Killer Kisses Read Online Free Page B

if her very life was being replayed before Sandra's disbelieving eyes. “Son of a bitch,” she yelled, and chugged the scotch to wash down a pill. “How dare he do this to me?”
    She hurled the emptytiny crown-shaped bottle across the room, anticipating the satisfaction of shattering glass—and watched it bounce harmlessly off the wall.
    “Dammit! I can’t do anything right!” She punched the pillow, then kicked at the dust-ruffle, only to hit something hard beneath. “Ow, ow, ow!” She grabbed her foot, flopped onto the bed, and sobbed. As she drifted off to sleep, the television whispering in the background, she heard the wronged woman’s friends coaxing her to go with them to a resort to get over her broken heart.
    Hours later, as she emerged from a dream of slapping Jim an infomercial for, ‘The Cure Center, a MediSpa in the beautiful resort town of Lake Placid’ commanded her attention while a flood of memories washed over her.
    In 1980, she and a group of college friends decided to drive from the State University in Albany to Lake Placid to take part in the biggest party UpstateNew York had ever seen during the 1980 Olympic Games. A pre-law student, working part-time as a secretary in a law firm, Sandra scrounged together enough money to buy two tickets to most of the events and stay in a cheap motel. When they arrived in Lake Placid, they went straight to a bar, where her wallet was stolen. Fortunately, she’d listened to her granddad and put the tickets in a money belt. Too bad she hadn’t put her money there, too.
    The next day, bundled in layers of wool and down, and forcing a big smile, she stood on a street corner in downtown Lake Placid holding a cardboard sign that read: “Will Sell—Figure Skating, Ski Jump, etc.”
    A large, handsome man in his thirties stopped in front of her, took a picture, and said, “I’ll buy all your tickets—but only if you go with me.”
    Days later, in the middle of a crowded tavern, Jim and Sandra screamed and cheered with the euphoric crowd as the U.S. hockey team roared into history. When television announcer Al Michaels crowed, “Do you believe in miracles?” Sandra screamed, “Yess!” and hugged Jim.
    He leaned down, kissed her, and shouted, “Marry me!”
    That was more than twenty years ago, when she’d been young, beautiful, and built like Raquel Welch. Now a paralegal and soon-to-be ex-wife, she was still taller than her peers. Gray hairs had begun to silver her auburn brown strands, and she longed to recapture the time in her life when anything had been possible—even miracles. She turned up the volume, listened to the hypnotic spiel for the medical spa that promised rejuvenation, and dialed the twenty-four hour number plastered across the screen.
     
    ~*~
     
    The next day, shards of pain shot through Sandra’s head—either from the rough van ride, the scotch and sleeping pill hangover, or a combination of both. Jim had always said she couldn’t hold her liquor. I guess the S.O.B. called that one right. She pressed her sunglasses firmly in place, and glanced around the vehicle.
    The driver stared ahead at the road, wearing head-phones that blasted music so loud she wondered how much hearing loss he had. The big man with the crew cut sitting at the end of bench seat had helped her into the van at the Westport train station after she’d arrived from Grand Central with little more than the small overnight case she’d packed for the hotel. What was his name? Bert? Bud?
    A young copper-haired girl whom Sandra guessed to be about twelve or thirteen sat between her and what’s-his-name. Dressed in a faux-fur trimmed navy-blue parka, hands clasped in her lap, the girl stared straight ahead, her face an immobile mask. With her attention riveted on the child’s strange affect, Sandra’s headache was all but forgotten. “Who is she?"
    “Shhh.” What’s-his-name stroked the girl’s hair. “Her name’s Erin. Sweet thing’s had a terrible time.