“Hey!” he said. “I’m holding everyone up. I have to run, but I’ll send Vern to pick you up at your house at eight. Sound good?”
He barely waited for me to agree, and he was gone.
~
Here’s the problem with every woman’s wardrobe:
The person who buys the clothes is not the same person who later has to wear them.
Perhaps it’s a brain disorder? A type of split personality? Rampant, unfettered optimism?
I swear the girl who buys my clothes weighs about ten pounds less, and stands two inches shorter. Why else can the rise of my pants and the hem of my shirt not meet somewhere over top my middle? Perhaps with a slight overlap?
I know what you’re thinking: Peaches Monroe, you wash your clothes in hot water.
But I don’t! Our washing machine isn’t even capable of washing on hot, because it’s not hooked up to the tank. And I don’t use the dryer, choosing instead to string up all my clothes on an indoor drying rack.
With few viable options for attending a Vanity f**king Fair photo shoot, I finally settled on a pair of jean shorts, paired with my layered black and white camisole, and then my green lace tank top on top. The front of everything dipped down to show an appealing view of my peaches, even if the back view was nothing to write blog posts about. I topped the outfit with blue-framed sunglasses.
“Too casual?” I asked Shayla.
“You look like you’re going to the beach.”
“Right.” I switched my black sandals for a pair of flats with a floral pattern. Nothing I wore matched anything else, and for some reason this struck me as funny. It was the exact opposite of the way refined older ladies dressed, with everything in matched sets.
“Did you pack some condoms in your purse?” Shayla asked. We were standing in the kitchen, and I was picking sliced vegetables off the cutting board as she sliced them for her big salad.
“Condoms, yes. And a tube of your ass lube,” I joked.
“That’s too bad. I was planning to stick things up my ass tonight.” She held up a large zucchini from Mr. Galloway’s garden.
“Right, vegetables. And definitely not your boss.”
She grimaced. “We’re off again. He’s trying to have a baby with his wife, and he needs to reserve all his seed.”
“His seed? If he calls it that, there’s the first reason you shouldn’t be f**king him.”
“Who should I be f**king?”
“Call Golden’s brother Garret and see if the back acne’s cleared up.”
“He’s dating Chantalle Hart. Didn’t you know? Pretty casual, but Golden walked in on them going at it in their parents’ bed.”
“Fuck me. Why always the parents’ bed? What is wrong with people?”
“Taboo is fun.”
“But why?”
She shrugged. “Must be some human drive, to f**k everything, everywhere. Our horny ancestors had more babies than the ones who had a bunch of hang-ups. We come from a long line of horny people with no self-control.”
“One of them being our great-grandfather.”
She grinned. “God bless his horny soul, or none of us would be here today.”
“And this house would be on Larch Street, not Lurch Street.”
“Fucking makes the world go round.” She grabbed a cherry tomato and closed her eyes as she chewed it. My mouth watered, imagining the soft flesh bursting in my mouth.
“Enjoy your salad,” I said.
“Enjoy your cock,” she replied.
“I’d share if I could.”
“Ugh. I need to get laid.”
The doorbell rang, and we both leaned to peer up the hall at the window, where butler Vern was silhouetted against the tall window next to the front door.
“He’s g*y,” I said.
“His loss.” She popped another tomato into her mouth.
~
Vern was all smiles and chuckles as he held open the door of the car for me.
“What’s shakin’?” I asked. “Are you excited about this photo shoot thing?”
“I guess.” He stood at my door for a moment, like he wanted to ask me something, then he shook his head and gently closed my door.
Once we were driving, I pressed the green button overhead to speak to him. “Thanks for coming to pick me up,” I said.
“That’s my job, miss.”
“I appreciate it, though. You make me feel like a lady, even though I’m wearing jean shorts.”
“Everyone here is so nice,” he said over the speaker. “I’ve been here almost two weeks now. I thought I’d get tired of all the trees and nature, but now I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave. I’ve made some friends, thanks to your suggestion.”
“I’d offer you a job being my butler, but I think Dalton would be mad.”
“Oh, miss, I don’t think you could ever do anything to make Mr. Deangelo angry. He really likes you.”
“Thank you.” Damn. If making me like Dalton even more was part of his job, he sure was good at it.
We drove for a ways, past Dragonfly Lake and then still a bit farther. The car turned onto an access road with a metal gate, the upper arch reading Double D Ranch in wrought iron letters, with horse shoes on either side.
I hugged my chest and smiled at the quiet joke that my own Double Ds were getting their very own ranch. A few years back, I’d looked online and discovered there were a number of ranches across America named Double D. The ranch names came from the brands the farmers used to put on their cattle, back in the Wild West days, and then from the time of community pastures.
Another thought occurred to me: Dalton Deangelo was also a Double D. So, that was a funny coincidence.
We parked next to a fence, where some horses grazing on the other side eyed us with curiosity.
I stepped out of the car and went to pet the gorgeous beasts. Most of them had glossy red-brown coats plus black manes and tales. One horse with a white lighting stripe down her face took a real liking to me, smelling deeply along the side of my head and brushing her velvet lips against my cheek.
Vern joined me in petting the horses, his eyes wide and his hands timid. He squealed as a young colt reached his head through the fence to nibble at his black trousers.
The horses paused as a group, sniffing the air. I heard the sound of an engine, then turned to see a helicopter was approaching. The horses snorted and took off at a gallop, disappearing over a hill.
The helicopter landed, whipping up dust from the dry, dirt road. A group of four people stepped out, and then the helicopter lifted up again and flew off.