A Bitch Named Karma

Book 1: Karma Kollection

by Stephanie Haefner

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Sports Romance

Synopsis

Karma may be a bitch, but sometimes she knows what she's doing.

When author Lexi Marshall's perfectly fabulous life of designer clothes, nights on the town with her sexy boyfriend, and a successful writing career literally go up in flames, she must take on Karma and fight to gain control over her life.

Lexi believes her cliché-filled novels are the reason for Karma's wrath and after a high calorie pity party, she's determined to rebuild her life to what it once was. . .that is, until her gynecologist utters a phrase she never expected or wanted to hear: she's pregnant. Unfortunately, the father is her fresh out-of-the-closet best friend and not the new man in her life..

74,187 Words

Release date: June 7, 2010

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 266

Sample

 

Chapter 1

 

“Finito!” I screamed, not caring if the entire building heard me.

I’d just typed The End on my latest manuscript and that meant another Lexi Marshall masterpiece was ready for the printers. Val would be ecstatic. As friend, confidante and editor extraordinaire, her job title usually included “nag” as well. But for once, I was two weeks ahead of my deadline.

Dressed in satin pajamas, I sprawled across my purple velvet duvet, marabou-covered slippers on my feet. My chocolaty rich curls were twisted on top of my head, held in place by a jewel-adorned clip. I stretched my arms above my head and pointed my toes, feeling a tingle throughout my body. The deep stretch loosened everything. Man, that felt great!

My laptop lay in front of me, glowing with accomplishment. She was my faithful friend who stuck by me through writer’s block and bad metaphors. Even when I’d threatened to pick her up and throw her across the room, she never gave me even a moment of spiteful malfunction. This was just as much her success as it was mine.

I clicked Save and copied the file to disc. This first installment, Marisol Takes Manhattan, was the beginning of a three book series. Book two would follow my heroine as she searched for Mr. Right. Of course it wouldn’t be easy. I’d throw all kinds of bumps in her road. And the final book, the piece de resistance, would be my first ever wedding-themed novel, a journey down the aisle complete with bridesmaids from hell and one wedding disaster after another. I’d been waiting forever for a three-book deal!

I closed the computer and hopped off the bed, pressing Play on my favorite 80’s CD. I did a happy dance around the room, belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. Not only was I delirious with joy, but the feeling of accomplishment put me in a horny mood. My boyfriend, Zak, and I had spent most of the previous month buried in our own workloads, rarely having the energy for a quick missionary, let alone any fun kinky stuff.

Finishing this book gave me a sense of uninhibited freedom and a delicious thought crossed my mind. I could dress in my black hooker boots—as Zak affectionately named them—and trench coat, absolutely nothing underneath. A little nookie in his office would be quite a surprising way to spend the afternoon. It sounded completely insane but also quite fun. I just had to do it.

The sexy office tryst had to wait a bit, though. I shimmied into a black lace thong, classy pinstriped pants and said hooker boots, then finished the rest of my primping. Cha Cha, my Chihuahua, scurried after me as I headed toward the door. I gave her a little kiss on the nose before dashing out.

I found Val hidden behind a pile of manuscripts. She took one look at me and sighed.

“Please don’t tell me you need some coddling today. I’m drowning in alien love stories and super-spy dramas. And if I have to read one more teen vampire knock-off, I might just roll up the pages and fashion them into a noose!”

“Val, I know you thrive on drama, but isn’t this a little much?”

“If you had to read through as many of these as I did, you wouldn’t think so.”

“Well, I have great news! Marisol Takes Manhattan is finished.”

“You’re kidding. Please don’t joke with me, not today.” A pencil sat behind each ear and in her hand, another half-chewed one.

“No joke. Here she is.”

I handed her the disc, her eyes suddenly widening.

“I’ll leave you to your, uh, noose,” I said with a smile then turned to leave.

“Did I tell you I love you?”

“Not today!”

I headed to Accounting to pick up my latest royalty check. After being handed a perfectly plain number ten envelope—something I had become quite infatuated with over the years—I carefully placed it in my purse. As much as I wanted to tear it open and kiss its beautiful figures, I had other needs to attend to.

Inside the bathroom at Smith & Roland Publishing, I shed my pinstripe pants and silk cami. After stuffing them into my silver metallic Fendi bag, I wrapped my sleek black trench around me tightly. Every button had been slipped through its corresponding hole while the belt sat in a secure knot at my waist. My lips were painted with a shade of M.A.C. lipstick appropriately named Eager. The twenty-dollar pout screamed “kiss me now.” My body emanated Zak’s favorite perfume, its sweet yet sensual mix of aniseed, violets, vanilla and musk. The day we’d bought it, a tester bottle in a Martinique gift shop led to hours of love-making in a tropical paradise.

