by Isabel North
CHAPTER SEVEN
Standing shoulder to shoulder in the driveway, Elle and Jenny gazed at their childhood home.
“I’m not sure if this is any better than the crack den in Middlebury,” Elle said eventually. “Weren’t you supposed to be keeping it up?”
“It’s up. It’s standing.”
“I meant keeping it pretty.”
Jenny shrugged. “It kind of dropped down on my list of things to worry about. Is it all my fault, though? You’ve been happy enough taking your cut of the tenant’s check. When did you last swing by?”
“The day of Dad’s funeral.” It wasn’t like she had any fond memories she wanted to revisit. “And my cut of the check was significantly smaller than yours, what with you being the one who was supposed to be managing it. Since for you, swinging by is a twenty-minute drive rather than a weekend trip.”
“In my defense, I had no idea it had gotten this run-down. Mrs. Thompson rented it for the last few years. She was supposed to let me know if it needed work.”
The once-white paint with its cornflower blue trim was a flaking gray-beige. The lawn flowed into the land around it. The windows were grimy and dark. The roof was gap-toothed with missing shingles.
“Guess she was busy,” Elle said. “This place is a dump.”
“You see a dump. You know what I see when I look at this house?”
“A high risk of tetanus?”
“I see an opportunity.”
“For tetanus?”
“For a home. A home Dean can’t get his hands on to sell and pay off his debts, or to put up in one of his stupid poker games. A home that no one gets to take away from Katie. So, thank you, God, and thank you, Dad.”
Elle flinched.
“What? Up until recently, I felt the same way you do. Son of a bitch did almost nothing right by us, but at the end? Yeah. He did. He got sober, did what he could to fix things. Gave us this palace, tied it up nice and tight in a trust. That worked out for me, since Dean can’t make a grab for it. Now I’ve got Katie, I’ve got you, I’ve got this. Things are looking up.”
Elle sucked in a sharp breath.
Jenny turned to her and said again, this time with impatience, “What?”
“I don’t know. After that moving and momentous speech in the face of how our lives are going right now, I was expecting something to happen. Like the roof to collapse. Or the gutters to drop off.”
Jenny started to grin. “I know what you mean.”
“Hey, lady! You can’t park here. Outta my driveway.”
They both yelped when the irate voice came from behind them. Elle threw her arms around Jenny to keep her upright, and they spun around.
“Move it.” A man leaned out the window of a rust-speckled yellow VW van. “I’m coming in.”
He didn’t wait for them to move, just drove forward. Slowly, but it was clear he wasn’t going to stop. Elle hustled Jenny out of the way. He parked the heap at a sloppy angle next to Elle’s Prius and jumped down. He pushed past them and marched up the front steps, arms full of plastic carrier bags.
Elle looked at him, then at Jenny. “Who the heck is that?”
“Beats me.”
The guy put down his shopping and rejoined them in the driveway. “You girls deaf or something?” He stood with narrow chest thrust out, hands on hips, and elbows jutting. “Scat. Off my property.”
“Hell no,” Jenny said and lurched forward. Elle caught her again, steadied her. “This isn’t your property, this is ours.”
“Huh. You the landlady?”
“No, because there is no tenant.”
He hitched a thumb at himself. “I’m the tenant.”
“No, you’re not. There is no tenant.”
“There is, and he’s standing right in front of you, girlie.”
Jenny glared. “You’re Glen Thompson, right? Mrs. Thompson’s son?”
“Good to meet you, landlady. Now shove off. I’ve got groceries need putting away.”
“I’m confused,” Elle said. “Do we or do we not have a tenant? You said it was empty.” It didn’t sit well with her, the thought of tossing some poor guy out on his ear just because they needed to move in. Things were desperate enough she’d do it, but still. Wouldn’t feel good.
“We do not,” Jenny said at the same time as Thompson said, “You do.”
“His mother was the tenant and she died months ago,” Jenny continued. “This joker was supposed to clear her stuff out. And then leave.”
“Yeah, well, I decided I’d stick around. It’s been an emotional time, you know? Losing a parent. Such a shock.”
