_." Simone snapped her long fingers. She got up and carried the cups to the sink. "Wasn't a tropical vacation on your bucket list?" She yanked the tablecloth off Lenny's scuffed green table and began perusing the list. "Yep, right here. Visit a tropical island. Sounds like Jamaica to me."

Emily grabbed the tablecloth and tried to push it back onto the table.

Simone stopped her. "Hey, you haven't been crossing things off the list. There are a lot of things you've done that you can take off. Hand me a pen."

Emily reluctantly went to the kitchen drawer and handed Simone a Sharpie.

Simone began going down the list. "Okay, you can cross off learning to country dance."

"I didn't learn to dance. I tripped a guy with my two left feet, remember?"

"Were you or were you not up there dancing? I saw you. You were dancing."

Emily thought back to that perfect moment when she felt at one with the music. "Okay," she conceded. "I guess. But does that count?"

"Of course it does." Simone drew a thick, black line through the item. "Have a one-night stand . . . no, the twins don't count because we didn't get in their pants." Her finger traveled down the list. "New York, no, Pamplona, no. Sky diving?" She raised her eyebrows at Emily, who shook her head. "I didn't think so." Simone's tapped the pen. "Here we go. Skinny dipping."

"That doesn't count. The guys went skinny dipping, not me."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Simone chewed on the pen.

"But I did get drunk. With Tyler." Emily grabbed the pen and crossed it off. "And I got a tattoo." She drew another line. "I already marked off adopting a pet. That leaves meeting Woody Allen, making love under the stars in Paris—"

"And visiting a tropical island," said Simone, grinning. "You could do a lot of those things in Jamaica. Like parasailing and skinny-dipping. And the one-night stand for sure."

Emily stared at the list. The idea of Jamaica intrigued her, and she did have a lot of money at her disposal. Carpe diem.

But getting on a plane? She didn't think she could muster the nerve. The idea of those giant winged coffins terrified her. "How long were you thinking of going for?"

"Until the money runs out. About a week or two. But that's plenty of time to have fun, get laid, and drink enough Red Stripes to piss brown."

Emily rolled her eyes. That didn't sound like her idea of fun. She'd been thinking more along the lines of lounging on the beach with a good book, getting massages, ordering room service. Pissing brown didn't sound like a vacation.

"Let's do it," urged Simone.

"I don't think so. You and I have different ideas of fun. I'd rather take a cruise or something."

"A _cruise_? C'mon, you're joking. Cruises are for old people."

Emily considered this. She _had_ heard the apartment manager, Mrs. Greely, and old Mrs. Koster comparing their cruises to Alaska and Mexico. But so what? Old people were mellow. They didn't cavort and cause trouble. A cruise sounded just right. Fun in a contained environment. That was what Emily wanted. She was tired of flowing alcohol, unwanted tattoos, mangy Harley gangs, and naked guys yelling insults on the beach, all in the name of a good time. No, she wanted safe, clean fun. Like a cruise.

"No thanks. I've made up my mind. You'll have to go to Jamaica without me."

Simone shrugged. "Fine, whatever. Your loss. But you're going to miss out on some great Easy Skanking."

A week later, Akio Kudo called and said AW was ready for pickup. Emily was both excited and filled with apprehension. She couldn't wait to see the new and improved dog promised to her, but what if AW hadn't changed? What if he was still the barking, snarling, jumping, bottom-wiping, out-of-control maniac she'd dropped off at the trainer's? What if he was _incurable_?

Then what?

She didn't want to get rid of AW. She'd grown to miss him, and realized she actually wanted him in her life. But what if he was still impossible to live with? She couldn't risk losing her beloved apartment—her one familiar haven in a chaotic world.

As she drove the long expanse of freeway between her house and Venice, she remembered what Tyler had said about the trainer, Akio Kudo: "He works with the top celebrity dogs in the world. He even trains them for the movies. And he guarantees every dog." That somewhat eased her mind. If anyone could fix AW, it was Akio Kudo. She was paying top dollar for the guy, so he had to be the best.