I walked the five blocks to Zak’s office, the satin lining of my coat rubbing on my thighs. Riding the elevator to the tenth floor among businessmen in suits and secretaries in conservative blouses and skirts, I felt quite naughty. If they only knew what lay under my simple black coat—barely a square foot of transparent fabric covering only my most intimate body parts.

Thoughts of what I could do when I walked into Zak’s office swirled through my brain and brought a goofy smirk to my face. Just thinking of my finished manuscript made me a little wet. If I thought of all the Kama Sutra positions we could do in his desk chair, I’d be dripping by the time I actually made it to his office.

Zak’s secretary Ruth sat manning her post outside his office picking at an over micro-waved lasagna in a cardboard tray. Her graying hair and decades-old wardrobe made her a prime candidate for a makeover show, one where the victim is ambushed at work, their friends and family waiting in the wings.

After wiping a spot of sauce from the corner of her mouth, Ruth buzzed Zak on the intercom and alerted him of my presence.

“Well, um, go ahead and send her in,” he said over the speakerphone. Even with a McDonald’s drive-through quality, the sound of his voice had added to my arousal.

“Tough day, baby?” I asked in my most seductive manner as I strutted into his office.

“Oh, yeah…crazy,” he said without looking up, his fingers fast at work on the computer’s keyboard. I watched them peck at the keys with precision, yearning for them to be on me instead. Looking back to his face, I saw a bead of sweat roll down his forehead and noticed his tie was loosened too.

“Ooh, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?” I untied my belt and unbuttoned my coat, then inched it down my shoulders and onto the floor, a seductive move I’d learned during a strip-tease class. Zak looked up from the computer as I leaned on the desk, cleavage pouring from my tiny transparent bra. His bottom jaw fell to the keyboard.

I felt something scratchy under my hand and looked down to find an emery board. 

“What’s this for?” I asked, stepping out of my starring roll in this office porno flick.

“Uh, nothing. I guess Ruth left it there when she came in earlier.”

Not really caring about the answer, I flung the nail file aside and got back into character. I walked around Zak’s desk and straddled myself around my man, grinding on his already hard protrusion. Just the sight of my half naked body excited him and I loved that. My hands yanked the tie from his neck and began opening his shirt. I pressed my lips to his, forcing them apart as I pushed my tongue deep inside. He tasted like cinnamon Binaca, his breath refresher of choice.

“We can’t do this! What if someone walks in?” he asked in a semi-panicked tone.

“Zaky, you know no one comes in here without Ruth buzzing you first. Come on, let Georgie Boy come out and play!” I unhooked my bra.

Zak’s eyes fixated on my erect cotton candy colored nipples—he was always a breast man.

My lips traced a path to his ear and whispered my most favorite dirty line, “Georgie Porgie, put it in my pie!”

* * * *

Once I’d gotten what I wanted from Zak, I kissed him one last time and told him I’d see him at home. His labored breathing continued even as I walked out the door.

The sun shone over the city on a beautiful Indian summer day and the warmth penetrated my dark long-sleeve coat. I wished I could take it off and soak in some Vitamin D but as adventurous as I was, I wouldn’t dare walk down the street in lingerie.

My mind replayed the fantastic orgasm I’d experienced, bringing a goofy smirk to my face and a flutter throughout my body. It reminded me of the euphoria I’d felt after finishing my manuscript a couple hours earlier. And the royalty check that had been shoved to the bottom of my Fendi bag when I topped it with my discarded pants and shirt. It stood next in line for my love and devotion and maybe even a hot kiss or two. I caressed its body first, then like a giddy kid in a candy store, ripped open the envelope. Staring back at me was a check for a quarter of the amount I normally received.

A glitch in the system most likely. There had to be a zero or something missing. I got on my cell and called Val, but was sent directly to her voicemail.

“Val, babe. I just opened my check and there must have been a problem in Accounting. I think someone needs to be fired!” I said in my silly diva tone. “But anyway, call me after you straighten it out and I can stop by for the rest of my money. Ciao!”

* * * *

After a shower and wardrobe change I made my way to my favorite shoe boutique, regardless of the figures on my check. A computer glitch didn’t scare me one bit. I wouldn’t let it keep me from a well-deserved treat.

