A Bitch Named Karma. Stephanie Haefner

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СКАЧАТЬ and told me she’d be over in a second.

      “Late, as usual?” I asked, referring to the two empty seats at our table reserved for Brenda and Rachel.

      “Would it be normal if they were actually on time?”

      I’d met Brenda a few years back when in desperate need of a dye job. In order to save a few bucks, I came up with the brilliant idea to do it myself at home. Wet hair, apply dye, let sit—it couldn’t be that hard. I couldn’t have been more wrong and somehow managed to turn half my head a bright crimson and the other half black. After tucking my disaster into a hat, I’d bolted to the nearest salon.

      A rare cancellation put me in Brenda’s chair that day. Her look scared me a bit but I’d figured my situation couldn’t get any worse. As she’d surveyed the damage known as my hair, I wondered how someone covered head to toe in Goth could possibly know how to dye a normal person’s hair. But even with her spiky hair-do in a bright blue shade—her chosen hue of the month—and patent leather bustier, she was my salvation and I felt indebted to her for the rest of my life. She became the only stylist allowed near my locks, including myself! We’d been the closest of friends ever since. There is a special bond between a woman and her hairdresser; in some ways it’s more serious than a marriage.

      Rachel and I met through Brenda. They’d been friends since their training bra days and couldn’t be more opposite. Rachel embodied the sweet girl-next-door persona, with never a mean word to say about anyone. Her glistening all natural blond locks were set off by ocean blue eyes. She looked like a GAP or Abercrombie and Fitch model, but prettier. Brenda and I begged her for at least a year, though she would never even consider pursuing a career where people ogled her. Always filled with modesty, Rachel wore the simplest clothes to hide her perfect body and kept her hair plain and long. So many times Brenda wanted to drag her to the salon and strap her down, forcing her to get some foil highlights and a hip cut. But even with their numerous differences, they always remained close. I had my theory why. Rachel kept Brenda in line and sane.

      Then there was Marcus. Our moms became best gal pals during their pregnancies, bonding over pickle cravings and stretch mark artwork. Marcus and I became attached at the hip while still in utero. We share quite a long and somewhat twisted history that started with shared naps in either my crib or his while our moms played cards and drank iced tea. It continued though playground fights and puberty and the four years of teenage drama known as High School. Marcus and I played doctor as kids and he gave me my first French kiss when we were pre-teens. We tried the boyfriend-girlfriend thing once at the beginning of high school. A gorgeous guy even at the awkward age of fourteen, he had dark dreamy eyes and a Beverly Hills 90210 hair cut. I reveled in being the envy of a majority of the female freshman population but everything changed when he tried to round second base with me. I envisioned my brother groping my 32AA’s and it grossed me out. We called it quits but our friendship continued and I knew I could count on him for anything, anytime.

      Marcus, Brenda, Rachel and I were often found working out together, doing lunch or having all-night margarita gab fests. They were great inspiration for my books, many of which stemmed from topics discussed during our drunken nights together. I always traveled with a notebook so I could jot down anything remotely interesting. The tough part was deciphering the intoxicated scribbles the next morning.

      The girls finally arrived and completed our happy little foursome. We immediately flagged down the waitress and started our Friday celebration.

      “So Brenda,” I said after we received our drinks. Brenda and I had ordered the specialty of the house, a bright pink cosmopolitan. Marcus held a glass of merlot by the stem and breathed in its aroma while the ever conservative Rachel sipped a glass of diet cola through a straw. “I found a guy for you!”

      “Lex, don’t even think about setting me up!”

      “Why? This one is perfect! He even has green hair!”

      “Ewww!” Rachel squealed. “Green hair?”

      “Wait, you’re fine with Brenda having pink hair,” Marcus chimed in, motioning toward Brenda’s head. “But a guy with green hair is disgusting?”

      “I never said I was fine with it!” Rachel giggled, pushing her own shimmering blond tresses from her face.

      “So anyway, back to Slade!” I continued.

      “Slade? That’s the guy’s name?” Brenda asked.

      “Yes. I like it. It’s unique. Who wants a Bob or a Dan? Snore! You need someone with a strong, sexy name. Slade is a tattoo artist, photographer and newly published author. His book is being released in a few weeks. It’s called Tat- A Gallery of American Tattoo Art. You’ll love it. I met him at my publisher’s office and I think you two would be perfect for each other. As soon as I saw him, I just knew. I got his number and we should call him and invite him for drinks.”

      “No, thanks.”

      “Why? You haven’t gone out with anyone in months!”

      Rachel began hacking and grabbed for a napkin, covering her mouth. She cleared her throat as we all stared at her.

      “Um, went down the wrong tube.”

      I shook off her inability to drink like a normal person and looked back at Brenda.

      “So, I’m gonna call and invite Slade for Happy Hour next Friday.”

      “I’m not looking right now,” she said and suddenly became engrossed with her cocktail napkin, folding it into some kind of origami creature. Brenda’s nails, which were always done in some funky color with airbrushed designs, were a simple black with silver glittered tips. She’d recently began learning nail design and practiced on herself constantly.

      “Come on! You have to meet him. At the very least, you’d get a couple good fucks out of him!”

      “Lex, for the last time, no.”

      “Okay, fine. Keep having fun with your vibrator. Wear out a million batteries for all I care!”

      * * * *

      Val had set up an interview for me with one of the hottest radio morning show tag teams: Wild Will and Tina of WBLV’s Rock Your Way to Work Show. She’d been trying to get me on-air with one of the Top 40 stations for some time, hoping to boost sales in a few new markets. I yawned as I walked into the station, still half asleep. Mornings were so not my thing.

      The broadcast took place in a small room, much smaller than I had imagined in my glamorous Radio Day Dream. I’d envisioned walls plastered with autographed posters of the hottest singers of the day with gleaming microphones and the occasional star walking through the door to say a quick “whud up” to their disc jockey homies. What I walked into reminded me of the hall closet in my apartment—tiny and jammed with miscellaneous books, papers and a desk chair with ripped and faded upholstery.

      They sat me down and gave me a pair of ancient looking headphones to wear that pinched at my ear and smooshed down my curls. I watched Wild Will make an announcement on air, his smooth voice rolling off his tongue. He winked at me and smiled as he told his listeners he and Tina would be talking with me after the break. The station went to commercial and a balding man in headphones gave me some last minute instructions.

      “Good morning, rockers,” Wild Will crooned after the commercial. “If you’re just tuning in, we’re here with multi-published author Lexi Marshall. She’s СКАЧАТЬ