Grease Babe (The OGs Book 2)

by Elle Aycart

  “If you’d let others know about—”

  “Ladies, not a word to anyone about my studies or the internship,” Rachel warned them.

  “Yeah, yeah. So touchy,” Wilma grumbled. “We just mean that if Mike and the others knew, they could help you out, so you wouldn’t always be so busy.”

  “I can manage,” Rachel concluded. “Don’t worry.” Ouch. There went her chance at playing the pity card. Whatever.

  Greta went back to the couch and started rummaging through the pile of clothes.

  “What’s with those, Greta?” Rachel asked, dreading the answer.

  “Your wardrobe leaves a bit to be desired, dear. I brought some things of mine. Along with some turbans and pendants and other fashion accessories.”

  Oh God.

  “And Rebecca brought Kyra’s makeup case. It’s for professionals. You’re going to be gorgeous when we finish with you.”

  Rachel grabbed her cell and sent a SOS message to Mike. Come rescue me ASAP.

  His reply came fast: Sorry, you’re on your own. I’m exhausted after dealing with Rebecca and Greta the whole day.

  Traitor. He must have laughed his ass off, driving the two grandmas with the clothes and makeup case to her place.

  Rachel managed to convince Greta to drop the turban on account of the updo Wilma had already done, which had been hip about sixty years ago. She managed to convince them to forgo the gloves, even silk ones, on account of it not being winter and after promising to let them paint her nails. She also managed to convince them that tunics weren’t in fashion anymore.

  “Yeah, better to show a bit of cleavage,” Wilma conceded, “before time and gravity play a number on it.”

  Rachel snorted. What cleavage? “You’re my grandmother. Shouldn’t you be telling me to button up and preserve my virtue until marriage? Not to mention you’re sending me off to meet a total stranger.”

  The three grandmas rolled their eyes. “Please, in which century were you born?” Wilma asked. “And this prospect is no stranger. The dating service screens their candidates very well. And you saw his pic in your app.”

  Telling them about people pretending to be someone else online was probably a lost cause, so Rachel shut up.

  “We just want you to meet guys,” Wilma continued. “Give love a chance.”

  “Why don’t you sign up for the dating app? You might get lucky and meet someone.” There was a section for seniors on that dating service. Granted, most of them were around sixty, seventy, but still. One never knew. The OGs looked young for their age. Mischief was preventing them from growing old.

  Her grandma tsked. “Now, Rachel, at our age, getting lucky means walking into a room and remembering what we went there for.”

  Rebecca and Greta assented.

  There was no winning with them.

  Wilma patted Rachel’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a perfect match for you.”

  “Yes,” Greta agreed. “A tall, handsome man. I used to like tall men.”

  “And now?” Rachel asked. “You don’t like tall men anymore?”

  “Now? Now I like any man who looks at me, honey. And everyone in the universe is taller than me. With age you shrink. The nose grows, though. Go figure.”

  Wilma and Rebecca nodded in commiseration. Greta shoved a flowery dress at Rachel.

  Rachel sighed and grabbed it. Better to finish with this as quickly as possible. She went to her room and put it on. That and the wavy updo gave her a certain post-Second World War vibe, but it could have been worse.

  When she went back to the living room, the OGs were ecstatic. They obviously approved. They frowned at the military boots, but they had tiny feet, so they couldn’t offer Rachel an alternative.

  “The final touch.” Greta put a long pendant on Rachel that reached her belly button—a metallic ball that chimed when she moved. An angel-caller pendant, Greta had called it. “This will accentuate the boobies.” Then she took a couple of steps back and gave Rachel a once-over. “I haven’t lost my eye for fashion,” she congratulated herself. “Now the makeup.”

  Rebecca had a brush in her hand, Wilma a nail polish bottle in hers, and Greta was already choosing color palettes.

  “I’m not sure about this…”

  Greta waved at Rachel. “Please, I’ve been putting on makeup longer than you’ve been alive. I’m a pro. I wear makeup even when I sleep.”

  “Just in case she dies while sleeping,” Rebecca explained.

  “Absolutely, my dear. No one alive except you two have seen me without makeup. Death is no excuse to break the streak.”

  “Chop, chop,” her grandmother interrupted, pointing at the chair. “We’re short on time. We need to hurry.”

  Great, because getting your makeup done by three octogenarians who were all just about legally blind wasn’t scary enough.

  Adrian parked in front of Wilma’s house, right behind the old lady’s kickass red gem from the fifties that Rachel had restored for her. He didn’t understand much about cars, but God damn, this one was a beauty.

  He was pondering whether to ring the bell when the door opened and Rachel and the OGs came out. He narrowed his eyes. Was that Rachel? He wasn’t sure. Yeah, it was her. Sort of.

  She approached while the OGs stayed by the front door, cheering and waving and giving her the thumbs up.

  Before she made it to the car, she turned around to the grandmas. “Behave.”

  “We’ll be home,” Wilma replied, “working on the garden. Swear.”

  Rachel didn’t seem convinced, but she nodded and jumped in the car.

  He looked at her, not sure what to say. That was solved the second Rachel opened her mouth. “Not. A. Word.”

