Free The Blessed by Tonya Hurley

of Lucy’s locks in her manicured claws, tugging her hair over her eyes and her head forward. She couldn’t see a thing, except for the girl’s copper glittery stilettos driven into the stained red indoor/outdoor carpet beneath her, illuminated by electronic flashes from cameras and cell phones. Lucy grabbed for the girl’s legs and took her down at the knees, driving her onto her back to woots and screams, mostly from the guys who took all the panty shots as fan service. Oddly, of all things, Lucy was most worried about her bracelet. That it might get damaged.
    Security arrived before a full-on girl fight could break out, and the two VIPs were involuntarily separated. Lucy finally got a good look at her adversary and recognized her as the actual girlfriend of Tim, the guy she’d been ratting out to Jesse. The one who was with Sadie at the hospital. But how could she, this dim-witted piece of eye candy, possibly connect her to it? How could she know?
    Lucy shot Jesse a knowing and condescending glance. It was him. Had to be, she thought. Payback for her ingratitude and warning of what he had in store for his rebellious protégé/fetish. He glared back for a second and then returned to his phone, typing feverishly. She pulled herself together and sat down. A few stragglers ambled over for a chat.
    “What circle of hell did she escape from?” one said. “Who cares anyway, right? That will move.”
    “This was a total borefest until now,” another one said. “Did you see Jesse over there? He got the whole thing.”
    “You should get in touch with the hair extensions company,” a third snarked. “Xena over there couldn’t rip them out of your head.”
    Stunned equally at the vicious attack and the calculating indifference of the brain-dead bar junkies surrounding her, Lucy stared blankly ahead, trying to process the new low she’d just sunk to.
    “I’m good, thanks,” Lucy grumbled sarcastically, noting that no one bothered to ask if she was okay. She hadn’t even had a drink and the room was already spinning.
    “We saw the BYTE item from last weekend,” they said following her. “So cool that you wound up in the ER. It’s so . . . effective.”
    “I would have bulk-mailed my contact list once I got to the hospital though,” another strategized out loud.
    A year ago, this might have been her, she thought. Irritating, clipped, vocal-fried commentary on the minutiae of social climbing by couture ass-kissers. She was just like them—except, she sort of wasn’t anymore. Not since the hospital. Calculated, cunning, self-interested, and self-absorbed, yes. But not conscienceless. She preferred to think of herself as a flower among weeds. A single bloom, a standout, rising high above the fields of cheatgrass except that, like all flowers in a patch of thistle, the weeds were beginning to choke her off.
    She’d become their idol, the one who lit the way for all the other attractive and ambitious, but otherwise unremarkable, Big Apple celebutantes. Their very own Statue of Celebrity, her torch of notoriety shining brightly from VIP rooftop lounges citywide. For a fee, of course. It wasn’t much of a legacy, she’d come to see. “Bring me your entitled, your selfish, your huddled attention-starved masses, yearning to be famous. . . . ” She’d lifted her lamp beside the golden door, but more and more, she felt the light inside of her going out.
    “Excuse me, Lucy,” another voice called from behind her, and she immediately tensed up, ready for another sucker punch.
    “Oh, Tony.” Lucy sighed at seeing a friendly face and hugged him. “Thank God.”
    “Listen, Lucy.” The burly bouncer pulled her arms off his neck, leaned in, and spoke as confidentially as possible in such a public place. “I can’t have dis goin’ on here. I heard da cops are involved in da t’ing from last weekend and I don’t need any more trouble dan I already got. The owners are goin’ apeshit.”
    “You’ve got to