Hope Entangles: A New Adult Romantic Comedy (Book 2 of 3)

by Alice Bello

  I gaped at her. Since the day I’d met her, Bette had never let anyone tell her what to do. And if they tried she dumped them or divorced them. “What changed?”

  Her smile turned all Bette again. “My husband was much like Darla’s beau. Controlling, protective of his shiny new car—he had a Porsche—and completely unable to see me as anything but a stay-at-home wife.

  “I siphoned off some money here and there and paid a guy I knew from high school to teach me. I kept it a secret, but ended up buying myself a used car once I had my license.”

  She laughed and gave a derisive snort. “An El Camino. When Travis found the white and rust beast parked in the driveway he had a fit. That I’d gone against his edict and gotten my license, and had brought such an eye-sore home.”

  I smiled. I could so see her doing that.

  “After he saw I wouldn’t be cowed, and that I wasn’t going to get rid of the rust-mobile—even after he offered to buy me a shiny new Mustang—he started staying late at work more often, coming home with perfume and lipstick smudges on his collar, and being a right distant shit to me.”

  “So you filed for divorce?”

  “No,” she said as she took me by the arm and led me to the now idling Cadillac. “I took the rust-mobile to follow him and caught him on film going to a sleazy motel with his bleached blonde secretary.” She gave me a wink. “You’re not the only photographer in the neighborhood.”

  And there was where her love for eavesdropping and spy-games came from.

  Bette opened the back passenger door, holding it open for me.

  I stared at the swank leather upholstery and then imagined Darla and Bette in the front seat, hands clasped in a Thelma and Louise hold as the Cadillac flew into the Grand Canyon.

  Bette snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Hope: Get in.”

  I plastered a smile on my face and dropped into the cool, buttery soft seat of Bette car. I pulled on my seatbelt as Bette shut the door. The air conditioning was on already—thank heavens—and Bette made getting into her seat look like a graceful dance move she’d picked up from a prima ballerina.

  “I’m nervous,” Darla said, her hands on the wheel in a white knuckled grip. She seemed unable to pry her eyes from what was straight in front of her.

  “Don’t be,” Bette said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “I’m fully insured.”

  Darla giggled anxiously.

  “Plus,” Bette crooned as she riffled through an assortment of CDs. “We have tunes!”

  Born to Be Wild started to play and I felt my stomach flip over on me again.

  Darla’s hands came off the wheel and she started to hyperventilate. “I c-c-can’t d-d-do this!”

  Bette ejected the disc, pulled out a white paper bag and upended it, making its contents of insurance papers and registration forms fall into her lap, and then handed Darla the bag. “Breathe in this.”

  Darla took the bag and started huffing noisily into it.

  I felt my stomach turn over again. We were doomed.

  And then a twisted, almost happy thought came to me. If Darla kills us while learning to drive, at least I won’t have to think about Jake anymore…

  Bette riffled through her CDs and finally pulled out a mixed tape one. It lacked any artwork and had “Bad Mood” scrawled in black marker across its front.

  Oh god…

  Bette popped it in and a few beats later Carrie Underwood’s Until He Cheats came rolling out of the speakers.

  Darla stopped hyperventilating and smiled, her dimples in full glory as she turned to us. “I love this song.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Bette purred, and then casually pointed toward the road. “Let’s hit the road, shall we?”

  ***

  It was one of those moments in life that seemed to never end.

  First Bette directed Darla onto the freeway. Her advice was, “Blow everyone’s doors off. The sooner you pass them, the sooner you get where you want to go.”

  I probably put permanent nail marks in Bette’s leather seats, but at least I kept my gyro down.

  Darla wove in and out of traffic like Danica Patrick during a NASCAR race. Turned out she was really rather good at it. I shook my head in disbelief as we made it to the other side of San Antonio without crashing or being molested by the highway patrol.

  Next came parallel parking. Somehow Bette found a street in the suburbs that was completely deserted. It was still morning, so most people were probably at work, or out running errands.

