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She probably figured that included underwear. I was obviously a rough and rowdy chick the likes of which these suburbs had never seen.
My plain cotton would kill all her secret dreams.
“Wow.” She shook her hair back and straightened her shoulders so her mom rack was on display.
Not sure what she thought it was going to do for her. Or maybe she was hot for my leather. Go HOA lady. “Ready?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” She brushed her hair away from her face and put her hands on the wheel at ten and two. She put her blinker on and then eased onto the street.
A few people came out of their houses and even a few bold ones ended up on the lawn to get a good look at the chick on the motorcycle. I resisted the urge to gun the engine. All it took was a tiny tap of my boot, but I didn’t want to give anyone the vapors. That and Queenie still needed some adjustments before I could do fancy maneuvers on her.
Three minutes later after traveling through a maze of sameness, we turned off and a dizzying circle of houses in the exact cookie-cutter house plans greeted me. How could anyone handle this? The only differences were the fonts on the mailboxes. Twenty to one, that had to be approved by Bethany.
The meaning of HOA finally clicked in my brain. I’d bet Bethany liked to lord over her little dominion—with a smile and brownie, of course.
Two cars were in the driveway. Instead of honking her horn and moving along after she pointed to Kimberly Olsen’s place, she parked beside the perfectly manicured lawn.
Great.
I eased behind the Beemer with the vanity plate, Bethany1. She’d probably had that plate since her sixteenth birthday. Hell, probably got it with her first car, thanks to daddy.
I tamped down the snarling bitch that lived in my chest. Bethany and her privilege were just a part of life. I was here to call in a marker, not judge suburbia rules of etiquette.
I hooked my helmet to the handlebars and leaned down to shake out my hair, then flip it back. Bethany was staring at me again. Kinda like I was an alien. Maybe I was in this part of town. I tugged down my fitted motorcycle jacket and dropped my double kickstand to the unmarred blacktop.
Late morning sunlight fought its way through the huge oak trees that canopied the boxy modern house. A stone pathway led to the side of the house where a bright white fence stood. A wheelbarrow and bags of quick cement were stacked beside a bed of fall flowers. A trio of pumpkins and a scatter of gourds artfully framed the small hand-painted sign decreeing that The Olsens had been established in 2012.
Shoot me in the forehead.
Maybe I just should have texted Lucky.
“Are you coming?” Bethany was standing at the gate.
“Shouldn’t we ring the doorbell or something?”
She laughed. “Why would we do that?”
“Why indeed.” I carefully stepped over a pink bike crossing the wide gray pathway. A squeal from the backyard nearly had me running back to my bike. Shouldn’t the kids be in school? Ugh.
“Kimmie! Are you here?”
Yeah, I should probably just go. Before I could turn around, another small blond stuck her head around the corner. “Hello.” She was of an indeterminate age, but probably not old enough to go to school. I was pretty sure she wasn’t big enough to ride the bike I’d stepped over.
“Hi.”
“I’m Abby.”
I wiped my palm on my hip. “Tish.”
“Your hair is pwetty.”
“Um, thanks?”
“I like your pants. They’re shiny.”
“Protective leather for riding my bike.”
“I think my sister needs them. She falls down a lot on hers.”
