My mother looked exactly like me, only twenty years older and about five inches shorter. Louise Rockford was just shy of five feet tall with thick hips and large breasts. This was even after a reduction surgery she underwent when I was ten. Her hair was always perfectly curled in a soft brown bob and was only just beginning to show a few threads of silver here and there. Her eyes were the color of root beer and reflected kindness and, quite often, glistened with tears of either sadness or joy. On those few occasions I got into minor trouble, after receiving my scolding and punishment from Dad, I would always go to Mom, who would be waiting in her bedroom on the edge of the bed, reading her Bible. Usually, by the time I got there, sniffling and hiccupping from crying so hard, Mom had a Bible passage ready to read to me, which always seemed to fit the moment perfectly. When I told her of my plans to go to DEA training, she had read me Jeremiah 29:11: “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord; plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future…” Mom was a devout Christian and never missed church, even on Wednesday nights. Dad went begrudgingly with her on Easter and Christmas. He believed in God too, but felt church was an “option” rather than an obligation. I tended to agree with Dad on that one.
I picked up my pace a bit as my playlist switched to Justin Timberlake’s album Future Sex Love Sounds. The album had been my favorite since it was released during my freshman year of high school. It brought back even more memories of school, friends, football games, and homecoming dances.
I shuddered when I recalled my junior year homecoming.
My date was my boyfriend at the time, Tommy McAllister, a senior. When we arrived at the high school for the dance, Tommy immediately ditched me for his buddies, but I was fine with it, as it gave me a chance to hang out with my girlfriends, whom I rarely saw since I met Tommy. My best friends at the time were McKenzie Brandon, Emily Corman, and Morgan Evans. We stood around in our beautiful rainbow of dresses—mine was a long, powder-blue number with “diamonds” covering the bodice—judging the other girls’ dresses, and cooing at the handsome young fellas in their suits. Only half an hour into the night, I heard Tommy shouting something loudly near the concession table. When I looked over, I saw two of the male teachers holding him by the arm on either side and escorting him toward the front door.
“Olivia, we gotta go!” he shouted.
I said a quick goodbye to my girlfriends and rushed over to Tommy’s side. “What’s going on, Tommy?”
“These assholes are throwing me out for spiking the punch!”
“Well…did you?”
He just smiled his Cheshire Cat-like grin. “The party was so lame.” He just shrugged.
I was humiliated. Everyone in the gym had stopped dancing and looked directly at us.
“Let’s go,” I said as I gathered up the hem of my pretty blue dress and marched toward the front door of the gymnasium.
The teachers escorted us all the way out to the parking lot to make sure we left and instructed us not to come back. I missed the rest of the dance and the after parties and had to hear about all the fun times I’d missed out on the next Monday at school. Needless to say, that was the end of the Olivia and Tommy love story.
The really sad part is that Tommy was my last real boyfriend. I never dated again until I was in college and even then, it was just sporadic dates with boys I met in class from time to time. Nothing ever really stuck. I like to say it was because I was too focused on my studies, but that wouldn’t be totally true. I wish I had had another boyfriend, but it just wasn’t the stack of cards I was dealt.
Feet still pounding the pavement, tears stung my eyes as I tried not to think about how lonely I had been the past several years. Even though I was only in my mid-twenties, I was convinced I would become one of those crazy cat ladies who lives alone in an apartment with thirty-three cats and no man to love her. I already had the apartment and one cat, so I figured I was on a roll.
If I’m being totally honest here, I did try a couple of those online dating websites when I moved to Chicago. First I tried the granddaddy of dating sites, Match.com. That was a fruitless journey into the realm of crazy, horny, and uppity men. Most of the men on that site were looking for a Barbie Doll, not a real-life girl with brains. No, they all wanted some ditzy blonde girl with big boobs and child-bearing hips, who would agree they were the biggest, strongest man they ever met and would make them look smarter and more important. They wanted trophy wives. I was none of those things. I may not be a supermodel, but I considered myself at least a seven on a ten-scale. But my hair wasn’t long and bleached blonde. I always kept it shoulder-length and straight and it was the color of dirty dishwater. My eyes weren’t robin’s-egg blue, as I’d always dreamed of. Instead, they were standard-issue hazel. My boobs weren’t humongous—just regular ol’ 34 Cs. And I was not tall with the legs of an elegant mare. Instead I was five foot four and I had a woman’s shape. I’ve never been fat…but I’ve never been skinny either.
Needless to say, after a few disappointing blind dates, I canceled my membership—but not before having to be charged for three full months, even though I was only on for about two weeks. You’d think I would have learned my lesson, but nope. I just tried another site.
After being burned by the hefty monthly fees of Match.com and getting nothing for my money, I decided to go a different route. I tried Plenty of Fish, a free website—which should have been my first warning—where people post their profiles and try to find that perfect fish in the sea. I caught a couple “decent” fish my first week on the site, but in almost every case, found they were looking for a one-night stand, not a lasting relationship. One guy even cut me off and blocked me when I told him I wouldn’t wear at least three-inch stiletto heels every day for him. I did meet one guy from that website and he wasn’t too bad…if you ignored the fact that he looked nothing at all like his profile picture. The one I later learned was taken ten years prior.