“Your mother was ninety-five years old, Glen. It can’t have been the biggest shock in the world. You’re not the tenant.”
He smiled nastily. “Decided I’d take over the lease.”
“Then how come you haven’t been paying rent?”
“No one asked me to. And, hey, no one ever came around. I figured it wasn’t an issue.”
“I’ve had other things on my mind!” Jenny yelled, pegging over to him on her crutches. “Get off my property.”
“Girl, you can’t get me out, feeble little thing like you.”
Elle ranged to stand beside Jenny. “Get off our property.”
Thompson laughed in their faces. “Two feeble little things like you.”
“I’ll bet the cops can get you out,” Elle said. “You’re trespassing.”
“I’m squatting. There’s a difference. There’s a process. There’s paperwork and court orders and shit. And there’s nothing you can do about it.” Glen carted his shopping into the house and slammed the door.
“Okay,” Jenny said. “This one’s on me. In retrospect, I probably should have driven by and checked on the place.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“I get that this isn’t much of an excuse, but I found out Mrs. Thompson died the same day Dean served me with divorce papers. Which happened to be the same day my car got repossessed.”
Elle stared. “I’m getting you exorcised. This isn’t natural.”
Jenny laughed. It was one of the saddest sounds Elle had ever heard.
“Right. Stay here.” Elle stalked up to the house, banged on the door, and shouted for Glen to come back out. When he didn’t, she hopped off the porch and went to a window, cupping her hands against the grime-thick pane. Holy crap. She peered through every window on the ground floor, then stalked back to Jenny. “You rented to a hoarder?”
“I rented to a sweet little old lady. I didn’t know she was a hoarder until later. It’s why I kind of left Glen to it when he called to say she’d passed, and offered to deal with her stuff. I didn’t know that by deal with it, he meant curate it.”
The front door opened, and Glen dragged out a plastic lawn chair, sat down on it with exaggerated satisfaction, and kicked back to watch them, holding a fancy porcelain teacup and saucer with a gilt rim that gleamed in the sun. Elle and Jenny stood by the car and glared. Glen raised the cup, took a sip, and smacked his lips. “Like it?” he asked, turning the cup this way and that. “Mom had a matching set. All twenty-four pieces. Sell it to you for two hundred bucks.”
“We don’t want your dead mother’s teacups. But thanks.” Elle turned to Jenny. “Get in the car.”
“I’m not backing down, Elle. I can’t. This is it.” She dug the point of a crutch into the weeds. “This is the last stand.”
“In the car!” Elle stuffed her in, shut the doors, and powered up the windows. “Damn straight it’s the last stand. This place is a dump, and it’s ours. We’re not leaving.” They didn’t have anywhere to go. “We’re making a plan. We can’t muscle him out.”
“I can. Could. If I wasn’t in this cast, I could take him.”
Despite what Jenny thought, watching all seven seasons of Buffy didn’t make her an ass-kicking expert. On the other hand, Elle had self-defense training and a lot of rage toward Glen right now. She assessed him through the car window, sipping from his
dainty teacup. The gray in his hair and the lines on his skin suggested he was in his fifties or sixties. He had two or three inches of height on her, but she definitely had the weight advantage. Yeah. She could beat the crap out of him. Problem was, the main point of her training was centered around how to not let things escalate to physical violence. Besides, she didn’t want to beat up a sixty-year-old man. It didn’t sit right with her self-image. She’d save it as a last resort. “I don’t know the laws around this kind of situation, what rights Glen has if he’s been living here uncontested for…?”
Jenny slumped in her seat. “Eight months.”
“Eight.” Elle blew out a breath. “Eight months. Our first step’s going to have to be call the cops, see if they can talk him out. It’s about the only tool at our disposal.”
Jenny turned to her. “I can think of another tool. And this is right up his alley.” She rummaged around in her purse for her cell and struggled out of the car. “You gave me an idea with that whole exorcism thing. Which is on my to-do list, by the way.”
“Who are you calling? The Vatican?”
