Undercover In High Heels

instead.

Ten minutes later we inched our way onto the off-ramp. One thing that can’t be beat about L.A. living: you’re never more than two blocks away from a Big Mac and fries. My stomach did one more groan (this one I’m pretty sure was of glee) as Jasmine parked next to the Dumpster behind the Golden Arches. I led the way inside and ordered a Quarter Pounder with cheese and large fries from the pimply kid behind the counter. Oh, and a strawberry shake. And an apple pie.

Jasmine looked down her sculpted nose at me and ordered bottled water and a side salad-no dressing. Apparently she wasn’t scheduled for another lipo round for another six months.

We ate in silence, mostly because I was scarfing down my food with an appreciation that would have made Ronald McDonald proud. It took only ten minutes and we were back out in the parking lot, me rubbing my full belly with the kind of satisfaction that only an apple-pie chaser can provide. Personally, though, I still thought Jasmine looked a little hungry.

I was about to offer her the last Tic Tac when a loud pinging sound erupted from the Dumpster next to us.

I jumped, Jasmine and I both doing mirrored “what the…?” looks.

“What was that?” she asked, her red hair whipping around her face as she scanned the parking lot.

“I dunno.”

Then I heard it again, closer to me this time, and accompanied by a little spark as something whizzed off the metal side of the Dumpster.

A voice yelled from across the parking lot, “You bitch!”

I looked up.

And froze.

Oh. Shit.

Running toward me, long black hair flapping behind her like a cape, silver gun straight-armed in her right hand, was Isabel.

Chapter 16

“You stupid bitch!” she screamed. Another bullet ricocheted off the Dumpster. Jasmine and I instinctively ducked, trying to make ourselves as tiny as possible behind the Miata. Which, since it was designed for midgets, wasn’t nearly tiny enough.

“You are so mine now, ” Isabel screamed, her voice growing closer.

“Holy shit, ” Jasmine yelled. She scuttled around the car and dove behind the Dumpster.

Second good idea Jasmine had had that day.

I joined her, my knees scraping against the ketchup-stained asphalt as as another shot blasted off the metal side.

“You ruined everything, you dumb bitch! Snake won’t even talk to me because of you. I’m going to kill you!”

“Gee, you’re popular, ” Jasmine hissed, covering her head with both of her skinny arms.

“I’m not good with relationships. So sue me.”

Ping, ping. Two more bullets bounced off the Dumpster, adrenaline shooting through me with each one, as I heard Isabel pause to reload.

I ripped my purse off my shoulder, digging for my cell to call in the cavalry. But of course, with my hands shaking worse than the Northridge quake, that was easier said than done.

Ping, ping, ping.

“Jesus Christ, call nine-one-one, ” Jasmine shouted, rolling into a tight ball beside me. “This chick is crazy.”

No kidding. I dumped my purse upside down, spilling the contents onto the ground just as I heard the door of the McDonald’s open.

“Hey, what’s going on out here?” I heard the pimply kid ask, his voice cracking.

“None of your goddamned business, Pizza Face!”

Two more shots rang out, one of them followed by the sound of shattering glass and a car alarm wailing pitifully.

“My car!” Jasmine moaned beside me.

“Holly crap, call the cops!” the pimply kid screamed, ducking back into the restaurant.

I finally spied my cell phone. But considering the nearest cop car was probably a good twelve blocks away and Isabel was twelve feet away, I had a sinking feeling I knew which one would get here first. I’d already been held at gunpoint once by Isabel. Quite honestly, not an experience I was dying to repeat.

So, instead of reaching for my cell, I wrapped my fingers around the little silver canister sitting on the asphalt next to my tampons and lip gloss. Mrs. Rosenblatt’s special stash of pepper spray.

I pulled the top off, stuck my finger over the trigger, and took a deep, fortifying breath that smelled a little of stale French fries, then jumped out from behind the Dumpster.

Isabel was standing over Jasmine’s car, systematically shooting out all the windows. What was it with this chick and cars?

“Hey, Isabel!” I shouted.

She turned to face me, her eyes big, pupils the size of silver dollars. The girl seriously needed a double dose of Xanax.

I straight-armed the pepper spray in front of me, aiming it right at Isabel’s face, and pressed the button.

Which, I realized, would have been totally effective if I’d been standing the suggested four to six feet from my target. Unfortunately, Isabel was a good ten feet away. A fine stream of liquid shot out from my canister…and dribbled harmlessly down the Miata’s tires.

Uh-oh.

Isabel pointed the gun at me. “You stupid bitch, now you’re going to pay!”

I looked down at the useless canister in my hand. On pure instinct, I threw it in her direction.

If I’d actually tried out for the softball team in high school instead of just telling my mother I was going to tryouts and actually sneaking underneath the bleachers with Jason Pratt, I might have had something resembling aim, maybe even enough to pull a cool Lucy Liu move and knock the gun out of her hand. But considering Jason Pratt was the best kisser in all of ninth grade, not to mention the spitting image of Luke Perry circa 1991, my aim sucked.

The canister bounced on the ground, landing at Is-abel’s feet.

She laughed. “You are so girlie.”

Crap. Damn you and your magical tongue, Jason!

Only my curse at the French-kissing god of ninth grade was cut short as a hissing sound erupted from the canister. Both Isabel and I looked at each other. Then down. Just in time to see the canister explode, covering Isabel head to toe in cayenne-pepper water.

“Ahhh!” she screamed, dropping the gun and clawing at her eyes. “I’m on fire!”

Thank you, Mrs. Rosenblatt.

Sirens erupted in the background, the signal that Pimple Boy had, indeed, called the cops. Isabel pulled her hands away from her swollen eyes just long enough to scoop up her gun before bolting in the opposite direction.

“Don’t think I’m through with you, bitch!” she yelled, slipping into another no-doubt-stolen SUV at the end of the lot, this one a red MDX with fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. I watched her wild hair flying out the window as she turned the corner, disappearing behind the Tip Top Dry Cleaners.

“Come on.” I grabbed Jasmine by the arm, hauling her skinny butt off the ground. “We have to go.”

Jasmine was shaking, and I wasn’t entirely sure I didn’t see a wet stain peeking through her Brazilians. “Is she gone?”

I nodded. “Uh-huh. And we have to be, too.” The only thing worse than being shot at by Isabel would be the