What the Hail

by Lani Lynn Vale

  Then, when I’d planted that ornamentation, he’d told me that color wasn’t allowed.

  What in the actual fuck? Was he on some power trip or something?

  Though, that wasn’t the worst thing about him.

  Not only was he my landlord, and harassing me by using the HOA, but he was also the same man who ‘lost’ my car payment.

  Which was complete bullshit. I had pawned the last thing that I owned of any value to my name—my grandmother’s wedding ring—netting me thirty-five hundred dollars. With that money, I then went to the bank and got a cashier’s check and walked it straight to Harold’s office.

  He’d, of course, found it, but not before he ordered my car to be repossessed. Again.

  Fucker.

  I hated him, and I wanted nothing more than to punch him in his stupid ugly face.

  But I couldn’t.

  Because this was my new beginning. This was the place that I could hide out from my ex-husband—a man who was scarier than all others, including this piece of shit.

  So, I’d deal with Harold. I’d deal with the stupid HOA giving me stupid fines for something that didn’t matter. And I’d deal with my car.

  Because it was either that, or I was dead.

  And I didn’t want to be dead.

  I’d tried it once. It wasn’t for me.

  Chapter 4

  I’m that person who can’t speak a single sentence without swearing.

  -Baylor to his brother

  Baylor

  I glared at Harold.

  “Listen, motherfucker,” I said to the little prick that was standing on my lawn with a fucking ruler in his hand. “I mowed yesterday. It ain’t gonna get no shorter. You can either fuck off, or I’ll fuck you up.”

  Which I would accomplish by shoving that goddamn ruler up his ass.

  “You’re the second person that I’ve had to fine today,” he said. “She said the same thing. But rules are rules. You signed the HOA contract just like I did.”

  Actually, I hadn’t.

  I’d scribbled something on the line that resembled a line with a curly twist at the end. I wasn’t going to sign that shit.

  If I wanted to paint my house fucking pink, then I’d paint it fucking pink.

  The same went for the stupid purple flowers that my mother had planted.

  Which, might I add, were still planted around my mailbox and looking quite awesome, if I said so myself.

  “And I know we told you last week about the flowers, but if you don’t remove them, they’ll be removed for you.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the little fat prick.

  “You take those flowers out of my yard, you’ll regret it.”

  Harold stood up and crossed his arms over his pudgy belly.

  “Maybe,” he drawled. “Or maybe I won’t.”

  I knew what he was thinking. He was the only banker in town. Everyone and their brother had their shit at his bank.

  I wasn’t scared, though.

  All of my shit was paid off, house included.

  Though, my brothers still had their shit through Hostel First Bank and Trust.

  Likely he was thinking he could get at me through them—like the little turd he was—but he couldn’t.

  I’d pay their shit off, too, if I had to.

  See, two years ago, I was nearly killed by a drunk driver. That drunk driver just happened to be the little boy of a billionaire, and that billionaire had not only paid all my medical bills, but he’d also given me enough money to make sure that I would never have another want or need in this life. He did that in the form of a six-million-dollar payment and a promise to help me in any way, shape, or form should I ever need it. Anytime, anywhere.

  Not that I’d ever use him like that.

  He was a good guy with a shithead for a kid. It wasn’t his fault that his son was a dumbass.

  A dumbass who was now in a wheelchair for the rest of his life because of that accident.

  The accident had not only ended my military career, but it also put me in the hospital for three months, and it had forced me to reevaluate my situation.

  Him? He’d ruined his basketball scholarship to UT, one that promised a one-way ticket straight to the NBA. He’d lost the love and support that he’d once had, and he was now living half a life in an in-patient facility that catered to people with quadriplegia because that accident had shattered his spine.

  Though, his father still loved him, which was what a good father would do.

  My brothers may not want me to pay off their shit, but if that prick, Harold, was going to threaten them to get to me, they better fucking believe that I would pay it off before he could use them in that way.

  Not to mention he was one of my least favorite people in the world.

  I fucking hated repossessing cars for his punk ass.

  Which reminded me of Lark.

  Fuck, I couldn’t get her out of my head.

  It’d been three weeks since I’d repossessed her car and three weeks since I’d seen her tears.

  Honestly, there was nothing special about her. Why the fuck couldn’t I get her off my mind?

  It’s because of her big, beautiful gray eyes. Those tears had made her eyes look like a rainstorm, and you fucking love rainstorms.

  Goddammit.

  “Honestly, Mr. Hail, I don’t see why you can’t follow the rules. The woman, Lark, that lives down the road? She was nice about it. She took the fine, removed the flowers, and promised to have new ones in their place by sundown. That’s how this HOA goes. Everyone is happy, I’m happy.”

  You’re a dick.

  “I’m not removing them,” I told him. “Have a good day, Harry.”

  Harold narrowed his eyes.

  He hated being called Harry.

  Which was why I did it.

  Harold walked away without another word, and I watched him march down to the street, climb into his golf cart, and drive to the next house.

  I could see him as he checked the exterior paint on their house.