She pulled up in front of Akio Kudo's small bungalow situated on a quiet residential street near the beach. The first time she'd been to the nondescript house, she'd been surprised that a celebrity dog trainer lived there. Tyler assured her that in Venice, anything goes and things aren't always what they seem. He said the shacks on that street were valued in the millions. Emily hadn't believed it until Tyler pointed out Sammy "Guillotine" Lee, international action star, watering his petunias next door. She recognized him from all the bad martial arts movies she'd endured with Lenny, and wondered if Mr. Lee's lips moved out of sync with his voice in real life, too.

Emily walked up the path to the front door. The trainer's shingle read the same as his business cards: "Akio Kudo: Concierge Trainer to the Stars," and below it dangled another shingle signed with autographs of all the dog owners he'd worked with. She saw nothing but famous names.

Michael Jackson had a pit bull named Spanky?

Emily knocked, and Akio Kudo opened the door with a big grin. He was a small effeminate Asian man who wore his hair spiked up in an elaborate mix between a Mohawk and a pompadour. He wore a long, colorful braided jacket and designer flip-flops. Dark glasses were perched on his nose, though it appeared to be fairly dark inside his cottage.

"Hello, Ms. Keane. So wonderful to see you!" He kissed her on both cheeks. "Come, let's go around back to the kennel. AW is waiting for you."

Emily followed him down the steps of the front porch and around to the side.

"You will be so pleased at the results," Akio Kudo said, unlocking a tall, wooden gate. "He is truly a new dog."

"He doesn't bark anymore?"

"Not at all. Unless you command him to, of course."

"Good, because if he makes even one peep—"

"He's fine."

"And what about the butt-wiping? You know the motion he makes with his rear end?"

Akio Kudo stopped and fixed his eyes on her. "Ms. Keane. Do you not understand who I am? Did Tyler not tell you?"

"Yes, yes, he said you work miracles. But I just want to make sure that AW has really changed."

"I fully guarantee my work," he said, ushering her through the gate. "That should tell you something. You will see that your dog is now a well-trained Schutzhund, the kind of animal even the German army would be proud of."

Emily blinked. "Excuse me?" She didn't know if she'd heard him right.

Akio Kudo waved his hand blithely, closing the gate behind her. "Just a saying. Seeing as you have a German shepherd, I'd think you'd want him trained as well as any Gestapo dog."

Emily gulped. "Well, I wouldn't put it like that, exactly."

Akio Kudo grinned as they strolled down the narrow brick path. "Forget the semantics, Ms. Keane. The point is, you're going to be very happy with how I've molded AW. All of his issues are gone. And it wasn't an easy task, let me tell you." He cleared his throat. "About that. As we discussed at his drop-off, I double my fee for certain problem dogs, depending on the extent of the . . . er, corrections. In AW's case, I will have to charge you three times my usual fee due to the work involved. Are you on board with that?"

"Of course. I expected as much."

"I'll need to collect payment before we continue." He stopped and looked at her expectantly.

"Sure. How much?"

"Ten thousand dollars."

She gasped. She'd assumed it would be in the hundreds. Maybe a few thousand, tops. But _ten thousand dollars_?

Akio Kudo gazed at her shrewdly from above his sunglasses. "All the charges are listed on my website, Ms. Keane. Room and board with high- thread-count bedding, organic Vegan dog food, daily vitamin injections, canine psychoanalysis, daily behavior correction and reward system, and of course, detailed grooming. All included in one price. Yours, however, is a bit higher due to the amount of work involved. As you were well aware, your dog had a very bad tic with his bottom that took extensive reconditioning. "

"Yes, of course." Emily opened her backpack. His fee seemed extraordinarily pricey, even for a celebrity dog trainer, but why should she care? Money was no object to her, not with a million dollars to spend, and she conceded Akio Kudo _had_ had his work cut out for him.

