She'll Take It by Mary Carter Read Free Book Online Page B

like this. Water isn’t helping. The Oregon Trail has turned into Crater Lake. Stained and wet would be perfect if I were going to, say, The Rodeo Bar, but it isn’t going to cut it in a law firm. I should go home and change, but I don’t have time. On the other hand, if I show up looking like a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest, it’s not going to reflect well on me either. Especially with Miss I-hate-you-for-stealing-my-latest-man-toy Wilcox. Imagine Ray being stuck with her. I did them both a favor. Everybody knows that musicians are temperamental and models are narcissistic. It’s that genetic recipe that gives birth to future politicians. I was saving them from themselves. But I have to face facts. Even if Trina is over the whole soap dish incident by now, she still wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to get me fired.
    No. I definitely cannot show up at Parks and Landon looking like this. Then I see a sign with three, beautiful, little words. Well, technically, three huge words in fire engine red. Blow. Out. Prices. Fate has planted a sweet, little department store right in my way. I glance at my watch. It’s 8:35 and I’m still a good ten blocks away from the law firm. But I can always hop in a cab. That would leave me fifteen minutes or so to find a pretty scarf to cover my stain. That’s it, I’m just going to walk in and steal a scarf. Buy a scarf, buy a scarf, buy a scarf. I throw a prayer to the Saint of Freudian Slips —I really meant buy a scarf . You’ll see. I’m going to walk up to the register and pay for it like a normal human being.
    Finding a scarf is not going to be a problem. Getting out of here in fifteen minutes or less is going to be impossible. The place is jam packed. We’re talking wall to wall breasts, hips, and stuffed purses laced with a symphony of cheap perfume. Women are juggling the merchandise like carnival junkies and grabbing sales as if stalking the last slab of meat for their starving villagers. It is a study of the disintegration of the human race. It is neither spiritually fulfilling nor feminine nor feminist. It’s discount shopping.
    The aisles are stacked with ready-made tables and blinking red signs boasting slashed prices. The lines at the register trail the entire length of the store. Some of the sales associates are still smiling at their customers despite the line, but others glare at you as if they have a collection of voodoo dolls beneath the counter with your DNA. You know the moment you leave the store, the sales associate is going to whip out your doll and stab needles in your cushy little heart or add cellulite to your thighs. The stout white clock above the counter is moving like a sloth in quicksand on this day of days, Annual Clearance Day at Brewber’s Department Store.
    My scarf floats on a hook just above a row of sparkling, beaded handbags. It’s swaying from the breeze of heavy, sweating bodies and thin, twittering sticks battling one on one for the goods. This is not a race of the fittest or prettiest but the quickest. The scarf is me hanging there—vulnerable, beautiful, and alone. It is a light, misty green color and so, so soft. The perfect soulmate for my cashmere sweater. Now that I’ve seen it, I can’t imagine wearing this sweater without it. In fact, after I get the sweater dry-cleaned, I’ll give it back to Kim with the scarf. Really, they were made for each other. If it were as easy to find a man as it was this scarf, I would never steal again.
    To reach it, however, I have to squeeze past a horde of teenage savages insulting each other with their best smiles and high-pitched squeals. (“Like really. Like it looks good on you. Like, with that flower in the middle, like you hardly notice how like flat your chest is.”) Finally I am close enough to touch it. It is so soft, so free! But when I reach for the scarf, instead of its silky grace I feel skin. Scratchy,