  I rolled my eyes.

  Poor fuckers would likely have to spend around ten grand in paint to have it repainted because he saw one goddamn chip in it.

  Fucker.

  And this Lark chick? Well, she was stupid, too.

  You bowed to guys like this, and they’d do whatever was in their power to keep pushing because they knew you wouldn’t push back.

  Me? I was the one who did the pushing in my life, and I always would be.

  Why? Because I hated a fucking bully, and Harold could be pictured next to the word, bully, in the dictionary.

  I waited until the fat fucker disappeared in his golf cart around the corner before I walked back into my house.

  I came back out moments later mostly dressed. Now I had on a grand total of boxer briefs, sweatpants, my nine-millimeter strapped to my ankle, ankle socks, and tennis shoes.

  The pants I was wearing rode low on my hips, and I stopped five steps onto the street to tie them tighter.

  Waving at my elderly neighbor as she took her trash out—good thing Harold was gone, because the little twit would’ve fined her for putting it out before nine p.m. the day before it was to be picked up—I took a deep, relaxing breath and gritted my teeth for that first bite of pain that always hit me.

  The moment my knee flexed and a flash of pain tore through me, I shoved it to the back of my mind and looked forward.

  I started my run like I always did, turning left out of my driveway and running to the highway before turning around at the stop sign and going back the opposite way.

  I was on the first of three streets I’d pass through when I saw her up ahead wearing a pair of cut-off, blue jean shorts, a t-shirt that looked like she’d slashed it partially to pieces, a beat-up pair of tennis shoes and a baseball cap.

  My eyes narrowed.

  That looked like my baseball cap.

  However, I�
�d lost it during a storm a few weeks ago on a run, and I hadn’t been able to stop long enough to look for it.

  But it had been on this street that I’d lost it.

  I looked at my watch, realizing I’d been running for about forty-five minutes, and decided that I could stop for a few minutes and confront the hat thief.

  The closer I got to her, the more I realized that I knew that body.

  Her bottom half was thick, round, and luscious. Her top half was more on the skinny side. Her breasts were there, but not nearly as luscious as one would expect when you compared her ass to her tits. Her waist was tiny, which just made her ass look even bigger than it actually was.

  Then there was her hair, which I hadn’t seen since she had it tucked up underneath the ball cap until I was much closer.

  Tiny tendrils escaped the hat, twisting and turning this way and that, and brushing against the collar of her shirt.

  She had blue hair.

  And not a light blue, either. It was a deep, rich, royal blue that was shocking compared to the white-blonde hair at her roots.

  On the top, she looked fairly normal, but on the bottom, it was as if she’d dipped the ends directly into a jar of blue paint.

  I wanted to touch it.

  Fuck.

  The pounding of my running feet on the pavement finally caught her attention, and she turned.

  What I saw made me stop, making my knee scream in pain.

  I winced and came to a stop about three feet from her, and I narrowed my eyes.

  The pain in my knee made my words come out a lot harsher than she probably deserved, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Why are you crying?” I barked.

  She bit her lip and looked down at the trash can she was carrying out to the curb, and then back to me.

  “Uhhh,” she hesitated.

  “And since when do you live here?” I questioned.

  Surely, she’d just moved in.

  “Since I moved in.” She paused. “Which has been for a while now.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “If you’ve lived here all this time, why did you have your belongings in the car when it was repossessed?”

  Why weren’t they in the house? I wanted to yell. Then I wouldn’t have gotten chewed out by fucking Travis when I told him I needed to get all the shit out of the car and take it back to the owner.

  Which was a big no-no, by the way.

  When a car was repossessed, unless otherwise stated in the loan papers, all belongings are returned by the lender. Unfortunately, Lark’s car loan was owned by none other than the dick head on his golf cart. He had a clause in the contracts that if there were any possessions in a car when it was repossessed, then those belongings were sold in an auction to help raise money for the back loan payments.

  I should’ve known then when I told Travis I was taking that shit out of the car and returning it that this girl was different.

  She looked away guiltily.

  Right at the house beside her, and that was when I realized that the little fucker in his golf cart was pulled up under a specially made parking area/carport that was the perfect size for a golf cart.

  Literally, the only other thing that could go there besides a golf cart was maybe a ride-on lawn mower.

  “The last time I moved stuff in, somebody made a noise complaint because I was opening and closing my car door too much.”

  I could tell that was partially the truth, but not all of it.

  But before I could say anything more than I did, she turned her eyes away from the man and his stupidly perfect yard, and back to me.

  “I have to go to work,” she grimaced.

  I looked at her curiously.

  “Like that?”

  She looked down at what she was wearing.

  “Today is a stocking day,” she explained, shrugging. “I get to wear whatever I want today because it’s closed.”

  “Ahh,” I understood now. “Is this at the grocery store or the Taco Shop?”

  Why was I still talking to her?

  I should leave.

  “Grocery store,” she answered. “Why?”

  I shrugged.

  “Are you alone when you do this?”

  Why did I continue to ask her questions when she’d already said she had to leave?