Still, her frugal nature rebelled at squandering such a large amount of money. "Do you offer cash discounts?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Never, darling. Many of my clients pay cash. I need to make a living, you know, and how can I if I'm constantly offering discounts and coupons like your run-of-the-mill Vons store?"

"Who said anything about coupons?" muttered Emily under her breath, sorting through banded stacks of bills in her backpack. It was the principle of the thing that bothered her. Akio Kudo was using his fame to take advantage of people, overcharging for the "luxury experience" he offered. He probably charged five hundred dollars for an organic dog bone. And _high-thread-count_ bedding? Where did the mutts sleep, the Ritz Carlton? None of these things impressed her. All she cared about were the results, and she hoped he delivered.

She handed Akio Kudo a brick of hundreds. Another brick fell out of her backpack, and she shoved it back in.

He raised his eyebrows. "Sweetheart, if you're going to carry around that kind of cash, I can see why you need a well-trained Schutzhund by your side." He counted through the bills swiftly, then shoved them into a pocket in the front of his braided jacket-slash-robe. Grinning, he led her around the corner to where the dogs were kept.

There were no sounds of barking, like one would expect at a normal kennel. Instead, the place was eerily quiet. In the beautifully landscaped back yard, there were rows upon rows of large stainless steel dog cages. Inside each carpeted cage was a round, plush dog bed draped with a luxurious (presumably high thread count) sheet and a velvet dog-bone-shaped pillow. At the foot of each bed was a basket of colorful squeaky dog toys and a battery operated CD player.

"The dogs respond well to classical music," Akio Kudo explained.

On the luxuriant red carpeted floor of each cage lay matching china bowls filled to their brims with sparkling water—oxygenated mountain spring, Akio Kudo pointed out—and bright green dog food. The dog bowls were unbroken, Emily noted, and that fact alone spoke to Akio Kudo's apparent effectiveness.

All varieties of dogs, from small Chihuahuas to huge Great Danes, were represented in Akio Kudo's rows of shiny steel cages. Each animal sat quietly at attention, as still and unmoving as the specimens at a taxidermist. Only their eyes, which respectfully followed Akio Kudo as he passed, gave away that these were living creatures.

Emily craned her neck down the line, looking for AW. She spotted him sitting regally in a far cage, his fur glistening white. He sat there stiffly, waiting. No tongue lolling, no jumping, no growling, no snarling. No barking, and no butt swirling. Just a poised, well-behaved animal waiting for his next command.

Emily stared. Was this the same dog? She walked to the cage and put her hand out. Instead of slobbering all over it like he usually did, AW sat staring straight ahead, obediently waiting. She thought she saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, but he didn't dare turn his head until prompted.

Akio Kudo spoke something in German, and AW stood. He smiled up at Emily with his eyes, panting gently. Akio Kudo unlocked the cage, clipped a leash on him, and turned to Emily. "Here, take him."

AW looked at Emily expectantly and waited.

Emily took the leash, staring down at her dog. Had this trainer gotten rid of AW's soul somehow, and put a Stepford dog in his place? It was hard to believe this was the same animal.

"Walk him in circles. He'll follow," said Akio Kudo.

Emily walked around in a half circle. AW followed closely at her heel, dutifully, smooth as butter.

Akio Kudo said something sharply in German, and the dog sat. Then he said another command, and the dog lay down. Then another, and the dog stood rigidly by Emily's heel. Another sharp command, and the dog sat once again. All of these movements were swift, methodical, easy. It was if the dog were on a puppet string, effortlessly controlled with the slightest flick of a wrist.

Emily gaped at AW and then at Akio Kudo, who grinned proudly. The dog stared straight ahead, not a peep coming out of his mouth. His butt was planted firmly on the ground—a first for AW if there ever was one—and he looked every inch the fully trained dog. It was worth all of the money she'd spent. Every single cent. She could actually see herself _living_ with this animal!

