These Boots Were Made for Stomping (22 page)

Hang on, Hailey. First things first.

“Okay, I’m done,” Thomas announced, breaking her out of her white-picket-fence dreams.

She practically dove to the other bed. “Let me see.”

He held up the sketchbook, out of her reach. “No way, José. This piece of garbage is going into the trash the second you’re
done tracking down Mr. Hollywood. I can’t afford to have it end up on DeviantArt or something. My fans would never forgive
me.”

“Fine, fine. As long as it works.” She grabbed the boots again. “I guess I don’t need the rest of the costume,” she decided,
yanking on the footwear. “Don’t want to freak him out with cat ears and a tail. Though maybe I’ll wear the skirt. He was totally
eyeing it earlier.”

She zipped up the boots again and once again that nauseous, tingly feeling came over her, followed by an overwhelming sense
of power.

And—she sniffed—cigarette smoke?

“Thomas Mark Carol, you’ve been smoking!” she exclaimed, shooting him an accusing look. “You told me you quit.”

Thomas scowled and opened his mouth to give some lame excuse, then his eyes widened as he realized what was happening. “It
worked!” he cried, jumping off the bed and clapping his hands together in glee. “Oh my God! You have Super Smell!”

Her eyes widened as she realized he was absolutely right. She could smell the burger and fries the guy was eating in the next
room. The stench of urine on the sidewalks outside. The cheesy J. Lo perfume on the desk clerk downstairs. She could smell
each and every thing with a crystal clarity that was both enticing . . . and disgusting.

Thomas was back at his sketchbook, drawing furiously. A moment later he looked up. “Okay,” he said, breathless with excitement.
“Now shoot hundred-dollar bills from your fingers.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding right?”

“Hey, the Super Smell thing worked. Figured it was worth a try.”

“Fine.” She held out her fingers and concentrated. Sadly, not a single penny drizzled out.

Thomas scowled. “Boo.”

“Makes sense, though,” she said, lowering her hands. “Karma Kitty has the same powers as a cat, only exaggerated, right? It’s
not like she can fly or shoot lasers or anything.”

“True. Brutally disappointing, but true.”

“Anyway, Super Smell works. And that’s what matters.”

“To you, maybe. I would have found the money-producing super claws I designed far more useful.”

She rolled her eyes at him and then sniffed again, closing her eyes and concentrating on visualizing Collin. His delicious
scent—Jil Sander with a mixture of aftershave—that she used to love breathing in. The smells bombarded her, fast and furious,
and at first it was hard to catalog them individually.

Then she caught a whiff of something. Something distinctly Collin-like—somewhere to the northeast. “Well, I guess the best
thing to do is jump in a cab and stick my nose out the window,” she determined. “After all, midtown Manhattan isn’t that big,
right?”

Thomas shot her a doubtful look.

She sighed. If only Comic Con had been held in rural Maine. Would have made things a lot easier. “Well, here I go anyway,”
she said, rising to her feet. “Wish me luck!”

“Meh, you don’t need luck,” Thomas said, giving her the thumbs-up. “You’re Karma Kitty!”

She threw him a grin, exiting the room while praying he was right.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Comfort Inn’s elevator was broken, but Hailey didn’t care. She skipped down the steps, practically dancing for joy. This
was too cool. Too, too cool. If only she’d had superpowers back in the day when she and Collin were together. Maybe she could
have kicked some alien-abductor ass and made it to the church on time. They’d be married right now. Living happily ever after.

She pushed open the front lobby door and stepped out onto West 46
^th
Street. No use dwelling on what might have been. It was time to make the present what it should be.

The nose-out-the-cab-window thing turned out to be a lot easier than she thought it’d be, and the cab driver didn’t even seem
taken aback by his sniffy, indecisive passenger. Guess you got a lot weirder than that as a NYC hack, and as long as the meter
ran and she didn’t, it was all good for him.

