Emerson sashayed out of the changing room, smiling sheepishly as she buttoned up her Versace top. She glanced around, biting her lip seductively as she finished adjusting her skirt, hiking it down, and pulling her long, platinum blonde hair over one shoulder, completing her look. Pulling her L'Oreal lipgloss out of her black, matte leather Prada makeup bag, she spread the gloss thickly over her collagen-injected lips.
She paused momentarily, turning to admire her appearance in the mirror. Damn, do I look good, she said, as she ran a finger through her platinum blonde extensions.
But if they only knew what I just did, she thought to herself, giggling wildly, feeling the stolen merchandise hidden under the top layer of her clothes.
Not bad for a forty-five year old, Emerson thought with a giggle, as she smiled sexily at the changing room attendant, being met with a bemused by polite smile from the handsome young man.
Emerson made her way through the perfume counter, furtively stealing bottles of Hermes, Gucci, and Prada scents, stuffing them into her oversized Louis Vuitton tote bag. I could get away with anything, thought Emerson, as she smiled seductively at her reflection in the mirror that stood behind the L'Oreal Expert advertisement.
Or Almost anything...
Emerson suddenly flashed back over eleven years, back to that telling day when she was charged with a crime so horrible that even years of therapy could not remove the stain of the shame.
Emerson tripped on her Prada heels, falling headfirst into the display of Prada purses that lined the all-too-narrow aisles. All the bottles of perfume and clothes she had stolen rained over the other shoppers, as Emerson lost control, trying desperately to cling to a mannequin, only to have it topple on top of her, the glass bottles of perfume shattering all around her.
Children screamed, parents ran for cover, and someone pulled the emergency alarm, which resulted in all the lights in the main shopping area blinking on and off and the sprinkler system started going off too, drenching everyone and the merchandise.
Emerson screamed for help, trapped under a pile of mannequins, as she noticed that her light anywhere matches had fallen into the puddle of alcohol-based perfume, starting quite a large fire. Everyone raced for cover, but Emerson was trapped. She screamed, but no one answered. Help me, she screamed, louder and louder.
Would she survive?
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Bad Park Day
Emerson smiled softly, sitting on the bench in the park at noon. Sipping on her Starbucks, she felt content. Well, almost.
She bent over, pushing her long, blonde hair over her left shoulder, opening up her huge Louis Vuitton tote bag and shuffling through it. Ah, there it is. She pulled out her pack of American Spirit cigarettes and her Cartier lighter and gently began hitting the end of the back against the palm of her left hand as she scanned the crowd that had assembled.
Damn, those joggers are fine, she thought to herself quietly as she put up a cigarette to her pursed lips and lit the tip, inhaling the smoke deeply into her lungs.
"Excuse me? Are you Emerson Hudgens?"
Emerson jumped in her seat, startled by the voice that came from behind her. She spun around in her seat, seeing a man in his early 30s.
The sunlight sparkled in his dark hair, his blue eyes dancing as he smiled broadly at her. His Armani sunglasses were perched on top of his head, matching the casualness of his attire, which consisted of some loose fitting Khakis and a clean white dress-shirt under a navy blazer. She bit her lip playfully, lifting up her Chanel shades, locking eyes with him, while holding her burning cigarette in her manicured hand.
"Yes, that's me. Can I help you?"
He stepped forward, about 5 feet away from her.
Emerson's heart raced. She hadn't felt this way when meeting a stranger for years. She was a mix of emotions, two-fourths anxious, one-third turned on, and one-third scared to death. He smiled back at her, seemingly penetrating her soul.
"Well, I usually don't do this, but since I have a long lunch-break today and I recognized you from the Post from last week..."
Emerson smiled softly, bemused that someone would recognize her. She had been featured in the city's biggest news paper last week, a spot on her successful interior decorating firm. At 25, not only was she the youngest person in the United States, if not the world, to be CEO of an interior decoration firm with a staff of 145, but she was also known as one of the richest women in the city, having a net worth of over $40 million dollars, thanks to hard work and a little bit of luck. That "guest designer" spot at Target didn't hurt either.
"That's so sweet," Emerson answered, gently tossing her cigarette to the ground and stomping it with her Louboutin heel.
"Well, I hate to be blunt, but I got to get to the point -- I don't usually do this, but..."
"But what?" Emerson giggled playfully.
"But consider yourself served."
Emerson's mouth dropped open as he passed a folder to her. Her mind went blank. What the hell is going on here?
Emerson's choked as she tried to answer, "You've got to be kidding me."
"Nope," he said, spinning around and walking quickly to a car that Emerson had just noticed had been there the whole time with its engine running.
She bent over, pushing her long, blonde hair over her left shoulder, opening up her huge Louis Vuitton tote bag and shuffling through it. Ah, there it is. She pulled out her pack of American Spirit cigarettes and her Cartier lighter and gently began hitting the end of the back against the palm of her left hand as she scanned the crowd that had assembled.
Damn, those joggers are fine, she thought to herself quietly as she put up a cigarette to her pursed lips and lit the tip, inhaling the smoke deeply into her lungs.
"Excuse me? Are you Emerson Hudgens?"
Emerson jumped in her seat, startled by the voice that came from behind her. She spun around in her seat, seeing a man in his early 30s.
The sunlight sparkled in his dark hair, his blue eyes dancing as he smiled broadly at her. His Armani sunglasses were perched on top of his head, matching the casualness of his attire, which consisted of some loose fitting Khakis and a clean white dress-shirt under a navy blazer. She bit her lip playfully, lifting up her Chanel shades, locking eyes with him, while holding her burning cigarette in her manicured hand.
"Yes, that's me. Can I help you?"
He stepped forward, about 5 feet away from her.
Emerson's heart raced. She hadn't felt this way when meeting a stranger for years. She was a mix of emotions, two-fourths anxious, one-third turned on, and one-third scared to death. He smiled back at her, seemingly penetrating her soul.
"Well, I usually don't do this, but since I have a long lunch-break today and I recognized you from the Post from last week..."
Emerson smiled softly, bemused that someone would recognize her. She had been featured in the city's biggest news paper last week, a spot on her successful interior decorating firm. At 25, not only was she the youngest person in the United States, if not the world, to be CEO of an interior decoration firm with a staff of 145, but she was also known as one of the richest women in the city, having a net worth of over $40 million dollars, thanks to hard work and a little bit of luck. That "guest designer" spot at Target didn't hurt either.
"That's so sweet," Emerson answered, gently tossing her cigarette to the ground and stomping it with her Louboutin heel.
"Well, I hate to be blunt, but I got to get to the point -- I don't usually do this, but..."
"But what?" Emerson giggled playfully.
"But consider yourself served."
Emerson's mouth dropped open as he passed a folder to her. Her mind went blank. What the hell is going on here?
Emerson's choked as she tried to answer, "You've got to be kidding me."
"Nope," he said, spinning around and walking quickly to a car that Emerson had just noticed had been there the whole time with its engine running.
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