Rowe (Henchmen MC Next Generation 4)

“You know what,” she insisted, jerking her chin up.

She was only maybe in her mid-forties, but a lifetime of frowning and grimacing had etched their marks deeply into her face. If she relaxed once and a while, she would be really pretty with her bright blue eyes and rounded face. But she’d dedicated her life to misery. People who did that tended to have that ugliness seep outward like a shield.

“As I typically do five things a day you disapprove of, I am going to need you to specify,” I invited, grabbing my messenger bag from my back seat.

“So you admit it?”

“Admit what?” I asked, smiling down at her feet at the fluff ball of a dog there, her pristine white fur shaped weekly by the groomer. Her little nails were even painted. I swear I once saw the dog sidestepping dirt on the sidewalk. “Hey, sweetie pie.”

“Her name is Chanel. I’ve told you a million times.”

“And I’ve told you a million times that Coco Chanel was a literal Nazi, so I’m not going to call her that.”

She scoffed at that, but plowed on. “Your curtains.”

“My curtains,” I repeated, brows wrinkling. “I thought you wanted me to put up curtains. So you don’t accidentally see my nipples again.”

Maybe reminding her of that incident wasn’t the best idea, because a low growl moved out of her at it.

“I didn’t mean those kinds of curtains.”

I’d put up the actual, material ones she’d requested. But a couple days ago, I went ahead and lined them with twinkle lights and pretty mermaid’s toenails I’d collected at the beach after the last big storm.

“Can I suggest possibly just not looking in my apartment?” I asked.

“No, you can not,” she hissed.

“Or possibly a couple orgasms,” I said, knowing I was only instigating her, but also very aware that when you were getting the nether region flutters on a regular basis, you generally weren’t grumpy enough to bitch about a neighbor’s curtains.

“How dare you!” she griped, face going beet red.

“I’m a sexual educator,” I informed her. “And orgasms are an important proponent to a healthy life. I’d be happy to give you or your husband my card to—“

“You stay away from my husband! You… you… slut!” she shrieked, storming away, pulling the poor dog named after a white supremacist behind her.

I had no interest in her husband, of course. And I genuinely did think that if they just discovered tantric sex or even just a position other than missionary, it would make them both much happier individuals.

Regardless of how she wanted to take what I had to say, at least it got her to leave me alone about the curtains. For a day or so.

“Good… goddess!” I shrieked, my hand flying to my chest when I opened my door to find a body sprawled over my royal purple velvet couch.

“Your apartment is too easy to break into, Bills,” Violet declared, shaking her head at me.

“You didn’t need to break in. I gave you a key,” I reminded her.

“We have like thirty or something cousins. I can’t carry the keys to everyone’s houses on me all the time. I’d need a giant janitor’s ring or something,” she told me, reaching down to undo the laces of her beaten-up combat boots. She’d already taken off her trademark leather jacket, leaving it draped over the back of the couch, leaving her in a pair of black acid wash jeans that somehow managed to make her already long legs seem longer, and a black tank top that, while it wasn’t form-fitting, did nothing to hide the fact that she had the best rack of anyone I knew.

“When did you get back into town?” I asked, hanging up my bag and putting my mat in the basket by the door.

“This morning. Dropped in to see my parents, then headed over here. I need to crash,” she added.

“You’re always welcome,” I told her, waving to the couch that had been like a second home to her.

“You’re not planning to have any naked friends over again, are you?” she asked, her honey brown eyes wide.

“Don’t be silly. It’s not a full moon,” I told her, breezing past the living area and toward the kitchen to the side of the room.

It wasn’t a huge apartment by any means. And, admittedly, I liked to jam it full of things I liked. Secondhand furniture, art, plants, statues, candles, tapestries, anything that made the space that had once been gray walls and cheap carpet floors seem more cozy.

Billie doesn’t believe in minimalism, Hope had once explained to a mutual acquaintance. And she’d been right. I was a maximalist in every way. There wasn’t more than a couple inches of wall space that wasn’t covered with some print or canvas from a local artist, some cool tapestry I’d bought at a metaphysical store, or hanging dried flowers or herbs I’d sourced from family members’ back yards or the farmer’s market.