After those experiences online, I vowed never to go online dating again. That left those few blind dates arranged by my buddies at the Agency. They meant well, I know, but those situations are horribly awkward for everyone. There’s so much pressure on both parties to like each other when you know you’ve been set up by a mutual friend or colleague, lest you offend them. Most of the guys I met that way were nice enough, but something was just…missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it, even when the friend from work would ask what was so wrong with my date. I had just never felt that feeling people describe when they meet their soulmate. I didn’t just want to date someone, I wanted to find the one.
I set a pretty high standard for myself, I admit. I had always sworn I would never get married unless I found a love like my grandparents’. This is not to say my parents didn’t love each other—they loved each other very much. But my grandparents’ story was amazing. My grandmother, then Miss Isabel Hughes, met my grandfather, William Rockford, in their small hometown of Irvine, Kentucky back in early 1950. They fell in love instantly, but he was drafted to the Korean War only a few months after they began courting. They got married on Christmas Eve 1950 and he got on a boat the next day. William wrote Isabel nearly every day from the front until one day, the letters stopped coming. The next letter she received was from the War Department telling her William was missing in action and presumed dead. She grieved, not only for her loss, but for that of her unborn child, who would never know its father. Then one day she received a letter, hastily and sloppily written, from William, telling her he was alive. He had been injured severely when he stepped on a land mine and since he’d lost his dog tags, no one at the hospital had known who he was. When he returned from the war, they built a house, which still stands out on Red Lick Road in Estill County, and had five children, one each year.
I always admired the way they looked at one another and the gentle way in which my Papa handled my Nana. They loved each other for over fifty years until my grandmother grew sick from liver disease and died within
a year. My Papa was so grief-stricken and lost without her, he died less than two years later.
I want a love like that, I thought as I rounded the corner back to my apartment. Why can’t I find someone to love me like Papa loved Nana? He doesn’t even have to be perfect…so long as he thinks I am.
I opened the door to my empty apartment and threw my keys on the counter as always. Everything in my life was so routine. Go to work, catch bad guys, eat lunch by myself at my desk, catch more bad guys, walk home, throw keys on counter, pick up Cleo, pet Cleo, order Chinese, eat by myself while watching The Bachelor, go to sleep, wake up, repeat.
Speaking of The Bachelor, I still hadn’t watched Monday’s episode, so I curled up with Cleo on my brown suede couch and selected the show from my DVR playlist. It was the Women Tell All episode, which was entertaining as always. The women were all yelling, accusing each other of not being there “for the right reasons.” A few took turns crying on the couch next to Chris Harrison, talking about how “in love” they were with the current Bachelor. Other girls on the dais rolled their eyes. I know, I know, it’s not the most intellectual of shows, but I think and analyze all day at work, so when I come home, I like to unplug my brain and watch some dumbed-down smut just so I don’t have to think for a couple of hours.
When it was finally over, I turned off the television and picked up a book from my latest favorite author, Greg Iles. His most recent release was Book Four in his Southern Gothic thriller series about a lawyer-turned-novelist-turned-investigator. When I couldn’t keep my eyes open a moment longer, I turned off the lamp, padded down the hallway with Cleo following closely behind, and crawled into my big, empty, four-poster, king-size bed.
***
I woke up the next morning, went to work, went through my daily routine, came home, jogged, and then went through my nightly routine again—this time it was The Real Housewives of Atlanta—and went to bed by myself again.
Life went on like this for several days. I kept asking the Chief when I would begin my training, but he just shrugged and shooed me out of his office.
I couldn’t wait to start my new life. I knew it wasn’t going to be real and it would be a dangerous job to boot, but I was so tired of my hum-drum life, I welcomed any change fate would bring my way. I was anxious to be somebody else and this whole “biker chick” thing sounded strangely appealing. True, it was the complete opposite of my life at the time, but that was the whole point, right? And besides, I just had to get out of my boring routine. Going home to Kentucky―even if I couldn’t visit my family, even if I would be someone completely different―was just what I needed.
Chapter 3
Finally, a week later, I was sitting at my desk, typing up a report, when two big, burly, muscle-bound men came strolling into headquarters. My desk was in an open area, since my lowly rank at the DEA did not warrant my own office, so I was able to see them as soon as they entered through the front doors.
I watched as they rounded the corner and headed right toward me. “Are you Agent Rockford?” asked one of the big men.
“Yes. I am Agent Rockford. And you are…”
“Agent Beauford, and this here’s Agent Renley. We’re here to train you for Operation Black Betty.” Every time I heard the name of this operation, the tune to Ram Jam’s “Black Betty” played in my mind.
I stood up and extended my hand. “Nice to meet you both.”
They both shook my hand with very tight grips. The pair of them stood at least six feet tall and I ventured to guess they both were well over two hundred pounds of pure muscle. They both wore goatees and bandanas on their heads. In fact, they looked like a pair of biker twins, which would have been almost comical, had they not been so quiet and domineering.
“I think they’ve booked Conference Room A for us to work in, if you’ll follow me.” I led them both down the corridor to Conference Room A and flipped on the light switch. It was a long, narrow room with a large oblong table, which took up most of the space.