Tristan greeted me as I walked in, and air-kissed both my cheeks.

“Daaahling! Where on earth have you been?”

“Oh, busy with the latest masterpiece. You know how that goes!”

“Can’t wait to read it!” He grinned at me. “Have a seat and I’ll be right with you. Some new little peaches just arrived and I know you’ll love them!”

Tristan returned a few minutes later with eight boxes of shoes, each one in my dainty size six and a half. Each pair he unveiled became my favorite. Making the decision on which to adopt would be excruciating. Each adorable twosome stared up at me with puppy dog eyes and pleaded, “Pick me! Choose me! Love me!”

Buying a pair of shoes is much more than strapping some pieces of leather to your feet and taking home the first ones that fit right. It is a commitment, a long lasting relationship—usually longer than most boyfriends. These shoes had to be sturdy, dependable and able to support me through anything. They’d show me off and make me look spectacular. These amazing little ego boosts did so much more than protect my feet from the rigid Earth.

I narrowed my decision down to red kitten heel slides and a pair of cheetah print stilettos with an open toe. Decisions, decisions! After mulling it over and modeling them for Tristan one last time, I still couldn’t make up my mind.

“You know, there’s only one solution to this problem,” he said to me with twinkling eyes. “Take them both!”

“I like the way you think!”

Pleased with my purchases, I turned to leave the boutique, spying something cute near the door.

“Oh my God, those aren’t...” I turned back to Tristan.

“Yes, they are!”

Examining the minuscule hot pink doggie boots, I knew Cha Cha’s wardrobe couldn’t be complete without them. Leaving the shop with a couple treasures for myself and also something for my baby, I promised Tristan I’d visit again soon. I sent Zak a naughty text message, describing the newest additions to my shoe fetish collection and which sexual positions I’d be modeling them for him in.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

When the clock struck five on a Friday afternoon, it signaled the end of the hectic workweek and start of weekend bliss. I walked to Cosmos, where each week I met Marcus, Brenda and Rachel, for happy hour, and I swore I heard the entire city breathe a sigh of relief.

Outside the bar, a strange woman stood nearby wearing a long patchwork dress fusing together hideous mismatched fabrics, one appearing to be burlap or something else equally coarse. Her long reddish-orange hair flowed past her behind and she ranted about something. I ignored her screeches as I walked by until her pale hand shoved a photocopied paper in front of my face.

“Change your destiny!” she screamed. “Karma will destroy your life if you don’t change your ways!”

“Yeah, okay lady.” I pushed the Karma Kronicle back at her.

“You’ll be sorry…” I faintly heard as I continued on.

Whatever. I had much more important things to deal with than loonies on the street.

I entered Cosmos a little after five and Marcus waved me over to a table. Smiling at him, I snaked through the crowd.

“Hi!” I kissed his cheek and waved to our usual waitress, who winked and told me she’d be over in a second.

“Late, as usual?” I asked, referring to the two empty seats at our table reserved for Brenda and Rachel.

“Would it be normal if they were actually on time?”

I’d met Brenda a few years back when in desperate need of a dye job. In order to save a few bucks, I came up with the brilliant idea to do it myself at home. Wet hair, apply dye, let sit—it couldn’t be that hard. I couldn’t have been more wrong and somehow managed to turn half my head a bright crimson and the other half black. After tucking my disaster into a hat, I’d bolted to the nearest salon.

A rare cancellation put me in Brenda’s chair that day. Her look scared me a bit but I’d figured my situation couldn’t get any worse. As she’d surveyed the damage known as my hair, I wondered how someone covered head to toe in Goth could possibly know how to dye a normal person’s hair. But even with her spiky hair-do in a bright blue shade—her chosen hue of the month—and patent leather bustier, she was my salvation and I felt indebted to her for the rest of my life. She became the only stylist allowed near my locks, including myself! We’d been the closest of friends ever since. There is a special bond between a woman and her hairdresser; in some ways it’s more serious than a marriage.

Rachel and I met through Brenda. They’d been friends since their training bra days and couldn’t be more opposite. Rachel embodied the sweet girl-next-door persona, with never a mean word to say about anyone. Her glistening all natural blond locks were set off by ocean blue eyes. She looked like a GAP or Abercrombie and Fitch model, but prettier. Brenda and I begged her for at least a year, though she would never even consider pursuing a career where people ogled her. Always filled with modesty, Rachel wore the simplest clothes to hide her perfect body and kept her hair plain and long. So many times Brenda wanted to drag her to the salon and strap her down, forcing her to get some foil highlights and a hip cut. But even with their numerous differences, they always remained close. I had my theory why. Rachel kept Brenda in line and sane.

