3

      AS IF SKYE’S LIFE couldn’t get any more bizarre, now she was being stalked by a guy whose car cost more than her entire college education?

      Okay, maybe not stalked, but having him pull up beside her in his testosterone-mobile and get out right there in front of her apartment building was a little bit more than her shaky nerves could handle at the moment. She’d driven most of the way home a whimpering, sniveling ball of self-pity, picturing an evening at home with her roommate while they shared their favorite comfort food—a white pizza with extra garlic and mushrooms—and made bad jokes about her employment prospects.

      Having an entirely different and unwelcome kind of Italian dish show up on her doorstep had not been part of the plan.

      All her instincts were screaming, “Run! Get away from Nico! Don’t trust a guy who wears a perpetual smirk!”

      But she already knew her instincts, such as they were, sucked the big one. So where did that leave her?

      Out of a job, ripped off by her ex, humiliated by a guy who’d gotten famous by driving around in circles really, really fast. Totally unsure what to do with Nico Valletti.

      Screwed.

      Skye turned around and dropped her bag on the floor, strangely aware of the mystery bra lurking within it. Then she realized she wasn’t alone in the living room.

      Her roommate, Fiona, was sitting on the couch, her knees drawn up to her chest. “Who was that?”

      “Satan.”

      “I always thought he’d look a little more obvious.”

      “Apparently he only wears the red devil suit in movies.”

      Fiona suppressed a smile. “Okay, so is Satan masquerading as any particular human today?”

      “Martin’s ex-landlord.”

      “He looked kind of hot—and not in a fire-and-brimstone sense. While you look like hell,” she said, staring at Skye’s cheeks. “You’ve got mascara trails.”

      Skye glanced at herself in the mirror next to the door and saw exactly how ridiculous she looked with her eye makeup streaked down her face. “Just freaking perfect.”

      “And Satan disguised as Martin’s ex-landlord is outside our door because…?”

      “Because he thinks I have information that could help him find Martin.”

      Fiona frowned, then started absentmindedly fiddling with her toe rings. That’s what she always did when she was deep in thought.

      “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.” Skye had learned the hard way that Fiona’s advice on life matters great and small often led to unexpected results. Skye’s recent highlighting debacle at the hair salon was a case in point.

      “You don’t even know what I was thinking about.”

      “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to hear about it.”

      “You’re still mad at me about those highlights, aren’t you?”

      Skye ignored the question, took off her shoes and headed for the kitchen, praying there was still a Diet Coke left in the fridge.

      “I still think platinum is a good color on you,” Fiona called after her.

      One lonely bottle of Diet Coke stood in the refrigerator door, as if the beverage gods knew she’d need some caffeinated comfort. She grabbed it and returned to the living room, where Fiona had moved on from her toe rings to wrapping one of the two braids she had her hair in today around her fingers. Hair fiddling represented Fiona’s deepest level of thought and was normally reserved for creative endeavors, such as when she had an idea for a new collage.

      “I hope you’re deep in thought about art and not my life.”

      Skye sank into her favorite purple chair and propped her feet on the matching ottoman. For the first time, she noticed that Fiona was listening to some strange jungle-sounds CD and watching CNN at the same time. An assortment of odd objects—everything from boa feathers to bottle caps—lay scattered on the coffee table in front of her. This meant she was trying to get new ideas for her work.

      “Sorry, I’m interrupting your brainstorming with my life drama, aren’t I?” That was the thing about living with an artist—it was hard to tell if she was working or just sitting on the couch.

      Fiona shrugged and stopped playing with the braid. She had long black hair, pale skin and luminous green eyes, but what turned heads everywhere she went was her confidence. She was so self-possessed, so comfortable in her skin, she could wear her hair in pigtails and make it look sexy. Skye envied that.

      “What would I have for entertainment if not your guy problems?” Fiona said.

      “I am so screwed.”

      “Because of Satan? Why don’t you just talk to him and tell him everything you know about Martin. Then he’ll leave you alone.”

      “That’s not why I’m screwed. I just got fired.”

      Her eyes widened. “Fired from Dynasucks? What happened?”

      “I don’t want to talk about the lurid details right now.” Skye took a long drink of her Diet Coke, blatantly breaking her recent pact with Fiona to drink only natural, unprocessed fluids.

      “Does it have something to do with that Satan guy?”

      “Yes—well, no. I don’t know,” Skye said. Not that she’d helped matters by giving her boss every reason in the world to fire her.

      “Did you tell Nelly to go screw himself?”

      “No, I totally wimped out.”

      “Why?” Fiona had been subject to enough of Skye’s rants about what she’d say to Nelly on the day she left Dynalux to deserve an answer, but Skye wasn’t sure she had a decent one.

      She shrugged. “Because I want to be polite to the people who attempt to ruin my life?”

      Fiona shook her head but said nothing.

      “Stop with the disapproving silence!”

      “You’ll find a better job. I saw a help wanted sign at Starbucks this morning,” she said. It was Fiona’s lame version of a joke.

      “You went to Starbucks? What happened to your disavowing all unnatural beverages?”

      Fiona managed to look chagrined—not one of her more common emotions. “Coffee beans are natural. Sort of.”

      “I can’t take another sales job. I think I’d rather turn tricks.”

      “You’re way too much of a wuss to be a hooker.”

      “Do you have any better ideas?”

      “There’s always waitressing. I could talk to Tommy at Club Sunset and beg him to give you a job again.”

      Skye sighed. She’d be back where she’d started in college. She and Fiona had met five years ago when they were both waitresses at the bar and grill where Fiona still worked. But what other option did she have?

      None at the moment.

      “I’ll be forever in your debt, Fi.”

      “I’m working tonight. I’ll talk to him then,” she said, but the ironic look she gave Skye told the truth about the situation.

      It sucked.

      Skye had left the job and Club Sunset three years ago with a vow never to go back, she’d been so sure she