  My only reasonable explanation was that I didn’t want her to go off with those fucking tears in her eyes.

  Her gaze kept drifting back to the purple flowers that she’d dumped into the trash, and then back to me. Almost as if she was sad to see them go.

  They were cute flowers. My mother had picked mine out, and they were nearly identical. She must’ve shopped at Lowe’s, too.

  She sighed and continued to roll her trash can down the length of the driveway, stopping when she got to the bottom.

  The loud hum of the wheels had caught someone else’s attention, too.

  I winced at the whiny voice.

  “You can’t put your trash can out!” Harold bawled like the fat heifer he was. “It’s only two p.m.!”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “You made her rip up her purple fucking flowers,” I said to him. “The least you can do is let her leave the trash can out.”

  “No, I don’t,” he countered.

  “Mr. Harold, I have to work until well past morning. The trash men will be here to pick the trash up before I even get home from work,” Lark - yes, I’d finally put two and two together - cried out. “That’ll mean it won’t be able to go out until Wednesday night, and since I was fined for having ‘smelly trash’ just two weeks ago for the very same situation, I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

  Harold shrugged.

  “Not my problem, Ms. Lawrence.”

  Lark Lawrence. Nice.

  Catchy.

  Fuck.

  “Harold,” I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “You need to get off your HOA high horse and back the fuck off. The board meets next week, and I have no problem in the freakin’ world asking for a vote to replace your ass.”

  Harold’s eyes narrowed. “I’m the president. You can’t kick me off the board.”

  “Actually,” I paused, wiping sweat from my brow. “I’m pretty sure you’ve pissed off a lot of people lately with your fines. If there’s a petition of more than sixty neighbor signatures, an emergency election can be held for someone more suitable for the position.”

  Harold looked like he’d swallowed a roach.

  “Fine.” His eyes turned to Lark. “Go ahead and leave the trash can out. You and only you can do this. If anyone else tries to put it out early, though, you will be finding an alternate solution.”

  Bullshit.

  If he tried to fine her again for this, I’d hire my own fucking lawyer and sue his ass for harassment.

  I had the money, after all. Why the fuck not?

  “Don’t.”

  I looked over at the woman.

  “I can tell that you’re pissed, but trust me on this. I have this man as my neighbor. He’s also my landlord and someone who pretty much controls my life. Don’t do whatever it is that I can see you’re thinking about doing.”

  Before I could question her even more about what she was talking about—why would Harold control her life—she walked away without another word.

  “Hey!” I called to her.

  She turned and looked at me.

  “You’re wearing my hat.”

  She touched the brim with her hand.

  “What…” She shook her head. “No, it’s not.”

  I nodded my head. “Yes, it is. I lost it in a rainstorm. Near this house, I might add.”

  She looked over at her yard and tilted her head.

  “I found it in my bushes. I washed it, and I was going to donate it to Goodwill along with some of the extras that were left in this house, but when I was planting the flowers, my cheeks were burning…”

  She to
ok it off and offered it to me.

  I shook my head. “Nah.”

  Then I started back down the street, not bothering to turn and see if she was watching.

  I didn’t need to, after all. I could practically feel her eyes burning a hole in my back.

  Chapter 5

  Some girls are Malibu Barbie. I’m that weird knock-off, store-brand ‘Barbie’ that looks like she’s from the hood and has gone a few rounds with life.

  -Lark’s secret thoughts

  Lark

  I looked at my car in dismay.

  I had a parking ticket.

  Dammit.

  Hell.

  Shit.

  Piss.

  I took the ticket off of the windshield, opened the door of my car, and sat down on the most uncomfortable seat in the world.

  It, however, was being loaned to me by my new friend, Krisney.

  Apparently, it was her spare. She’d explained to me when she’d given me the keys that it had a tendency to break down at the worst possible minute. That it had an oil leak that meant I would have to put a bottle in once a week, and a faulty taillight that worked only when it wanted to work.

  The inside was almost as bad as the outside, but not by much.

  Oh, and did I mention I couldn’t afford insurance?

  Yeah, I was driving on the Texas roads, illegal as fuck.

  Awesome.

  I thrust this ticket into the glovebox with the others and slammed it closed.

  Then I stuck the key in the ignition, turned it, and winced.

  Nothing. Not a crank. Not a dink. Not even a turn of the motor.

  Not a goddamn thing.

  “Dammit!” I cried out. “Can my life get any worse?”

  Yes, yes it could.

  Which I found out moments later when a tow truck pulled up across the street from me, started backing up, and stopped a few short inches away from my neighbor’s truck’s front bumper.

  Then none other than the sexiest man alive got out, dressed the same way he had been the day he’d repossessed my car.

  Baylor Hail.

  God, he was so sexy.

  So sexy it practically hurt.

  He was tall, well over six feet two inches—I knew this based off of looking up at him. The same crick that was in my neck when I looked at my ex, was also present when I looked at Baylor. My guess was that he was at least six foot three or more based on my increased level of crickiness.