Killer in High Heels

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There are two things in life I hate more than getting shot at. Number one: Birkenstocks, one shoe I am proud to say I did not design. And number two: sit-ups, the torture routine my best friend, Dana, was currently making me perform on the floor of the Sunset Gym.

“Come on, two more, you can do it!”

I grunted, giving my personal cheerleader the evil eye as I struggled to a sitting position.

“I”-pant-“can’t”-pant-“do it.” My stomach muscles started to shake, and I could feel an unattractive bead of sweat trailing from my blond roots down to the tip of my chin.

“Come on, Maddie. I know you’ve got two more in you. Think of how good you’ll look in a bikini this summer.”

“I’ll buy a one-piece,” I grunted.

“Think of how great you’ll feel knowing you did something good for your body.”

I raised one eyebrow, giving her my best “get real” look.

“Okay, think of this,” Dana said, a lightbulb moment flashing in her blue eyes. “Think of how bad Ramirez will want you when he sees your ripped abs.”

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