“Please, have a seat.” I gestured for the men to sit in the chairs on one side of the table while I sat down opposite them.
“Agent Rockford, as Agent Beauford stated earlier, we are here to brief you on Operation Black Betty, as well as prepare you for going undercover,” said Agent Renley. “Now, this is not going to be easy. I can see now what Kingston was worried about. You are young.”
“But pretty,” Beauford added.
I looked at him curiously, wondering why he felt the sudden urge to comment on my perceived attractiveness.
“Sorry. Let me explain. Headquarters was looking for a young, attractive agent to gain the trust of the Lords of Chaos VP, Sonny Jackson. See, Sonny is next in line after his old man for the President’s seat at the table. Word has it, Leroy Jackson, Sonny’s father, is getting ready to retire and when he does, Sonny will take over as leader of the crew. You…fit the bill.”
“Uh, thanks, I guess?”
“Now, first things first, we’ve got to get you looking like one of them. You’re too clean and preppy to get Sonny’s attention…no offense. He likes ’em tough and a little on the slutty side, pardon my language.” Renley’s smile told me he wasn’t sorry one bit.
“You’re fine,” I reassured him. Working in a primarily male-driven workplace, I was more than used to crude language.
“So, you’ll need to go shopping and get yourself some new duds. Try the local Harley Davidson store, for starters. They sell things biker chicks would wear.” Renley continued.
“Speaking of motorcycles…” Beauford interrupted. “DEA’s gonna give you a bike…a Harley. You’re more likely to get Sonny’s attention if you can ride a chopper. So as soon as you get your motorcycle, we’ll teach you how to ride it.”
“We’re here for the next several weeks, so we’ll need to meet every day, and maybe even every night until we think you’re good and ready to go to Kentucky. We’ll leave you for today, but your first assignment is to go shopping. There’s a Harley Davidson store downtown on Ohio Street,” Renley instructed.
We all stood up and started to leave the conference room.
“Oh, and Agent Rockford?” Renley stopped me. “Think biker chick.”
They looked at each other, then threw back their heads and let out loud belly laughs.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” I nodded my head and left the room.
***
After work, I headed down to Ohio Street to the Harley Davidson shop as Renley and Beauford had suggested. I entered the store and immediately saw several racks of clothing, as well as some hanging from the wall. Sifting through the racks, I was thinking how incredibly tacky everything was and wondering how in the world I was going to pull this off. I found some not-too-horrible tank tops and hoodies, as well as some tight-fitting, stone-washed jeans. Right when I was about to check out, I realized that I’d better grab a leather jacket too.
Standing at the register, the husky man behind the counter with a handlebar mustache looked at me curiously. There I stood in my black dress pants with a powder-blue, button-down shirt and black sensible heels, purchasing four hundred dollars’ worth of motorcycle attire. It didn’t surprise me when he shook his thick head and sniggered.
The one thing the store didn’t have that I needed was a good pair of boots. Don’t ask me how I knew this, but I knew there was a Western wear store down on Chicago Avenue, so I headed there next.
I found some long-sleeve plaid shirts that tied at the waist, as well as a great pair of black leather Ariat boots, which were one hundred eighty-five dollars. But hey, it wasn’t my dime. Besides, didn’t they want me to look the part?
I went home and immediately tried on my new look. I put on a black Harley Davidson tank top, jeans with little rips in the front, and the Ariat boots. I stood in front of my full-length, black cheval mirror. Something wasn’t right. I had the right clothes, but from the neck up, I still looked like…me. Then it hit me. I picked up my cell phone and called my hairstylist, Daff
ney, and explained my situation. Of course, I couldn’t tell her about my assignment, but I told her it was important and that it was for my job and she would be doing a great service for her country. She told me to be at her house in half an hour.
***
As I sat in her chair, I tried to describe the look I was going for. It wasn’t like I could find it in the pages of Glamour or People magazines.
“I sure wish you could tell me what this was all about, but I know it’s some secret spy shit that you can’t tell me.”
I laughed. “Daffney, I’ve told you. I’m not a spy…I work for the DEA…big difference.”
“Okay, DEA. Whatever you say.” She combed through my hair and then stood there for a second with her hand on her hip, her lips pursed, thinking. Then it looked like fireworks were lighting up in her brain. “I got it!”
I didn’t ask questions. I just sat there while she snipped away at my hair until she stopped what she was doing, leaned over my shoulder and asked, “Do you trust me?”
What a loaded question. I knew her about as well as anyone knows their hairdresser, and we sometimes hung out together socially, but she always did a great job on my hair. “Yes. Of course I do.”
“Okay then. Here goes nothing.” She pulled out a couple of bottles of hair dye, squirted the contents onto a palette, and mixed them together. It looked awfully dark. Usually, I kept my shoulder-length blonde hair highlighted regularly, every six weeks. She had already cut layers and long bangs that I would never, under normal circumstances, have worn. Now she was about to dye my hair dark brown? But I told her I trusted her, plus I needed something drastic to totally change my look.
Confessions Of An Old Lady Page 2