Not fifteen minutes later, she asked him to stop in front of The Rock Hotel, right outside of Times Square. Collin’s scent
was strong here and she was positive this had to be the place. She paid and exited the cab, stuffed sack of Chinese takeout
in hand. (The smell had been irresistible to her newly sensitized nose, and they
had
missed dinner, after all.)

Walking straight to the front desk, Hailey asked for Collin’s room number. But the snotty clerk informed her that “due to
privacy concerns” he couldn’t give that information to some random girl off the street. After much pleading, he did agree
to ring Collin’s room, but no one answered. He suggested she come back later.

Hailey knew Collin was in the building; she could smell him clearly now. He was probably just ignoring calls or in the bathroom
or something. So she headed over to the elevator, determined to sniff him out. The doors slid open a moment later, revealing
a stiff, uniformed man inside. She stepped into the elevator and the man politely inquired as to what floor she’d like to
go to.

“Huh?” she asked, taken aback.

“Which floor?” the man repeated, louder, as if she were foreign and thus more likely to comprehend the English language when
it was spoken three decibels higher.

“Oh.” This was one of those old-fashioned hotels that retained a useless elevator operator. Figured. She gave a sniff, trying
to ignore the overwhelming Old Spice the man had evidently doused his body with before coming to work. “Hm.”

It wasn’t that she couldn’t smell Collin. In fact, his scent was nearly overpowering. But all she could tell from her vantage
point in the elevator was that it was somewhere, well, up. She glanced at the numbers. Ugh—fifty-eight floors.

“Floor twenty-three?” she suggested, deciding to go for something near the middle. Maybe once she was there she’d get a better
sense of whether he was higher or lower. The bellhop pressed the button and the elevator chimed as the doors slid shut.

They were off.

She sniffed again, closing her eyes to concentrate on the direction of Collin’s scent. Sure enough, as they rose, the smell
grew stronger and stronger. Then, somewhere around the fifteenth floor, it started fading again. She glanced over at the yawning
elevator operator, wondering what she should do.

The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival at floor twenty-three. The doors slid open.

“Er,” she stammered, as the bellhop looked at her expectantly. “I think I meant floor . . . um . . . thirteen? Yeah. Definitely
floor thirteen. Sorry about that.”

The guy threw a bland smile in her direction, but something in his eyes made her realize that perhaps he was not entirely
pleased by this misstep.

“What?” she asked.

“Madame, this hotel has no thirteenth floor,” he explained. “Hotels rarely do. It’s said to be unlucky.”

She restrained from smacking her forehead in a “duh” moment. “Sorry,” she said. “I meant the fourteenth floor. Silly me.”
Maybe she should get out and walk up and down the stairs. . . .

The operator nodded stiffly and pressed the button labeled fourteen. Once again the doors slid shut and the elevator began
its descent. She watched the LCD display above the door drop in digits, sniffing each time it did, until—

“Sixteen!” she cried triumphantly. “He’s on floor sixteen.”

The hotel employee glowered at her. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open to the fourteenth floor, as had been directed.
He made no move to push the sixteen button.

“Sixteen,” she repeated, annoyed that this chump was now getting in the way of her meeting up with Collin. Why did they even
have a guy operating the elevator to begin with? Surely most guests could figure out how to press the buttons themselves.
. . .

The man smiled again, this time giving off a distinct, “I hate my life” look. She resisted the urge to suggest he hit Monster
.com at home to look for a real job.

“Perhaps Madame would like to go down to concierge and check her room number with the staff?”

Perhaps Monsieur would like me to shove a Karma Kitty boot
up his ass?
“Nah, that’s okay. I’m sure now. Sixteen. Definitely sixteen.”

“Very well.” He pressed number sixteen and away they went. A moment later, the doors slid open. “Where to now?” asked the
operator, not expecting for a moment that she had indeed reached her final destination.

“Nowhere. This is it.” She breathed in deeply, taking in Collin’s delicious scent. Musky, dark, heavenly. “Thanks, man. Sorry
about that.”

“Not a problem.”

Yeah, right. Feeling bad, she grabbed a few crumpled bills from her pocket and shoved them into his hand before exiting the
elevator. He took them without a thank-you. Then she headed down the hall to complete her Collin-finding quest, sniffing each
and every room as she passed.