“Close. I’m going to call in holy vengeance.” She entered a number and hit the green button, then yelled over at Thompson, “Hear that, Glen? Wrath of God! Incoming!”
Elle got out of the car and rested her arms on the roof. “You have God on speed dial, and you waited until now to call?”
Jenny shook her head, smiling. “Hello?” she said into the phone. “Tate, I need a favor. And before you even say it, no, this isn’t a booty call and no, I’m not naked.” There was a beat of silence. “What do you mean, what am I wear—” Another pause. “Rainbow, Derek. My underpants are rainbow. Listen, are you going to do me a favor or not?”
Listening intently, she edged away from Elle.
“Hah. Not a chance. This isn’t a date kind of favor. More like a beer kind of favor. I’ll even stretch it to a six-pack.” Jenny’s face turned red. “I said six pack, Tate. Not sex pact. I’m asking…I’m asking you for help.” She spun and looked at Elle. Her eyes were starting to turn wild, so Elle gave her a thumbs-up. Jenny made a finger gun and mimed pulling the trigger at her own head. “At my dad’s place. Great. See you. Bye.” Jenny hung up and stuck the cell back in her purse. “That boy needs to be neutered.”
“Okay,” Elle said. “But after he’s helped us out, right?”
Twenty minutes later, the air throbbed with the deep growl of a motorcycle and they stood and watched as Derek Tate pulled up, kicked out the stand with his black motorcycle boots, and dropped his helmet on the seat.
Elle straightened. “Are you sure you’re not attracted to him?” she said to Jenny out the side of her mouth. “Not even a leeeetle tiny bit?”
“No,” snapped Jenny.
“Then I think I’ve got a brand-new crush. Which is very wrong because, let me remind you, I babysat him.” She eyed Derek as he sauntered up the driveway, all six feet and lean muscle, in faded jeans with rips at the knees, a wallet chain, a black hipster beanie, and an honest-to-goodness biker beard. “Derek?” she said, sounding confused.
“Hey, Elle!” He scooped her up into a bear hug. As in all the way up, feet off the ground. After an affectionate squeeze, he put her down and turned to Jenny, who’d shifted back a step and stuck her hand out in front of her. “We shaking hands now?”
She scowled.
“Improvement,” he said to Elle, looking thrilled. He gripped Jenny’s hand in a business-like manner and let go. “Last time, she stabbed me with her crutch.”
“I’m…sorry,” Elle said.
“Don’t you apologize for me, Elle. He deserved it. I’ll do it again.”
Derek reached over, took her crutches off her, leaned them on his bike, and winked at Elle. “Right,” he said over Jenny’s sputtering. “What’s the favor?”
“Hah, this is your wrath of God?” Thompson sneered on the porch. “The pastor’s son?”
“I’m the wrath of God?” Derek asked. “Thought I was Satan’s spawn. Make your mind up, Finley.”
“Hansen.”
Derek grinned. “Who needs smiting? This guy?” He gave Jenny his full, unwavering attention as she explained the situation. “Right,” he said. “See what I can do.” He strolled up to the porch and held a low conversation with Glen.
“What’s he waiting for?” Jenny asked with disgust when they started talking, Derek slouched against the railing with his ankles crossed.
“What are you waiting for?” Elle asked.
“Action.”
“Are you…did you call Derek in to rough him up? I thought you called him because this sort of thing is his job!”
“I did call him in because this sort of thing is his job.” Jenny chewed the edge of her thumbnail. “Can’t say I’d have a problem if he wanted to get physical about it, though.”
Conversation over, Derek strolled back to where they were hovering at the top of the driveway, having drifted closer to listen in.
“Well?” Jenny said, looking up at him.
“He is in the process of clearing his mom’s stuff. Which is good. Problem: it’s his new business. Less good.”
Glen spoke up from the porch steps. “This place is a fucking gold mine. I’m selling her shit on Craigslist and eBay, and my business plan don’t exactly involve paying for storage. Until it’s all gone and I’ve made enough for a one-way ticket to Hawaii, I ain’t leaving. You girls are shit out of luck.”
