Page 30 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

I pushed my hair back to show her the shaved place in my hairline. “I’m sure.”

“I guess you are. What happened?”

“I took a header in the mall parking lot.” That version saved on explanations. Some other time I might have been in the mood for a lot of drama and sympathy, but right then I was moving on, and wanted to put all that behind me.

She wet my hair with a spray bottle of water, combed my hair back, and started cutting. I had a moment of panic when a half-foot-long strand of blond hair fell on the cape over my lap, but I was strong and didn’t whimper at all. Besides, it was too late to turn back, and there’s no point in wasting a whimper.

By the time Shay finished her magic with the blow dryer and curling iron, I was ecstatic. My new chin-length hairstyle was chic, swingy, and sexy. One side was pushed back and really showed off my earrings, while the other side sort of swooped down to cover the outside half of my eyebrow, which also, of course, meant it covered the stitches and shaved patch. I gave a tentative shake of my head, just in case the headache waited to pounce on me again, but I remained pain free and my hair did a very satisfying swing and bounce before settling back into place.

When you know you look good, the whole world seems a better place.

I called Wyatt as soon as I was back in the car. “I just got my hair cut,” I told him. “It’s short.”

He paused, and I could hear background noise that told me he wasn’t alone. “How short?” he finally asked, his voice both wary and pitched low.

I’ve never known a man who likes short hair on a woman. I think their DNA is damaged by testosterone poisoning. “Short.”

He muttered something that sounded like “shit.”

“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” I said cheerfully, “so I thought I’d give you a blow job to make it up to you. Toodle.”

I hung up, feeling very pleased with myself. If he was able to think of anything besides me for the rest of the day, I’d be surprised.

There was time to pick up something to eat before going to work, so I swung by my favorite barbecue restaurant and got a sandwich to go. Traffic was heavy because the lunch-hour crowd was scrambling to get back to work before one. I was the last in line in a left-hand turn lane waiting for the green arrow when a flash of white filled my rearview mirror.

Automatically I looked in the mirror. A white car was riding my bumper, so close I couldn’t see what kind of car it was. The driver was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. A man? I couldn’t be certain. A smallish man, maybe. I let my car roll forward enough to see the emblem on the front of the white car; it was a Chevrolet. The driver immediately pulled the Chevy close again, closer than before.

My stomach knotted. I had to get over this paranoia. I’d almost been hit by a beige Buick, not a white Chevrolet, so where was the logic? Just because I’d twice seen a white Chevrolet behind me yesterday? It wasn’t as if white Chevrolets were rare; if I’d been paying attention, I probably had a white Chevrolet behind me at least once every time I went somewhere. Big deal.

My stomach wouldn’t listen to logic, and it stayed knotted. On the traffic light, the green arrow lit and the line of vehicles began moving forward like a snake, the head moving first, then the next segment, until the entire line was moving. I put some distance between me and the white car, distance that it immediately closed. I looked in the mirror; I could tell that the driver had both hands on the wheel, which made it seem as if he or she was deliberately tailgating me.

I was driving an agile, responsive car with a powerful engine that didn’t redline until it hit about seven thousand rpms. If I couldn’t get away from a tailgating Chevrolet, then I might as well trade this baby in for a Yugo.

Giving a quick check to the traffic around me, I whipped the Mercedes to the right, into the middle lane, taking advantage of a space barely big enough to squeeze into. A horn blared behind me, terrifyingly close, but I swung into the far right lane then shot forward, passing three cars in as many seconds. A glance in the mirror showed the white Chevy trying to swerve into the middle lane, where it almost sideswiped a delivery truck before the driver of the Chevy jerked the car back into the left lane.

Oh my God. If it’s really happening, then it isn’t paranoia. That carwasfollowing me!

I braked hard and took the next right, then the next right again. I would have circled the block and got myself behind the white Chevy, but in their wisdom modern street planners almost never put streets in a grid anymore. Instead of a nice ordinary block, I found myself driving on a wide street that curved back and forth, with a lot of cul-de-sacs on it. The cul-de-sacs were filled with various businesses, so it wasn’t even a residential area. Excuse me, but has no one ever told these stupid urban planners thatgridsare the most efficient means of moving traffic?

After several frustrating minutes, I gave up trying to work my way back to the street I wanted to be on and simply turned around and went back the way I’d come.

This was weird in the extreme. I don’t mean the layout of the city streets, I mean this business with the white Chevrolet. I don’t even know anyone who drives a white Chevrolet! I mean, maybe I do, but I don’t know it. Like Shay, for instance; I have no idea which car in the parking lot at the hair salon is hers. Or my favorite clerk at the local grocery store. See what I mean? Any of them could drive a white Chevy and I wouldn’t know it.

Was there something about me that tipped nutcases over the edge? Some undetectable attractant that sucked them into my orbit? And was there any way to spit them back out and send them on their way? There were other people out there who deserved stalking way more than I did.

Before I pulled back onto the main drag I took a good look around and saw four various models of white Chevrolets. I’m telling you, they were everywhere. None of the drivers paid me the least bit of attention, though, so I pulled into traffic and drove straight to the downtown area where Great Bods was located.

A white Chevrolet was parked at the curb directly across from Great Bods. Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, watching the driver’s-side mirror. I saw the sunglasses reflected in the mirror and the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

I took the turn on two wheels, tires smoking, but I didn’t go to the back because being alone back there didn’t strike me as smart. Instead I pulled into the public parking area in front and skidded to a stop. Leaping out, I darted for the front door of Great Bods as I pulled my cell phone out of my bag. If that nutcase wanted a piece of me, he or she would have to attack me in front of witnesses, at least, and not in an empty back lot.

Maybe I should have called 911, but I didn’t. I simply did the redial thing and called Wyatt, as I wheeled to stare through the front windows at the white Chevrolet parked across the street.

“Blair?” Lynn said behind me. “What’s wrong?”

“Blair,” Wyatt said in my ear, so my name came at me in stereo.

“Someone’s following me,” I said, my teeth chattering in reaction to all the adrenaline sizzling through me. “A white four-door Chevrolet Malibu…looks like a new model, a 2006 or maybe a 2005. It followed me yesterday, too—”

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