"Those commands you're saying. What are they? Can I learn them?" she asked.

"They're German commands, and I'll give you a full list," said Akio Kudo. "We find that dogs respond best to German sounds because they're sharp and distinct. More forceful, you see. Also, we don't want to take the chance of an intruder using an English command and controlling the dog against you. So German commands work best."

Emily nodded. This sounded logical enough. She'd start memorizing them right away. "What's the first one I should learn?"

Akio Kudo stroked his chin. "For most dogs, I'd say 'Braver Hund,' which means 'good dog.' But for AW the most effective command has been 'Bleib!' which means stop, or stay."

"Blip," said Emily, trying it out.

"No, repeat after me. Bl- _eye_ -b."

"Blipe."

"Yes, that's closer. The list has phonetic pronunciations, and there's a CD included, for listening in the car. I suggest you start practicing right away."

Emily nodded, fingering AW's new, harness-style leash. He sat calmly at her side, nose pointed straight ahead. This was all too good to be true. "What can I say to get him to come with me?"

"Komm, pronounced shortly, like this. _Komm_!"

" _Komm_!"

AW jerked to attention, his body taut with awareness, eyes on Emily.

"Go, he'll follow," said Akio Kudo.

Emily walked toward the front gate. AW trotted dutifully next to her, close to her heel. If she moved slightly, so did he, never leaving her side. They passed through the gate, AW strutting proudly with his ears pricked for the next command. _So this is what it's like to own a good dog_!

"Wait here," said Akio Kudo, motioning to the front porch of his bungalow, and disappeared into the house. He re-emerged with a handwritten receipt, the command list, and a packet of instructions. He handed them to Emily, along with a pair of large, fluffy earmuffs.

"Everything's in there. Think of it as your homework for tonight."

"What are the earmuffs for?"

"Put them on AW when you're practicing the commands to yourself. So he doesn't get confused."

Sounded reasonable enough. Emily took the earmuffs and paperwork gratefully. Akio Kudo sure did think of everything. There was a reason he was the best. She'd had to pay for it, but it was worth every dollar. Unable to contain herself, she leaned over and gave him a heartfelt hug.

He patted her back awkwardly. "Yes, yes, I know. It's wonderful to see such changes in a wayward creature."

"You truly work magic."

"I always do." Smiling, Akio Kudo glanced with faux-modesty down at his fingernails. His face was the picture of arrogant confidence.

_I suppose if I were that good at something_ , Emily thought, _I_ ' _d be cocky too_.

"Can I call if I have any questions?" she asked.

"Of course. It's in the guarantee. Any time."

"And shall I sign your shingle now?" She couldn't wait to put her name next to Michael Jackson's.

Akio Kudo cleared his throat. "No, that won't be necessary. It's, er . . . out of space."

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

On the drive home, Emily repeated the commands along with the CD, keeping the volume as low as possible. She glanced in the rearview at AW sitting majestically in the backseat. He was gazing out the window with the large pastel-blue earmuffs perched on his head. Even his expression looked different somehow, as if he was now the dog he'd always yearned to be. He was quietly confident with a serene expression in his chocolate-brown eyes, and Emily found herself admiring him. He looked like a show dog with his shiny white fur and regal posture. Maybe she could even enter him in a contest. He was so beautiful and well trained that he'd win for sure.

"Nein," she whispered to herself. "Schlechte hund." _Bad dog_. She figured she wouldn't have to use that phrase, but it would be good to know it anyway, just in case. "Platz, Gib laut." _Down_. _Speak_. "Geh, Legen, Fuss." _Go_ , _Lie Down_ , _Heel_. "Aus, Gut!" _Out_ , _Good_!

This was easier than she'd thought. She was even beginning to sound a little German, although she pronounced some words as if speaking through a mouthful of peanut butter. But with practice, she could do this. She'd have it down in no time. And once she had these commands memorized, there'd be nothing else to worry about.