Derek, eyes still on Jenny, said, “I’m pretty sure this negotiation isn’t going to pan out.”
“I didn’t call you here to negotiate, Derek.”
“Hmm.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not really into smiting.”
“I know that. I just need you to do what you’re good at. Intimidation.”
Derek studied her for a moment. “I intimidate you?”
Jenny scoffed. “No. Not me. Him. Intimidate him. You’re intimidating in a general sense.”
He looked at Elle questioningly.
“I still think you’re an adorable moppet,” she told him.
He smiled.
“Ack!” Jenny shoved a hand against his chest. He covered it absently. “You’ve got the whole thing going on. Harley, muscles, beard.”
“Bike’s a Triumph, baby.”
“Be menacing. Step it up. Show him you’re a badass. Show him…show him your tattoos or something.” Jenny noticed he was still holding her hand, and yanked.
Sighing, he let her go. “You do know my tattoos don’t come alive or anything, right? And I don’t think everyone else is quite as scared by ink as you are. Some people think ink is cool. Some people think it’s sexy.”
Elle admired the bright dragon that wound around Derek’s tanned biceps and disappeared into the sleeve of his shirt. She realized he was looking at her for confirmation. “Hell yes.”
Jenny waved this away. “Fine. Show him your piercings.”
Derek tilted his head obligingly.
“Not the eyebrow.”
“Oh.” Derek’s hands went to his belt buckle. “Not sure how this is going to get compliance. You want to see it, Jenny, all you had to do was ask.”
“It’ll work,” Jenny said, looking at Thompson. “Bellybutton rings are gross.”
Derek paused. “It isn’t in my bellybutton.”
“Well, where is it?”
Derek glanced at Elle. “You want to tell her or shall I? You know what, never mind. Jenny Finley, you don’t have to ask me to get it out for you twice. Here we go.”
“Jesus, boy, keep your pants on. I don’t want to see no metal where it shouldn’t be,” Glen said.
Derek stilled for a moment, and every trace of good humor vanished. In a swift movement, he closed the gap between him and Thompson, pushed the man against the railing, and kept him there with one hand and a fearsome scowl. “Now don’t you call me that.”
“Wha—”
“Jesus boy. I don’t like people using my religion as an i
nsult. You want to insult me, have a go at my hair or something. Leave any and all deities out of it.”
“What…I…no, there was a comma. You missed it! My mom always said I didn’t speak up but, hey, there was a comma. Jesus, boy. Jesus comma boy.”
Derek lowered his head and bit out, “Don’t like that much better.”
Glen’s eyes went to his beanie. “What’s wrong with your hair?”
Derek took his beanie off, and his crazy hair sprang out, a snarl of blond all different shades.
“Shit,” Glen said. “You ever think about trying one of those man-buns?”
It wouldn’t work, Elle thought as Derek walked Glen into the house with a hand twisted in the back of his shirt. There was no controlling Derek’s hair. Back in her babysitting days, she’d tried it in a miniature bun on more than one occasion when she’d gotten bored. Also pigtails. He’d been a very easygoing kid. He’d seemed like a very easygoing adult right up until Glen had pissed him off.
And as it turned out, a pissed-off Derek was good at intimidation after all, because they heard Glen shouting for about ten seconds, followed by a long stretch of silence.
“What do you think’s going on in there?” Elle asked. “Think Derek showed him his piercing after all, and he fainted?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Admit it, Jenny. You want to see Derek’s piercing.”
“Keep talking, and I’ll tell him you want to see it.”
“Would you? That’d be great. I’ve been trying to think of a way to bring it up without making it weird. My baby sister asking is the way to go, no question.”
When Derek walked Glen out half an hour later, the older man had a huge backpack strapped on and the handle of an even larger wheeled suitcase in each hand. Derek carried two more bags. They loaded up Glen’s van, then Glen heaved into the driver’s seat.
Elle poked her head through the front door, gasped, and came running when she heard the van start up. “Wait! What about the rest?”
“What about it?” Glen’s eyes glittered, small and malicious. “I’ve got the good stuff. You can keep the junk.”