Then there was Marcus. Our moms became best gal pals during their pregnancies, bonding over pickle cravings and stretch mark artwork. Marcus and I became attached at the hip while still in utero. We share quite a long and somewhat twisted history that started with shared naps in either my crib or his while our moms played cards and drank iced tea. It continued though playground fights and puberty and the four years of teenage drama known as High School. Marcus and I played doctor as kids and he gave me my first French kiss when we were pre-teens. We tried the boyfriend-girlfriend thing once at the beginning of high school. A gorgeous guy even at the awkward age of fourteen, he had dark dreamy eyes and a Beverly Hills 90210 hair cut. I reveled in being the envy of a majority of the female freshman population but everything changed when he tried to round second base with me. I envisioned my brother groping my 32AA’s and it grossed me out. We called it quits but our friendship continued and I knew I could count on him for anything, anytime.

Marcus, Brenda, Rachel and I were often found working out together, doing lunch or having all-night margarita gab fests. They were great inspiration for my books, many of which stemmed from topics discussed during our drunken nights together. I always traveled with a notebook so I could jot down anything remotely interesting. The tough part was deciphering the intoxicated scribbles the next morning.

The girls finally arrived and completed our happy little foursome. We immediately flagged down the waitress and started our Friday celebration.

“So Brenda,” I said after we received our drinks. Brenda and I had ordered the specialty of the house, a bright pink cosmopolitan. Marcus held a glass of merlot by the stem and breathed in its aroma while the ever conservative Rachel sipped a glass of diet cola through a straw. “I found a guy for you!”

“Lex, don’t even think about setting me up!”

“Why? This one is perfect! He even has green hair!”

“Ewww!” Rachel squealed. “Green hair?”

“Wait, you’re fine with Brenda having pink hair,” Marcus chimed in, motioning toward Brenda’s head. “But a guy with green hair is disgusting?”

“I never said I was fine with it!” Rachel giggled, pushing her own shimmering blond tresses from her face.

“So anyway, back to Slade!” I continued.

“Slade? That’s the guy’s name?” Brenda asked.

“Yes. I like it. It’s unique. Who wants a Bob or a Dan? Snore! You need someone with a strong, sexy name. Slade is a tattoo artist, photographer and newly published author. His book is being released in a few weeks. It’s called Tat- A Gallery of American Tattoo Art. You’ll love it. I met him at my publisher’s office and I think you two would be perfect for each other. As soon as I saw him, I just knew. I got his number and we should call him and invite him for drinks.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why? You haven’t gone out with anyone in months!”

Rachel began hacking and grabbed for a napkin, covering her mouth. She cleared her throat as we all stared at her.

“Um, went down the wrong tube.” 

I shook off her inability to drink like a normal person and looked back at Brenda.

“So, I’m gonna call and invite Slade for Happy Hour next Friday.”

“I’m not looking right now,” she said and suddenly became engrossed with her cocktail napkin, folding it into some kind of origami creature. Brenda’s nails, which were always done in some funky color with airbrushed designs, were a simple black with silver glittered tips. She’d recently began learning nail design and practiced on herself constantly.

“Come on! You have to meet him. At the very least, you’d get a couple good fucks out of him!”

“Lex, for the last time, no.”

“Okay, fine. Keep having fun with your vibrator. Wear out a million batteries for all I care!”

* * * *

Val had set up an interview for me with one of the hottest radio morning show tag teams: Wild Will and Tina of WBLV’s Rock Your Way to Work Show. She’d been trying to get me on-air with one of the Top 40 stations for some time, hoping to boost sales in a few new markets. I yawned as I walked into the station, still half asleep. Mornings were so not my thing.

The broadcast took place in a small room, much smaller than I had imagined in my glamorous Radio Day Dream. I’d envisioned walls plastered with autographed posters of the hottest singers of the day with gleaming microphones and the occasional star walking through the door to say a quick “whud up” to their disc jockey homies. What I walked into reminded me of the hall closet in my apartment—tiny and jammed with miscellaneous books, papers and a desk chair with ripped and faded upholstery.

They sat me down and gave me a pair of ancient looking headphones to wear that pinched at my ear and smooshed down my curls. I watched Wild Will make an announcement on air, his smooth voice rolling off his tongue. He winked at me and smiled as he told his listeners he and Tina would be talking with me after the break. The station went to commercial and a balding man in headphones gave me some last minute instruc. . .