At home, AW was perfect. He sat dutifully at her feet until she commanded him to get up, lie down, drink, or eat. He didn't whine or paw at the furniture or slobber all over everything like usual. He didn't jump or chew or bark or tear the place apart. Instead, he waited quietly for every command with an obedience that surprised and pleased her.

That night, she brought AW's bed into her room so he could sleep next to her. He trotted over to it without any fuss, then sat stiffly and waited as she went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. He was still waiting when she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. She smiled over at him, and in his eyes she saw his gladness at being home with her.

"Legen," she whispered, and he lay down in his bed. He put his head on his paws and watched her for a while longer. When no other commands came, he closed his eyes and slept.

✓ ✓ ✓ _  
_

The howling started around midnight.

Emily sat up with a jolt. AW had his long snout pointed toward the ceiling. A long, mournful sound came from his throat. It echoed in long waves against the walls and ceiling, causing Emily's heart to constrict in panic.

She flipped on the lamp. The dog continued howling, long drawn-out O sounds.

"AW, shh!" she hissed, pointing her finger at him. He kept howling, loudly. She fumbled around on her nightstand for the cheat sheet of German commands. She found the list and began thumbing through it in panic.

"Nein! Ruhig!" she shouted.

AW stopped and looked at her.

"That's right, quiet. Now achtung." _Pay attention._

AW stood, waiting.

"Sitz." AW sat. "Good dog. Braver hund. Now legen! That's right, lay down. Time to sleep."

AW lay down and closed his eyes. Emily relaxed. Good, the commands still worked. Maybe AW was just out of sorts after being gone from home for so long. Even animals had to adjust to new surroundings, and Emily _had_ bought new furniture so the place looked different. She needed to be patient with AW. She just hoped the neighbors hadn't heard.

Just as she closed her eyes, the howling started again, this time longer and louder. " _Awwwwoooo_. _Aaaaawwwwwoooooo_!"

She jumped out of bed, shouting German commands. Once again, the dog quieted. Once again, she commanded him to sleep, and once again she climbed back into bed, her heart racing.

" _AUUWWWWWWWwwwwooOOOOOOO_!"

"Oh my god, AW, stop! _Nein_! _Nein_!"

Again he stopped.

And again she climbed into bed, and again he started howling. Each time it got louder, and each time it took longer to get AW to follow her commands. As she became more agitated, so did he, and his howling took on an eerie Hound of the Baskervilles quality.

Emily became more and more flustered, and in her exhaustion, began mixing up her commands. " _Aus_! No, not out. That's not right. Come back here, AW! Wait, let me try again. _Fuss_! Yes, that's right, heel!" Then AW began wagging his tail at her as if it was all a game, which was a very bad sign.

"Achtung, AW. Gib Laut!" She'd meant to say "sit," but called out "speak" instead, and suddenly AW was barking at the top of his lungs. "Nein, _nein_! Achtung! _Achtung_!"

Someone began pounding on the door, loudly. _Oh no_! Panic gripped Emily.

" _Nein_!" she shouted. The howling began again, so long and drawn out that Emily couldn't think straight. She frantically grabbed the earmuffs and plunked them on her head to muffle the sound. She swiftly thumbed through the command pages with shaking fingers. AW was walking around in circles now, his nose pointed to the ceiling. What was the command for heel again? That's right, _fuss_!

"Fuss, _fuss_!" she yelled. AW came swiftly to her side and obediently heeled. Through the earmuffs, she could still hear pounding on the door. The earmuffs didn't seem to work much at all, come to think of it.

_Pound, pound, pound_! "Open up in there, Miss Keane!"

It was Mrs. Greely, the apartment manager. Bubbles of fear rose in Emily's chest. Dizziness swirled through her brain. What was she going to do? She looked around wildly. She had to hide AW somewhere. She couldn't lose this apartment. This was her sanctuary, her home! She seized AW's leash and quickly tied him to the bedpost.

"Bleib!" she said to AW.

