Rock Chick Reborn (Rock Chick #9)(57)

Okay, that wasn’t strictly true. I wasn’t fixing up my house. My Dad did some of the work. My friend Troy did the rest. So I should say that I had a house I was guilting, begging and emotionally blackmailing others into fixing up.

But still, it needed fixing up and cabinets and tile didn’t march from Cabinet and Tile Land into my house and say, “We want to live with you, Gwendolyn Kidd, afix us to your walls!”

That only happened in my dreams, of which I had many, most of them daydreams.

Like right then, sitting at my computer, one heel on the seat, my chin to my knee, my eyes staring out the window, I was thinking about my Mystery Man, the Great MM. I was daydreaming about changing our first meeting. Being smarter, funnier, and more mysterious. Being more alluring and interesting.

I’d hook him instantly with my rapier wit, my flair for conversation, my ability to discuss politics and world events intelligently. I’d tell my humble stories of expansive charity work all wrapped up with enticing looks that promised a lifetime of mind-blowing orgasms, making him declare his undying love for me.

Or at least tell me his name.

Instead, I was drunk when we met, and definitely not any of that.

I heard my doorbell go, a chime then a clunk and I started out of my elaborate daydream which was beginning to get good.

I got up and walked through my office into the upstairs hall making a mental note, again, to call Troy and see if he’d fix my doorbell for a six pack and a homemade pizza. This might mean he’d bring his annoying, whiny, constantly bitching new girlfriend though, so I changed my mind and decided to call my Dad.

I got to the bottom of my stairs and walked through my living room, ignoring the state of it, which was decorated in Fix Up Chic. In other words dust rags, paint brushes, power tools, not-so-power-tools, cans and tubes of practically everything, all of it jumbled and covered in a layer of dust. I made it through the area without my hands going to my head, fingers clenching my hair and mouth screaming, which I counted as progress.

I got to the entryway which was delineated by two narrow walls both fit with gorgeous stained glass.

Two years ago, that stained glass was my undoing.

Two years ago, approximately six months and two weeks prior to meeting my Mystery Man, I’d walked one single step into this ramble and wreck of a house, saw that stained glass, turned to the realtor and announced, “I’ll take it.”

The realtor’s face had lit up.

My father, who hadn’t even made it into the house yet, turned his eyes to the heavens. His prayer lasted a long time. His lecture longer.

I still bought the house.

As usual, I should have listened to my Dad.

I looked out the narrow side window at the door and saw Darla, my sister’s friend, standing out there.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I hated Darla and Darla hated me. What the hell was she doing there?

I searched behind her to see if my sister was lurking or perhaps hiding in the shrubbery. I wouldn’t put it past Ginger and Darla to jump me, tie me to the staircase and loot my house. In my darker daydreams, this was how Ginger and Darla spent their days. I was convinced this was not far from the truth. No joke.

Darla’s eyes came to me at the window. Her face scrunched up, making what could be pretty, if she used a less heavy hand with the black eyeliner, her blush, and if her lip liner wasn’t an entirely different shade as her lip gloss, not so pretty.

“I see you!” she shouted.

I sighed.

Then I went to the door because Darla would shout the house down and I liked my neighbors. They didn’t need a biker bitch from hell standing on my doorstep and shouting the house down at ten thirty in the morning.

I opened it but not far and moved to stand between it and the jamb, keeping my hand on the handle.

“Hey Darla,” I greeted, trying to sound friendly and pretty pleased with my effort.

“Fuck ‘hey’, is Ginger here?” Darla replied.

See!

Totally spent her days looting.

It took effort but I stopped my eyes from rolling.

“No,” I answered.

“She’s here, you better tell me,” she warned then she looked beyond me and shouted, “Ginger! Bitch, if you’re in there you better come out here, right fuckin’ now!”

“Darla!” I snapped, “Keep your voice down!”

She craned her neck and bounced on her toes, yelling, “Ginger! Ginger, you crazy, stupid, bitch! Get your ass out here!”

I shoved out the door, forcing her back and closed it behind me, hissing, “Seriously, Darla, shut up! Ginger isn’t here. Ginger is never here. You know that. So shut up and go.”

“You shut up,” she shot back. “And you get smart. You’re helpin’ her…” She lifted her hand, pointed her finger at me, thumb extended upwards and then she crooked her thumb and made a gunshot noise that puffed out her cheeks and made her lips vibrate. I would have taken a moment to reflect on how good she was with verbal sound effects if the serious as shit look in her eye wasn’t scaring the crap out of me.

So, instead of congratulating her on the only real talent I suspected she had, I whispered, “What?”

She dropped her hand, got up on her motorcycle-booted toes so we were eye-to-eye and said in a soft, scary voice, “D-e-a-d, dead. You and her, you don’t get smart. You get me?”