“Of course the same crow,” grouchy pants answers. “You think I can’t tell?” She squints again and adjusts her glasses before demanding, “What is that on your T-shirt?”
I pull at the hem and glance down. Ah, fuck. No wonder Kennedy had looked at me like she did.
“This.” With a protracted sigh, I run my hand absently up the cotton over my chest. “This is a blue-footed booby. It’s a bird.”
“I can see it’s a bird,” Betty barks. “Looks like a crow. With blue feet.”
“No, I meant—Never mind.” Because maybe it does look like a crow. If you’re colour blind or have had one beer too many. I’m kind of stoked the old girls haven’t got the best vision because then they’d be able to read the slogan that arcs over the bird’s head.
I Love Boobies
What the fuck must Kennedy think of me?
That I’m an idiot, obviously.
Also, that I like tits.
Also not an untruth.
But it’s her tits I’m particularly interested in and wouldn’t mind getting my hands on them again. And then maybe my mouth. And then not too long after that, I’d like to own the heart that hides behind them. I find myself wondering what that timeline looks like, along with when I’ll next get to come on them. It’s not the kind of thing you can ask Google. Not without running the risk of being directed to Chastity’s website.
“You ladies know Kennedy, do you?”
“Of course we do,” Betty grumbles, not really paying attention as she scans the boughs of the tree. “We’ve been living next door to her for as long as she’s been breathing.”
“Well, not quite that long,” her sister amends. “You remember her momma took her away when she met that guy from Ohio?”
“But she dumped him soon after that, only that time she wasn’t alone. She had a baby sister.”
“That would be Holland,” I offer. It’s a weird name, so probably hard to forget. Though there’s not much Kennedy has told me that I don’t remember. The pair start, almost as though just remembering my presence. Ursula looks a little sheepish though Betty just purses her lips. So I play possum, kinda, twisting at the waist to examine the tree behind me. “Does that paint wash off?”
“Who did you say you were again?” Betty asks slowly. Suspiciously.
“Where are my manners?” Turning with a grin, I step down from the deck onto the lawn, the grass tickling my feet. “I’m Roman,” I say, offering my hand.
“Stay right where you are, buster.” Betty raises the paintball gun again, aiming it my way.
“Sissy, stop that,” Ursula chides. “You can’t go shooting Kennedy’s clients.”
“Clients?” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. The fuck kind of clients can Kennedy have? House coffee calls?
“I meant renters,” Ursula adds, pink and flustered.
“Vacationers.” Betty points the paintball gun at the house behind me, and because I don’t want to have to strip paint from it before I leave, and because it seems Betty and Ursula seem to be the fast-track alternative to Kennedy’s preferred glacial pace, I invite the old girls in for a cuppa.
Yeah, I’m totally gonna pump them for information.
“You got coffee in there?” Betty squints in my direction.
“Of course he has,” Ursula says with a weird little giggle. “But Betty can only have decaf.”
“It’s not that god-awful crap from Starbucks, is it?” The pair carry on this conversation without my input. “You know that stuff can kill you.”
“Shush, sissy.”
“It’s true! The minute they opened one in town, Nancy Harper dropped dead of a heart attack.”
This pair makes about as much sense as an acid trip with a side order of magic mushrooms. But apparently, I have coffee, and they know the owner of this place. It stands to reason they’ll know stuff about Kennedy. Small towns are like that, right? So I offer each of the old girls an arm, and we turn to the stairs.
“Look at me, the thorn between a couple of beautiful roses.”
“What a charmer you are.” Ursula titters, her small, papery hand patting my arm.
“One young enough to be your grandkid,” Betty mutters with a scowl.
“Are you a bit of a cougar, darl?” I ask, helping Ursula up the shallow staircase first.
“That’s that Indian stuff made from lentils, ain’t it?” Betty is going to be a harder nut to crack, but these old girls are so gonna give up the goods. I’ve never met a woman I couldn’t charm. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” Her grip on my wrist is surprisingly strong. It’s not strong enough to make me open my fingers, but I find I do anyway. “That’s Wilder.” There’s a touch of confusion in her statement, and when her gaze tilts slowly to meet mine, there’s a ghost of a smile on that craggy face. “Say, is your favourite colour orange?”