These Boots Were Made for Stomping by Julie Kenner Read Free Book Online Page B

What’s he going to
     want with me?”
    Amy looked pointedly down at Lydia’s feet.
    “No way,” Lydia protested. “That’s not real. I’m just me. No superhero here,” she said, spreading her arms.
    “Well, I think you should go for it. He’s your fantasy guy, Lydia. What harm is there in trying to snag him? I mean, come
     on. A guy who can fly and beat up thugs has to be pretty darn good in be—”
    “Amy!” Lydia protested, feigning shock.
    “Well, it’s true,” Amy pouted.
    “And it’s moot,” Lydia said. “Don’t know how to find him. Case closed. The end. Over and out.”
    Amy just scowled.
    “Let’s focus on getting me a new job,” Lydia said, taking a sip of the fresh Cosmo the waitress put in front of her—her fourth.
     “That’s productive, right?”
    “Productive,” Amy agreed. “But not fun.”
    In the end, Lydia decided it wasn’t that productive, either. They batted ideas around, but considering the level of Cosmopolitan
     in Lydia’s blood and the level of merlot in Amy’s, they didn’t get very far.
    The best Amy came up with was Lydia standing at a major intersection and having her shoes kick the snot out of surly-looking
     passersby. All with an open guitar case, of course, to collect the coins thrown in by other amused pedestrians.
    “Can you please be serious,” Lydia begged, though she had to admit the idea made her laugh—the thought that she could not only stand out in
     public like that, but actually beat somebody up. Maybe she could start with Mr. Stout.
    “Probably better to print out a million copies of your résumé and deliver it all over town,” Amy admitted. “Not as interesting,
     but at least you’d have benefits.”
    By the time they finished drinking and planning Lydia’s future, it was near midnight, and Lydia had quite the buzz. “Wanna
     split a cab home?” Amy asked, stumbling a little.
    “No thanks,” Lydia said. “I think I’ll walk.” Her heels were at least twice as high as Amy’s—and she’d had twice as much to
     drink—but she felt remarkably sure-footed. Light-headed and giggly, but totally sure-footed. More than that, she had a feeling
     the cool October breeze would feel great on her alcohol-flushed face.
    “You’re sure you’ll be okay?” Amy asked, but Lydia just raised an eyebrow. “Right. The shoes. Okay. But Lydia . . . be careful.”
    “I will,” Lydia assured her, then saw her friend safely into a cab. After that, she turned and started walking uptown toward
     the subway station that would whisk her away to her empty, boyfriendless apartment, now being paid for out of her savings
     since she was a jobless loser.
    Oh, hell . Maybe she should have shared a cab with Amy. Her friend at least would have propped her up when her confidence started to
     fail.
    “Fat lot of good you guys are doing,” she said to her shoes. “What good does it do to beat up muggers if I lose the only job
     I’ve had since college?”
    The shoes didn’t answer (which was probably a good thing) and Lydia continued to stumble forward, her thoughts a collage of
     bills, thugs, gorgeous superheroes, résumés, hunky tawny-haired men, Cosmopolitans, and, yes, the Silver Streak.
    Not that she was obsessed with him or anything. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought of anything else all day. She had. She’d
     thought about her job. And losing her job. And telling Amy about losing her job. And she’d thought about Cosmopolitans and
     hanging out with Amy.
    And, yes, she’d thought about the guy. But not in an overly obsessive way. It wasn’t as if even now she could hear his voice,
     low and sultry and slightly dangerous as if delivered on the wind from Mount Olympus or something, because he was certainly
     gorgeous enough to have descended from the ancient Greek gods.
    “You think . . . defeated me . . . never . . . not . . . lifetime . . . impossible.”
    Wait. What?
    The voice wasn’t in her head, it was in her ears. On the street.