Free Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel by Ronda Thompson Page A

much of one.
    â€œWicked bad,” I assure her.
    â€œCindy, what do you think?”
    In a surprise move, Cindy decided to come shoe shopping in normal shoe stores with us today. Since she’s a little starstruck by Karen, I think I know why she agreed to tag along.
    â€œThey look good,” is about all she can manage around the slobber in her mouth.
    â€œI think I’ll get them,” Karen decides. She frowns at me. “You’re not into the spirit of the shoes, Lou. You’ve only tried on one pair.”
    Even shoes can’t take my mind off my troubles. I’m a bit distracted. “Just enjoying new shoe smell,” I tell her. “It’s almost as good as new car smell.”
    Karen sniffs. “I never fully appreciated the new shoe smell before.”
    â€œIt’s really strong at Red Wing,” Cindy offers. “Lots of leather in those stores.”
    â€œWe’re not going,” I mutter to her. “And stop drooling. It’s embarrassing.”
    Runway style, Karen flounces over in the killer red pumps. “Leave her be, Lou. She can drool if she wants. I don’t mind. I’m used to it.”
    Have I mentioned that Karen doesn’t have a humble bone in her body? She was born beautiful. I’ve seen baby pictures of her. She carries them with her. Karen has no conception of what it’s like to be unattractive. Or even normal looking.
    â€œI’m starving,” I say. “Let’s go have lunch.”
    Even frowning, Karen is nothing short of stunning. “But I’ve only decided on this one pair. I’ve never gone home with only one pair of shoes.”
    â€œWe can always stop back on our way home,” Cindy suggests. “Truth is, I’m starving, too.”
    Karen shrugs. “Okay, but only on one condition. You buy these shoes, Lou. You’d look great in them.”
    The shoes aren’t made for walking. They’re sex shoes. The kind of shoes a woman wears with a strapless corset, garter belt, and thigh-high hose. Due to current circumstances, they’d go wasted in my closet. On the other hand, the shoes might get a reaction from Terry Shay should our paths ever cross again. Those shoes would get a second look from a priest.
    â€œOkay.” I cave. “But only because I’m hungry.”
    I leave the shop wearing the shoes. I’m nearly as tall as Karen in them. Poor Cindy looks like a midget as we stroll down Fifty-fourth toward a little café the models frequent. The place has wonderful soups and salads. As we walk, Karen whips out her cell and makes a call. She says she’s headed to the café and hangs up. I lift a brow.
    â€œJust letting my service know where I’ll be,” she explains.
    That’s odd. Wouldn’t her service just call her if they need her? Would her agency actually grab a cab and come running to the café if they had to discuss business? Mine wouldn’t. Maybe I should switch.
    It’s a lovely day for winter in New York. The Christmas lights still twinkle in the trees. It’s chilly, but not freezing. I’m envisioning the Cobb salad smothered in blue cheese I’ll have, when it happens.
    The unthinkable.
    I step in gum.
    Gum!
    On my brand-new pair of four-hundred-and-seventy-five-dollar shoes!
    Rarely do I say the F word. Where I come from, the F word is not like saying “oh, shoot” like it is in New York. I say it now.
    Karen’s head swings toward me. We had this rhythm going, the three of us walking down the street like Charlie’s Angels. I’ve thrown the whole line out of sync. Cindy stumbles. She actually trips over the F word. She never heard that word growing up in her house.
    Karen repeats the F word. “He must have been at the Starbucks on the corner to have gotten here so fast.”
    He? Starbucks? What’s Karen talking about? I slide my shoe along the pavement as we walk, hoping to dislodge the wad