He stayed, watching her obediently with his liquid brown eyes, his body poised and at attention next to the bed. Good, now if only she could keep Mrs. Greely from coming into the bedroom.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," Emily muttered to herself. She threw on her robe and headed to the door. The pounding grew louder.

"Miss Keane, open up at once!"

Emily could hear faint voices outside, as if a crowd had gathered. Before she opened the door, she took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. The calmer she acted, the better.

Mrs. Greely was standing there in curlers and a robe, her bulldog face smeared with some sort of oily night cream. Behind her stood Mrs. Koster, whose eyes were magnified to the size of saucers behind her thick, plastic-rimmed glasses. She stood there, frowning and blinking, her arms crossed in indignation. There was also crazy Trans-Fed Bill, his hair greasy and matted around his head, wearing leopard print boxers and smirking. Other assorted neighbors nosily craned their heads to get a look at Emily, their expressions tired and annoyed at having been awakened in the middle of the night.

"We heard your dog," Mrs. Greely said in an accusing tone. "It's been howling. But it seems you're well aware of this by the _earmuffs_ you're wearing."

Emily gulped, realizing how she must look in the huge blue earmuffs. She yanked them off her head and shoved them into her robe pocket. She stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her.

"Um, I sleep in these. They, er, keep my ears warm," Emily said, stumbling over her words. "They keep out night sounds, too. You know, cars. And crickets. Things like that."

Bill snickered. Emily cast him a glare.

"And the earmuffs also keep out dog sounds, I presume?" said Mrs. Greely. "Now open up, please. I need to see the evidence myself before I start eviction proceedings."

"Dog?" Emily tried her best to look innocent, pulling her robe closer around her. It was cold out, colder than she'd expected. She was shivering.

"Don't play games with me, young lady. We heard the howling come from your apartment." Mrs. Greely poked her finger at Emily. "There's a dog in there!"

"I thought it was a coyote. Or a wolf," said a young neighbor, the pixie-faced teen who sometimes sunbathed in the courtyard wearing a Hello Kitty print bathing suit.

"A wolf?" Bill guffawed. "There aren't any wolves in Redondo Beach."

"Well, it sounded like a wolf," said the girl peevishly.

Old Mrs. Koster huffed, her avocado-sized eyes glaring at Emily. "Someone needs to put a stop to the carryings-on that have been happening around here lately," she said indignantly. "There have been too many disturbances. We're respectable people living here. Well, _some_ of us are, anyway."

Bill snickered.

Emily gulped, cringing at the angry faces glaring at her. How was she going to get out of this? "I . . . I thought I might have heard a dog, too. Maybe there's a stray outside somewhere?"

Mrs. Greely took a step forward. "We know you have a dog in that apartment, Miss Keane. Stop the shenanigans! You know very well this is grounds for eviction."

"No, no," Emily said, stuttering. Her heart squeezed tight, panic building in her chest.

"Open the door. Now."

"No, I can't, I . . ."

" _Now_ , Miss Keane!"

Suddenly, there was a loud crash from within the apartment. The neighbors exchanged glances then fixed their eyes on Emily. She stared back at them, petrified, her heart racing.

Mrs. Greely pushed past Emily and threw open the door.

There—dragging the stump of the bed post behind him and leaping around the room like a lunatic dog on springs—was AW. He had sofa-stuffing hanging from his mouth as he jumped from couch to table to chair amidst broken lamps and knocked over plants. The neighbors gasped. Every inch of the room had been destroyed, in just the few minutes it had taken for Emily to go outside, by this leaping, twirling, crazy beast-from-hell.

"AW, Fass, _Fass_!" shouted Emily, remembering the word for "heel." It was only when AW turned around and began snarling wildly, foam coming out of his mouth, that Emily realized she'd said the wrong word.

" _Fuss_ " means heel. " _Fass_ " means attack.

I hope you enjoyed Part One of Carpe DiEmily. Please take the time to review this book. It would mean the world to the author.

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