Card Sharks by Liz Maverick Read Free Book Online

shooting was a shooting pain in her right bicep, which seemed to have taken on a twitch. Next to her, Bijoux’s eyes bugged open as she concentrated on manifesting an energy ball from her fingertips.
    â€œLook at these people. They’re all perfect,” Marianne whispered. “You know what I heard today getting my coffee? This gorgeous girl says to her friend, ‘In most cities, people think I’m totally hot; in L.A. I’m, like, totally ugly.’ ”
    A guy on the mat in front of her turned around and sent them a very non-Zen shushing look.
    â€œYeah, it’s crazy,” Bijoux whispered back. “The other day I got an e-mail from a benefit-circuit friend of mine. She offered to split a set of BOTOX shots that she was getting on discount from some celebrity plastic surgeon. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.” She dropped an arm and pressed her fingers into the theoretically wrinkly spot between her eyes. “Is it that bad?”
    â€œYou look fine. Not that you believe me. All I can say is that if you’re going to buy botulism for the sole purpose of injecting it into your body, don’t get it on discount. For God’s sake get the best damn botulism you can get.” A girl Marianne recognized as a runner-up from one of the The Bachelor seasons turned around and shushed them. Marianne just rolled her eyes. “She’s not that famous,” she said not quite under her breath, and was rewarded in turn by frowns from some of the other participants.
    â€œWe are one with the spirit as we geeeeeennnnnttttttlllly flow up and around to the other side. Let your negative energy simply leach from your body . . . that’s right. . . .”
    â€œBijoux.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI don’t think this fancy stretching is for me. And we can’t even talk, much less flirt with anybody.”
    â€œNow find a flame and focus on it. Parse the colors of the flame and find your center. . . .”
    â€œWhat the hell?” Marianne asked.
    Bijoux shushed her, her head turning to the right as she focused on a row of candles along the wall. “I’m beginning to feel it. Look into the light, Marianne. Follow the light.”
    â€œNow follow my lead. We’ll remain silent for this sequence as we focus ourselves in the eye of the flame,” the leader said. She was clearly one of those people who’d taken dance lessons at the age of three and had been stretching for the last three decades, for her “lead” consisted of lifting her leg up and around and sticking her foot behind her neck.
    Bijoux dutifully tried to arrange her limbs in the appropriate position.
    â€œDon’t do it. You’ll hurt something,” Marianne hissed.
    Bijoux shushed her and continued trying to lift her leg up. She lost her balance and keened wildly to the side, rolling into a wooden trencher filled with candles. The Zen-like display wavered, then toppled.
    Bijoux squealed; Marianne shrieked, “She’s on fire!” and tackled her friend, smothering her head with an exercise mat, which was probably not flame-retardant but which managed to have the appropriate effect this time. Things suddenly went very quiet.
    â€œGet it off me, Marianne,” came Bijoux’s very indignant voice. “It’s gross and sweaty.”
    Marianne peeled the mat off her friend’s face and the two girls examined the singed piece of hair smoldering on the side of Bijoux’s head.
    â€œMaybe you should make that hair-replacement therapy appointment now,” Marianne said, her mouth twitching dangerously as she tried not to laugh.
    Bijoux fingered the damage. “It’s just one of my hair extensions. Are you ready to go?”
    â€œI’m ready to go.” The two girls stood up, making a flailingattempt at replacing the fallen candles and the capsized trencher. It didn’t work. Sort of