  Bette and I got out and acted as place setters for where Darla needed to fit the white Caddy between. She ran over the sidewalk that first time, but after that she seemed to get the hang of it. Then Bette moved the program a couple blocks over and Darla practiced sliding the Caddy into a spot flanked by a Saturn and a Volvo. She executed the move perfectly all ten times Bette had her do it.

  From there our little field trip moved to an abandoned Circuit City parking lot. There we acted as cones as Darla navigated a makeshift maneuverability course.

  I admit feeling the icy fingers of dread run down my spine as she backed up towards us… but she skillfully drove the huge, honking beast of a car through the course without batting an eyelash.

  She was getting pretty good.

  When Bette and I got back in the car Darla was all smiles. Bette was on her cell phone again, chatting away and smiling. “Oh, thank you Ray. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. We’ll be right there.”

  She gave Darla a solemn look. “One more stop and we’ll head back.”

  That one more stop was the highway patrol barracks on New Braunfels Avenue. Bette had Darla stop and Bette got out and sashayed in through the front doors. No more than a minute later she came out arm in arm with a tall, heavy set man wearing a rumpled shirt and a loosened tie. He also had a clipboard.

  “Oh my god…” Darla murmured. “That’s Hard Ass Jackson.”

  “What?” But then I recognized the name. “Holy shit…”

  Raymond (Hard Ass) Jackson was the single most feared driver’s license test giver in the state. He’d been at it going on forty years and was a household name.

  Darla’s hands tightened again on the wheel, her knuckles once again white.

  “He has a seventy-five percent fail ratio. There’s a kid in my class that still won’t try again since he drove around with him—my brother’s girlfriend went into therapy last year after he failed her.”

  What the hell was Bette thinking?

  Bette and Hard Ass Jackson stopped beside the car, chatting away like old friends. She gave him one of her full-throated laughs—and then snorted. I’d never heard her snort before. It was so dorky yet adorable on her.

  Finally the two pulled out of their shared reverie and Bette said, “These are my friends: Hope and Darla. Girls, this is my Uncle Jackson.”

  My mouth fell open, as did Darla’s. Hard Ass Jackson was her uncle?

  The man smiled… well, he grinned, his hawk sharp eyes taking us in and assessing us. His gaze honed in on Darla.

  “Little Bette here tells me you’ve failed nine times.”

  Little Bette?

  Darla’s mouth snapped shut with a click, and she bowed her head. “Yes, sir. I get kinda nervous.”

  “And she says your boyfriend makes you even more nervous.”

  Darla grimaced and shook her head.

  “Look at me, girl,” Hard Ass said.

  Darla raised her head and looked him square in the eye.

  “That’s better. Now, as for your boyfriend, young men get stupid when around pretty girls and about their shiny automobiles. When you mix the two don’t be surprised when they turn downright idiotic.”

  Darla smiled, her dimples making her absolutely gorgeous.

  He nodded his head toward Bette. “My niece here tells me she’s been working with you all afternoon.” He took a long, slow breath. “That alone should earn you a medal.”

&nb
sp; Bette punched Hard Ass in the shoulder, which he ignored.

  “Uncle Jackson!”

  He shrugged and looked decidedly satisfied with himself.

  “Don’t fuss, girl. I’ll be on my very best behavior for your little friend.” The big man opened the driver’s side door to the Cadillac and dropped gracefully down in. I was impressed with how easily he moved. I was also impressed at how his massive shoulders completely blocked his side of the windshield.

  “Miss?” he said, and I realized he was talking to me. “Only Miss Monroe and I can be in the car during the test.”

  Miss Monroe? Was Marilyn here?

  Then it hit me he was talking about Darla. I vaguely remember reading that on her state ID when I’d photocopied it.

  “Oh… sorry.” I got out of the car.

  “Now don’t go too hard on her, Uncle Jackson. That’s one sweet little girl you’ve got there.”

  Hard Ass turned his head and smiled. It was the smile of a great white shark, and it made both Bette and I take a step back.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, little Bette. I’ll treat her as if she were my own niece.”

