Lydia McMeara picked at her tiny, undressed salad between sips of spring water. She was on a diet—again. She nibbled hungrily at lettuce, struggling not to hate Cellie for her perpetually svelte figure. Then there was Brenda who couldn’t claim svelte but owned smoking.
Plus they both juggled men like tennis balls while she herself was in a two-year rut with dull, earnest Bob.
Even his name was dull and earnest.
Things would be different once she got in shape. And it would be easier if she could afford some body sculpting rather than starving herself on rabbit food.
The money she saved walking the eight blocks to work and back every day would add up, she assured herself. And God knew she spent nearly nothing on food anymore.
What she wouldn’t give for a couple bubbling slices of pizza with the works and a calorically prohibitive beer.
“Here, Lydia.” Cellie with her perfect cupid’s bow mouth smiled sympathetically. “Have half my sandwich. Half doesn’t count.”
“I’m fine.”
“You should join my health club.” The smoldering, smoking Brenda had a salad, too. A huge one with an ocean of creamy dressing, seasoned croutons, and golden slivers of cheese.
At that moment, Lydia hated her.
“I don’t have time, and I don’t have the money. Anyway, I’m not hungry.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself, Lydia.” Cellie, big brown eyes radiating sincerity, rubbed a hand up and down Lydia’s arm. “You’re beautiful.”
“I’m fat,” Lydia said flatly. She hated herself, hated Cellie and Brenda. She wanted to slap the stupid, tasteless salad right in Cellie’s face.
“I look fat, feel fat, am fat. And I’m going to fix it.” Annoyed, Lydia shoved the salad away. “I’m not hungry,” she repeated, “and it’s too noisy in here. I feel a headache coming on. I’m going to walk for a while.”
“I’ll go with you,” Cellie began.
“No. Stay. Eat. Eat, eat, eat. I’m in a bad mood, and I want to be alone.”
She stomped toward the door, squeezing through the spaces between tables while her temper spurted up like a black, oily fountain.
Oh yeah, midday headache from starving myself half to damn death, she thought.
She reached the door, yanked it open. Glanced back.
Her eyes met Brenda’s, just for an instant. In them she saw the same vile dislike she felt, the ugly truth of it.
She always knew Brenda was a bitch. Always knew it.
For a moment she wanted to turn around, stomp back, and punch smoldering bitch Brenda in the face. Then claw her nails down it. Draw blood. Drink blood.
Instead, she slammed out the door, shoving her way down the sidewalk.
And lived.
9
They were under five blocks away when Dispatch notified Eve. She hit the lights and sirens.
“Run the owner,” she ordered Peabody. “Now.” And soared up to vertical to skim over vehicles with no respect for a cop running hot.
She took a right, hard, blasted the horn as a clutch of pedestrians swarmed the sidewalk. They scattered like ants, and as she bored through, a woman in needle-heeled boots and towering blond hair took the opportunity to flip her the finger.
And thanks for your support, Eve thought.
“Privately owned,” Peabody called out, voice cracking only a little as Eve skinned by a loaded maxibus. “Greenbaum Family LLC.”