Rock Chick Revolution (Rock Chick #8)(70)

I knew that. If Eddie adored Jet before (and he adored her, in his macho badass way), he doted on her now. He was ecstatic (again, in his macho badass way) that she was having his baby, thus he treated her like porcelain. No Eddie Chats that pissed her off. No being bossy. It was all about soft looks and sweet touches and handling her with the utmost care.

It was pretty righteous.

Then again, Eddie had always been a really good guy (in his macho badass way).

So that wasn’t a surprise, either.

I dipped my head to her belly. “How’s preparations for the blessed event coming?” I asked, and she gave me her knockout smile.

“The addition is done,” she told me, referring to the new kickass laundry room Eddie and Hector added on to their house so Jet didn’t have to walk down to the basement to do laundry. “The nursery is done,” she went on. “Now he’s starting on refinishing the basement so we can move number one out to a bedroom downstairs,” she patted her big belly. “And move number two into the nursery upstairs when the time comes.”

“Forward planning,” I noted and got another big smile.

It was safe to say Jet, as well as Eddie, were looking forward to having a big happy family.

I pulled in a breath and got to the hard part.

“Okay, so how are you doing with me?” I asked, and her smile changed. It didn’t fade, but it grew softer.

“You’re Ally,” she answered.

I was.

“You do what you do,” she continued then her smile re-brightened. “I’m just bummed out I didn’t get the chance to tell you not to fight it.”

“I wouldn’t have listened,” I told her.

“They never do,” she replied, and that was so true, we both giggled.

The bell over the door rang.

I turned and watched Daisy charge in wearing a skintight baby pink Juicy Couture track suit with the hoodie unzipped so far you could see the lace of the cups of her bra. This was not a fashion option she chose while she zipped up that morning. This was a necessity as the fabric didn’t stretch enough to zip over her bodacious ta-ta’s.

“Yo,” I called my greeting seeing as her eyes were glued on me.

She didn’t reply, and I knew I was getting it from Daisy when she kept up her charge right behind the espresso counter, grabbed my hand and dragged me out toward the bookshelves.

Down the aisle we went and she turned right at the W-X-Y-Z section.

She stopped us in the middle of the row, turned and tipped her head back to me.

“I’m workin’ with you,” she announced.

Fuck!

“Daisy—” I began.

She lifted a hand palm out, pearl-painted, lethally-long fingernails pointed to the ceiling, and I could see the tips were brushed with hot pink on the diagonal and every one had a little heart of rhinestones affixed to it.

I didn’t usually allow people to shut me up, especially giving me The Hand. And Daisy was not carrying a purse and her tracksuit didn’t afford any opportunities to hide anything, but even without a stun gun handy, Daisy found ways to get her way and I wasn’t in the mood for a catfight in the W-X-Y-Z section.

So I shut up.

She dropped her hand.

“After you left, Indy told us on the hush-hush you’re puttin’ out a shingle,” she declared and I took a calming breath.

I hadn’t even told Ren. Or my family.

But Indy had told the Rock Chicks.

I was seeing that I needed to be far more thorough in my instructions in the future as Daisy kept talking.

“She explained we gotta keep our traps zipped. And sugar, you know we will.”

I knew no such thing.

She kept going.

“She also said we gotta keep our noses out of your business. We all agreed.”

I wasn’t certain I believed her, especially since she just told me she was going to work with me. As for the rest of them, that remained to be seen.

“But I’m workin’ with you,” she repeated.

“Daisy, I can’t—”

Her hand went back up and she immediately started talking.

“Not with you, with you, like, in the field. I’m gonna be Shirleen to your Lee.”

I stared.

Then I felt that feeling I felt earlier start to move through me and again it was far from bad.

This was because Daisy’s idea was far from bad.

“You know,” she continued, “I tried the society gig and the charity gig. Both of those did not work for me.”

I did know that. I also knew that neither of those worked in a big way. The one and only charity function Daisy gave ended up in a standoff complete with firearms. The crème de la crème of Denver society wasn’t hankering for another such escapade, even if it was for a good cause.

“And no one wants me to do their hair for some reason, so the salon idea I had is out,” she stated.

At that, I tried (and failed) not to look at her hair which made her four inches taller than she was, but she still had two ponytails sticking out the back and they were both tied with baby pink satin ribbons.

In other words, if big hair made you closer to God, Daisy’s hair was touching the Pearly Gates.

And that was the only way Daisy knew how to do hair. So if you weren’t up for the Southern Woman Style, you were screwed. And let’s just say that the vast majority of women in Denver fit in two groups. Those who mountain biked (and not with big hair). And those who drank cosmos (and they might have big hair, but not Daisy big).