  Bette pursed her lips, her hands balling up into fists. “Goddamn it, Jackson. You can’t do that to her!”

  He just grinned as the window slid up and he motioned Darla forward with a wave of his hand.

  Darla’s eyes were wide with terror, but she managed to put the Caddy in drive and

  smoothly move out of the parking lot and into the thickening afternoon traffic.

  “That bastard!” Bette groaned.

  I stood next to her and watched as they drove away. “So what did he do to you when you went and tested out?”

  Her jaw clenched. “He wanted to make sure his “little Bette” wouldn’t go and get herself killed on the open road.” She took in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “He knew my daddy didn’t want me driving… and neither did my husband. So he decided to put me through a not so standard obstacle course.”

  “How ‘not so standard’.”

  “He had me driving through a junk yard while some of his guys jumped out from behind stuff, or rolled barrels in my path.”

  “Oh…” Damn.

  “I had to do my maneuverability test on the ice of a hockey rink.”

  “Oh…” Double damn.

  “And I had to parallel park in front of the capital building during rush hour.”

  Darla was doomed. “What a guy.”

  “Crazy old bastard!”

  Chapter 3

  Hard Ass Jackson and Darla had been gone for over an hour and a half. Bette and I sat impatiently in the lobby of the patrol barracks, trying not to wilt from the anemic air conditioning.

  I was trying to get engrossed in an article in Reader’s Digest. It was written by Teller (of Penn and Teller). It was a good article about magic and deceiving people. I was reading it so if by chance I ever had, say, a magician try to con me, I’d at least have a fighting chance.

  Bette was using a copy of Field and Stream to fan herself. Two uniformed patrolmen leaned by the water cooler and tried not to stare at Bette’s ample assets. But who could really blame them? Bette had the body of Dolly Parton… and the beautiful face too. All topped off with curly, fiery red hair, and she was wearing a particularly low cut top that showed off her impressive décolletage to its best advantage.

  A phone rang and after the third ring it occurred to one of the water cooler patrolmen to answer it. He tripped and spilled his untouched water all over the counter.

  Bette sat serenely, a small, satisfied smile on her pretty face.

  Bette’s white Caddy rolled to a stop outside the front door and Darla sat there for a moment, listening to Hard Ass Jackson intently as he spoke.

  Bette leaned into me and held onto my arm. She was thinking the same thing I was: what the hell was he saying?

  Hard Ass handed Darla a slip of paper—she looked down at it, seriousness etching her creamy young complexion.

  “I should have never brought her here…” Bette whispered.

  Darla turned and looked at us, and ever so slowly, a wide, devastatingly bright smile spread across her lips.

  Hard Ass was already out of the car and heading for the front doors to the barracks. Darla opened her door, jumped out and flying tackled the old giant of a man, hugging his neck and kissing his cheek.

  He stood there frozen for a moment, and then he rolled his eyes as a grudging smile overtook his face.

  Bette slumped back in her seat. “Oh, thank god!” She slid on her shades again. “Should have known the old man wouldn’t have a chance against that girl; she has the charm of an angel, a movie star, and a politician, all rolled up into one.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, she’s going to be the spitting image of you someday.”

  Bette pursed her lips. “There’s only one of me, Hope. There will be no second generation.”

  I turned to hide my smile. Darla and Bette were cut from the same cloth. That’s why they got along so well so quickly... once they made nice.

  After Bette thanked Hard Ass—I mean, her Uncle Jackson—we piled into Bette’s trusty Caddy and headed to the DMV. We lucked out and there wasn’t a line, and before we knew it Darla was sitting to get her picture taken.

  I would have suggested she come back when she’d had time to do her hair and change into something more fashionable… but it was Darla, and she would have looked good rolling out of bed and into a potato sack.

  All she had to do was smile.

  Dimples…

  ***

  Darla and Bette both wanted to celebrate with ice cream. And, of course, the closest ice cream joint was Crickster’s.

