Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla by Laura Levine Read Free Book Online

eyeing his suit, a three-piece number that looked like it was hand-tailored for British royalty.
    “Good afternoon, ladies!”
    He waved genially as he headed into the house.
    “He seems nice,” I said.
    “He is.” Veronica replied. “The only nice one in the family.”
    “Probably because he’s not a blood relative.”
    “Yeah. Way too many sharks in that gene pool.”
    “Well, good luck,” I said.

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    “You, too.”
    Then we bid each other good-bye and got in our cars, happy to be heading out of shark-infested waters.

    Chapter 5
    Dreading the task of turning Romeo into Dr. McDreamy, I decided to procrastinate with a visit to Miss Emily’s Escort Service.
    Unlike my usual methods of procrastination—
    daytime TV, computer solitaire, and partying with my good buddies Ben & Jerry—this really wasn’t a waste of time. After all, the wedding was mere days away and I hadn’t even begun to line up a suitable neurosurgeon fiancé.
    So after a quick pit stop at my apartment for lunch and a belly rub (Prozac got the belly rub; I got the lunch), I got in my Corolla and set off to go fiancé shopping.
    Miss Emily’s was headquartered in Culver City, a once-drab industrial part of town that has in recent years become hip and gentrified and ever so happening. Miss Emily’s, however, was located in one of Culver City’s few remaining drab pockets. I drove past the hip happening cafés to a block of auto body shops, where I found her tiny storefront office jammed between Big Al’s Towing and the Acme Sheet Metal Company.
    Miss Emily may have been discriminating about escorts, but she was clearly willing to lower her standards when it came to real estate.

    48
    Laura Levine
    I parked across the street and made my way over to the dingy office, my bad vibes strumming like a banjo. But I couldn’t rush to judgment.
    After all, I wouldn’t want anyone judging me by my office, aka my dining room table, complete with I � My Cat coffee mug and said cat snoozing in my in-box.
    No, I had to give Miss Emily a chance.
    I stepped inside her establishment, gulping at the sight of the moth-eaten carpeting and creaky file cabinets that had doubtless been around since the McKinley administration.
    In the center of the room, feet propped up on a battered metal desk, was a beefy guy with wiry black hair, making notes on a racing form.
    “Yeah?” he said, glancing up, his voice a gravelly rasp.
    “Um. I’m looking for Miss Emily.”
    He smiled, exposing a mouthful of gleaming (and, I suspect, store-bought) teeth.
    “I’m Miss Emily.”
    As he put down his racing form, I could see that his substantial gut was encased in a tight black T-shirt, the words Practice Makes Pervert emblazoned across his chest.
    Uh-oh. Time to skedaddle.
    “I’m Rocky. I bought the business from the old bat three years ago. So what can I do for you, honey?” he asked, shooting me an oily grin.
    Just tell him you’ve made a mistake and get the heck out of here.
    “You lookin’ for a fella? Sure you are. I can tell by that desperate look in your eye.”
    It’s not desperation. It’s nausea!
    “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he said, bounding out from behind the desk and putting KILLING BRIDEZILLA
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    a hammy arm around my shoulder. “Trust me.
    I’ll find you a fella that’ll knock your panties off.”
    “You don’t understand. That’s not what I’m looking for—”
    “You into girls? I can do that, too.”
    “No. No girls!”
    “Here, doll, have a seat.” He swept some X-rated magazines from a battered lawn chair and eased me down into it. “My clients don’t usually come down here in person. Usually the gals pick their dates over the phone.”
    He plopped down on the edge of his desk, legs crossed (thank heavens for that), and smiled his idea of an avuncular smile, exposing a hunk of cottage cheese between his teeth.
    “So, sweetie. Tell Uncle Rocky what you want.”
    Oh, well. As long as I was