Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

Self-consciously, I took the cup. “Thanks.”

“How you feeling?” he asked, sipping from a mug of his own. If he was feeling any hint of the awkwardness consuming me, he didn’t show it, casually leaning against the kitchen counter as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to get his clients drunk and take them to his bed.

Maybe it was.

A thought which did nothing to settle my angry stomach.

“Um. Good. Fine,” I lied, sipping my coffee.

“You look like hell.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “Gee, thanks.”

He grinned. “Hangovers are a bitch, aren’t they?”

“Just shut up, keep the coffee coming, and no one gets hurt.”

“You got it, sunshine,” he said. Then gave me a wink.

My stomach rolled again, but this time I kinda liked it.

“So,” I said, purposefully clearing my throat and turning to Aunt Sue. “What have you and Aunt Millie got planned today?”

Aunt Sue poured her thick banana shake into a glass and started sucking it through a straw. “Got more packing to do at Hattie’s. Then we’re shipping some boxes of photos to her nephew, and we’re gonna hit up the lunch buffet at the senior center. Today’s chicken dumpling day.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“Felix called,” Cal told me, dropping a piece of bread into the toaster.

I groaned. “What did he want?”

“Wanted to know when you might be coming in to work today.”

I glanced at the clock. Eleven already. Geez, I’d slept half the day away. Curse you, tequila.

“Ten minutes,” I said, downing the rest of my coffee.

I took the fastest shower on record (even though the hot water on my hangover brain felt like heaven), then quickly dressed in a pair of jeans, pink converse, and a stretchy black top with purple rhinestones spelling out the words, “Yes, they’re real,” across the chest. I grabbed my notebook and purse and was ready to go just as Millie walked in.

“Sorry I’m late today,” she said. “The bus wasn’t running on time.”

Last year Aunt Millie had driven her boat of an Oldsmobile right up onto the front lawn of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, nearly taking out the bronze statue of St. Mark himself in the process. To her credit, she promptly got out of the car and apologized to the statue. That is, until he didn’t answer back, and she thought the rude man was giving her the cold shoulder, at which point she whacked him on the arm with her purse and started questioning what his mother would think of his ill manners. Needless to say, after this incident the DMV had decided that her twenty/one-fifty vision was not entirely safe for operating a motor vehicle. Since then, Millie had been riding the bus, and the rest of us on the streets had been breathing a little easier.

I quickly directed Millie to the kitchen and made for Cal’s Hummer before Felix decided that the Informer could get along with one fewer gossip columnist on staff.

Luckily, by eleven thirty there was little to no traffic on the way into the Informer’s offices. Unluckily, the talent agency on the third floor was holding auditions for a role in the latest Spielberg movie, so there was no parking to be had for two blocks in either direction. Cal circled twice, finally finding a space six doors down. By the time we’d hoofed it back to the office, I was sweating from places I didn’t know even had sweat glands. I hated Indian summer.

Finally we rounded the building, cutting across the parking lot to the back entrance. We were halfway to the doors when I spotted my Rebel bike, parked in a space to the left of the entrance, just where I’d left it. Only, unlike the shiny, clean state I’d left it in, it was now covered in large splotches of white birdie doo-doo.

“Shit!” Literally.

I looked up to find two pigeons perched on the fire escape directly above my bike, looking innocent as anything. Damned birds.

“My bike is not a bathroom!” I shouted to them. I thought I heard Cal smirk behind me but chose to ignore him, taking my anger out on the stupid pigeons instead. “Stay the hell away from my bike. Got it?”

I swear to God, the fatter pigeon cocked his head at me. Then, as if to spite me, he flapped his no-doubt diseased little wings, sailing down from this perch and landing, you guessed it, on my bike.

“Oh, that’s it. You’re toast,” I said, taking a menacing step forward.

Only I didn’t get any farther. Suddenly a huge boom filled the air. Bright orange flames burst from my bike, tossing hot pink pieces of metal into the air, and sending me flying backward across the parking lot.

Chapter Sixteen

Instinctively, I threw my arms up, trying to shield my eyes from the instant sunburn. I felt my butt slam down on the macadam. Hard. Tiny pieces of debris that used to be my baby raining down on me.

From somewhere that sounded very far away, I heard Cal yelling my name. Only he must have been closer than I thought, because in an instant his arms were around me, pulling me to my feet and away from the smoldering black spot on the ground that used to be my bike.

“Tina, are you okay?” he asked, his eyes searching my face and limbs, hands feeling for broken bones.

I blinked, trying to take in what had just happened. “I…I think so.” Which, as I wiggled my fingers, toes, arms, and legs, seemed true. My arms were red and covered in tiny scratches, and I was sure a big purple bruise was already forming on my butt, but other than that I was mostly unharmed.

More than I could say for my bike.

“It blew up,” I said, lamely pointing to where the pigeon’s bathroom used to be.

Cal nodded, his face grim.

And the full realization of what just happened hit me. “Someone blew up my bike. Someone…tried to blow up me.” I looked back to the charcoaled spot.

The first threat on my life I honestly hadn’t taken all that seriously. Even the email had been creepy but not particularly scary. But with Mrs. Carmichael’s murder and now this…This was so over the top I needed a new word for scary. I felt myself start to shake as Cal pulled his cell out, dialing who I presumed to be the police. In fact, I was trembling so badly that I slid to the ground against the wall of the Informer’s building.

“You okay?” Cal asked, the phone still to his ear.

I nodded. Apparently unconvincingly, as he crouched down on the pavement next to me. “Don’t worry, we’re going to get this guy,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I nodded again. But didn’t tell him that I wasn’t trembling solely out of fear. I’d have to be a moron not to be freaked out by this, but, even more than scared, I was pissed. This guy had taken away the safety of my home, my neighborhood, my job. He’d turned my life upside down. And I was ready for it to end. I was ready to take my life back.

And as I stared at what could very well have been barbequed me, I vowed that I wasn’t going to stop until I did.

Two hours later the cops had dusted, swabbed, and sprayed the entire parking lot for any trace evidence my would-be killer might have left behind. With no results. They said they needed to take it all back to the lab for more comprehensive testing.

As soon as the detective in charge said I could go, I bolted, leaving Cal to deal with the rest of the mess. I knew he could handle it. Me? Hangover plus explosion was more than I could take in one day. Instead, I marched up to the second floor and shoved myself in front of my computer. I pulled up a word processing file and immediately started typing.

GOSSIP COLUMNIST CALLS OUT HER MYSTERY STALKER

RECENTLY YOURS TRULY HAS BEEN THE RECIPIENT OF A NUMBER OF THREATS-

I paused. Then hit the backspace button.