At room 1623 she paused. Another sniff told her this was it. Collin’s room. When she lifted her hand to bang against the door,
she realized it was shaking.

“Okay, here goes nothing,” she murmured and knocked.

“Just a minute!”

Panic slammed into her with the force of a ten-ton truck at the sound of Collin’s voice, mixed with his heady scent. In addition
to Jil Sander, he now smelled like honeysuckle and jasmine. Which could only mean—

The door swung open, revealing Collin, half naked, clad only in a towel slung low across his narrow hips. Dripping wet, obviously
just out of the shower from the smell of it, beads of water clinging to chest hair.

She swallowed hard, doing all she could not to pass out with desire. Wow. Just . . . wow. She’d forgotten what an amazing
body her former boyfriend had. All hard planes of muscle, encased in a smooth, olive-toned skin. No middle-aged spread for
him; he had a perfect six-pack. And just enough five o’clock shadow dusting his chiseled face to make him look dangerous.

He was perfection. And suddenly Hailey felt rather lame.

“Um, hi!” she exclaimed, holding up the bag of takeout. “Hungry?”

If Collin had opened his door and found Bigfoot standing there, grinning from ear to furry ear, he couldn’t have been more
surprised. Hailey Hills, hovering at his hotel room door, arms full of Chinese food. His brain told him he should slam the
door shut in her face, locking her out of his life forever. After all, he’d just wasted a damn hour in a very fine restaurant,
waiting for her to show up for an elegant dinner for two. He’d dressed up. He’d bought roses. He’d ordered a bottle of their
finest champagne. And she was a no-show. Again. Just like on their wedding day. And he’d had to endure the pitying stares
all over again from the other patrons and waiters and maitre-d’.
Yes, I got stood
up. I am that chump.

And now, here she was, plastic sack of dim sum and noodles in hand, probably armed with a wild tale of why she couldn’t make
it to the restaurant on time, expecting that once again he would see fit to forgive her flakiness and lies.

Yes, his brain was right. He should shut the door in her face. But, of course, he didn’t. The dumplings smelled good. She
smelled even better. He was human, after all.

Sighing, he widened the door to allow her entrance. “Come in.”

“Thanks!” she cried, sounding too eager, too cheerful. She was obviously nervous. As she entered the room, Collin realized
the suite was a mess—underwear strewn on the floor, work papers everywhere. He walked over to the sofa to clear off a space.
“Sorry about dinner,” she said, as he set his suitcase on the floor. “I got . . . held up.”

He turned to look at her, bracing himself for what would come next. The infamous Hailey Hills excuse. What would she come
up with this time? He grabbed his jeans and headed for the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. “By aliens?” he asked through
the door. “Bigfoot? The evil Loch Ness monster?” A bit cruel, but it couldn’t have been unexpected.

“Try my evil publisher.”

He opened the door, surprised. “Publisher?” he asked, peeking out at her. That certainly wasn’t the answer he had been expecting.

Hailey nodded, slumping onto the couch. She was still wearing that crazy short plaid skirt she had on earlier and the gap
of skin between it and her thigh-highs was making his jeans way too tight. He hoped she wouldn’t be able to notice.

“Yeah,” she said, staring at the coffee table, as if the copy of
Variety
held the answers to life, the universe, and everything. “She had a bunch of questions about my next issue and would not let
me get away, no matter how I pleaded. I, um, actually pulled into the restaurant just as you were leaving. Tried the old ‘follow
that cab’ trick, but the driver wasn’t having it. Cabbies! I feel so stupid that I didn’t get your cell phone number when
we made plans. Then I could have at least let you know what was going on.”

Collin let out a breath, relieved and delighted at her story. A real excuse. She had a real, legitimate, couldn’t-be-helped
excuse. No crazy, made-up conspiracy theory. No Marilyn Monroe ghosts or demon hunters. Just a good old-fashioned reason why
a girl couldn’t make it on time to a dinner with a guy she liked.