  Drat, drat, double damn it to hell…

  I hadn’t told Bette about that particular “date.” But I didn’t want to sully the celebratory atmosphere by begging off from ice cream. I mean, I’m a girl! No matter what has happened in the past, nothing on this earth should be able to lessen the wonderfulness of going out for ice cream.

  Plus I’d been going to Crickster’s since I was seven. I so wasn’t going to let the memory of one little pseudo-date ruin it for me.

  I just wasn’t!

  Darla drove, and pulled into the ice cream parlor parking lot, almost mowing down a gaggle of little pre-teen Miss Texases I held my breath, but Bette snorted her approval.

  Darla was going to be a menace… just like Bette.

  We moseyed on up to the order window: Bette got a soft-serve chocolate chocolate-dip. It wasn’t even in a waffle-cone! I just stared, not believing she had ordered soft-serve at an ice cream parlor.

  It was un-American.

  Darla ordered a strawberry shake and a small pistachio waffle cone. I could live with that.

  I ordered my usual: a chocolate chip cookie dough double scooped waffle cone, and once our order was filled we congregated around an open picnic table. The sun was high and hot, and I sat and watched as Bette and Darla demolished their ice cream. I looked down and found my hand dripping with melted goodness. I gave my cone a cursory lick, the usually mouthwatering delight was sickly sweet on my tongue.

  I got up and ditched the cone in the trash, going back to the order counter for a diet coke and a wet wipe.

  I stood there a moment, wiping my hands off, and a sly, dry Texas wind blew past me, touching me all over, like the gentlest of lovers. It made me close my eyes, breathing in deep of the smell of pine trees and dust. And I could swear I heard Shania warbling that certain tune again. As the wind blew around me like a mini twister, I felt myself get lost in a memory.

  Jake’s strong arms around me as we slow danced, not even ten feet away from where I stood now.

  If I tried hard enough, could I smell his aftershave?

  I shook my head and the memory vanished. Slowly opening my eyes, I took in the near empty parking lot. No one was here except Darla, Bette, and me.

  Jake was not here…

  That’s when a sleek, midnight blue
68’ Mustang roared into the lot. It shone like it was new, and rumbled like there was a pride of lions pacing around under the hood.

  It stopped right in front of me, and I realized I recognized the two people sitting in it.

  Billy and Georgia.

  Well, hot damn. He’d actually gotten her to go out with him. But I remembered the “Just to talk,” Georgia had interjected in there when she’d first agreed.

  Billy looked like he was ready to pant like a happy Great Dane. Georgia looked confused and wanting to be anywhere but where she was.

  I waved when their two sets of eyes spotted me. Billy smiled broadly, looking too happy to live, and then he glanced over at Georgia and his smile turned Big Bad Wolf again; which reminded me I needed him to model for me sometime in the next couple weeks so I could get my next cover put together. From the look on her face I was seriously doubting Georgia would be joining him. Hopefully Billy knew more than just one girl…

  The working title for the novel was Red’s Big Bad Wolf. It was an erotic retelling of the fairytale, set in modern-day New York City. Red lives a quiet, Sex and the City kind of life, a customer service rep for Prada by day, a cyber sex-advice columnist by night. That is until the night she runs afoul of a local werewolf pack Alpha. Turns out Red is a badass Wicca with a temper and a talent for catching things on fire: especially overbearing, arrogant alpha werewolves.

  Red tames the Alpha boy’s beast, and bondage fun abounds. Her grandmother ends up being a werewolf hunter, though, and a wacky will she kill him, will she not plot blends into the endless rutting, spanking, and overall mess making.

  Janine had high hopes for it to sell big.

  I watched with interest as Billy leapt from the driver’s seat of his shiny beast, gave me a wave and a sexy smirk/eyebrow wriggle, and then jogged on over to open Georgia’s door for her.

  Oh boy…

  Billy opened her door, but she refused to let him help her out off the car.

  “Hi guys,” I said as Georgia looked uncomfortable and tugged at the cute little silky top she had on, to make sure it was covering every possible inch of her lithe, curvy frame.