“Anyway, I rushed here as fast I could to apologize,” she continued, putting her boots up on the coffee table and revealing
more leg in the process. God, she was hot. How had he let her get away? “I’m so sorry for leaving you hanging. Especially
since we all know I have a kind of . . . history . . . with that sort of thing.” She blushed. “But I’ve changed. I’m a new
person now. And the weird things that used to happen to me? Well, I ignore them now.”

He joined her on the couch, daring to reach over and pat her thigh-high-clad knee with his hand. “It’s okay,” he said. “Things
happen.”

Hailey squirmed with delight under Collin’s casual touch, wondering if he was half as turned on as she. The electricity crackled
and sparked as he lingered half a second too long for an innocent pat. His fingers trailed, nails lightly scraping her thigh-high
tops.

Things happen
, he’d said. In other words, he totally forgave her for standing him up. She was so right to come here.
Thank you, Karma Kitty. Thank you, magic boots.

Maybe they’d make up tonight. Maybe they’d make out, too. Maybe even . . .

Her brain chose that inopportune moment to give her a reality check. Collin only believed her because she’d out-and-out lied
to him. Gave him a “reasonable” excuse. What kind of start to a reconciliation was that? Lying to get someone to believe you.
Not a very good one.

Still, what was she supposed to do? Tell him the truth? That the magic boots she’d bought online had morphed her into her
comic-book character, giving her the magical powers she needed to save a pirate-comic-book artist from a roving band of ninjas
set on his demise? Just like the alien thing on their wedding day, he’d find it unbelievable. Sure, she could kind of prove
it—do some gymnastic tricks in his hotel room or something—but then she’d come off even weirder than ever. And the last thing
she wanted was for Collin to think she was weirder than he already thought.

If he really loved you, he’d love you weirdness and all,
the inner voice nagged.
And he’d believe you, no matter what.

She pushed the thought out of her brain. She was going to have sex tonight and didn’t need rationality to interfere with the
rare opportunity for multiple orgasms. So she’d told one little eensy-weensy lie. People told each other lies all the time.
No, that dress doesn’t make you look fat. I think
bald is beautiful.
No big deal.

“So, how have you been?” she asked in her brightest voice, digging into the bag of takeout and pulling out the cardboard containers.
“What’s LA like? Where do you live? Do you like your job?”

He held up his hands, laughing. “Whoa. One question at a time,” he said, his beautiful eyes dancing in amusement. “LA is fine.
Smoggy, just like they say. I live in Santa Monica, a couple blocks from the pier. Really nice place, but a hell of a commute
to Studio City every day. And my job’s okay. It pays the bills.”

“But your job sounds so glamorous.”

“It sounds that way, yeah. But it’s a lot of work. A lot of meetings and asking for money. A producer isn’t on the set every
day, doing the actual filming. That would probably be a lot more fun.”

Hailey pulled off the cardboard top of the noodles, allowing a puff of steam to escape. “Do you ever . . . draw anymore?”
she asked.

He stared down at his chopsticks. “Not really,” he said with a small shrug. “Not since, well, you know.”

She did. She remembered the you-know like it was yesterday. The day they’d gotten their fiftieth rejection. The one that said
something along the lines of “We love the concept and the storyline—come back to us once you get a better artist.” The one
written by Straylight Comics. He’d told her right then and there he was giving up art forever. She begged him to reconsider—said
Karma Kitty was nothing without him—but he just shook his head. He was keeping her down, he told her. She could be great.
She just had to let go of the dead weight—aka him.

That had been the beginning of the end for them, she realized, looking back. Collin started applying for Hollywood jobs and
she had found Thomas to take over
Karma Kitty
. They were still planning to get married in a few months, but the joy had been sucked out of the relationship. The hope,
plans, and dreams they shared had evaporated. And a few weeks before the wedding, when Hailey got her acceptance from Straylight
for a
Karma Kitty
series, she found it nearly impossible to face Collin with the news. She’d felt guilty for her own success as it was just
another dig at his failure.