  Okay. He turned the engine on, trying not to laugh.

  “Drive to the garage first, please.”

  “What for?” he managed to ask without bursting into laughter. His tone of voice might have given him away, but what could he do? He had Doris Day meets Grease Barbie in his car. It was a miracle he was being this restrained.

  “What do you mean, what for? To get back to the future.”

  “Right.” There was a weird chiming noise coming from her, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where, and now wasn’t the time for any more questions.

  Once they got to the garage, she jumped out of the car and disappeared into the shop. Maybe she was going to change into coveralls?

  After five minutes, she came back. That weird pendant was now wrapped three or four times around her neck, and a metal ball rested on the hollow of her collarbone. She’d had so much makeup on that even with her face now freshly washed, she still looked like she wore some. She had the same dress on, and the old-style updo, and the military boots, but those didn’t look bad on her. Just strangely… feminine?

  “Now we can go,” Rachel said, buckling up.

  “That was…” He was searching for the word but doubted he could find it.

  “You have no clue, Sheriff.” She sighed, her smile bright. “But it could have been sooo much worse.”

  Probably true. “Why do you humor them?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “It’s a small price to pay to see them happy, although I’ve got to admit, they do drive me nuts sometimes.”

  He couldn’t relate. Humoring his granddad was impossible. “Why do you live with Wilma?” Living with his granddad would be suicide. Or more exactly, murder-suicide. Living in the same town was as close as he could stomach without breaking the law.

  “Honestly? I got tired of running to her place to put out fires. Now that I’m closer, I’ve even managed to stop some shenanigans before they got started. And I love this part of town, with the old houses and the lakeshore.” She sniffed her sleeve. “Do I smell bad? The OGs have almost lost their sense of smell, so they don’t notice much of the oil and grease. And Greta wears so much perfume that it covers everything else.”

  Adrian came close and breathed in. “A bit. Not bad, just… garagey.”


  She rummaged through her purse, found a small bottle of perfume, and put some behind her ears and on her wrists. “It’s going to be useless, but never say I didn’t try.”

  He noticed her nails were painted black, which clashed with her flowery dress but fit with her military boots and covered any grease or paint.

  “What’s useless?” he asked. All and all, she looked very cute.

  “I’m Grease Barbie. That can’t be disguised with some perfume and nail polish. Those men seem more interested in valley Barbies they can show off for. Me understanding more about mechanics than they do seems to threaten their male status. As if you need a dick to fix an engine.”

  He didn’t understand car repair, but he did like his women delicate and sexy and with their hands soft as a baby’s butt. Boobs, ass, curves, and smelling like roses. Valley Barbie was a great description. Accurate.

  He didn’t want to say that, though, for the first time feeling uncomfortable about his taste in women. Fortunately he didn’t have to, because she herself changed the subject. “Anyhow, what do you have to do in Boston this afternoon?”

  “I have to bring in some paperwork about XL and the others.” He could have sent the report, but he’d rather give it in person. It was too important to be misplaced. Ash and Monti were a bit younger, but XL was a little over a month from turning eighteen, and by God, Adrian was going to keep his sorry ass out of jail and on the straight and narrow. “Where’s that date of yours?”

  She gave him the address of some cocktail bar near the shore. There wasn’t too much incoming traffic, so they were in Boston in no time. After years patrolling these streets before he made detective, he knew the city like the back of his hand, easily finding where Rachel needed to go.

  He parked in front. “Here we are.”

  “That’s the prospect.” She unbuckled and gestured toward a preppy guy sitting by the window. He wore a bow tie and was sipping something blue with a small yellow umbrella in it.

  “Give me your cell,” he ordered. Frowning, she complied, and Adrian punched his number in. “I’ve called you many times to complain about the OGs, but I guess you never saved my number, did you?”

  “Actually…” She grimaced.

  Before he finished, Rachel’s cell recognized his number. So she had saved it. Then he almost choked. “Condescending Asshole? You saved me as Condescending Asshole?”

  “I’ll change it.” Her smile was rueful. “But not yet. You’re on probation.”

  “Whatever,” he grunted, his tone sounding begrudging and childish even to himself. “I’ll be in Boston for at least a couple of hours. Send me a message if he turns out to be a weirdo and I’ll come get you.”

  She cocked her head and inspected the prospect. “He seems harmless.”

  “Bow-tie guys are always weirdos. Do you know how many serial killers wore bow ties?”

  She chuckled. “I’ll ban bow-tie prospects from my profile from now on. Thank you, Sheriff, for the ride.” And, still chuckling, she entered the bar.

  He watched while she greeted the prospect and sat in front of him, her smile blinding.

  Adrian looked around; there were very few patrons in the bar, and the street was rather dark and deserted. He didn’t want to leave Rachel there. It felt wrong. Then he shook his head, trying to clear it. What the fuck was he thinking?

  He turned the engine on and left.

  If this continued much longer, Rachel was either going to fall into an alcohol-induced coma or a boredom-induced one. At this point, whichever came first, it’d be welcome. Man, Howard was boring. She was going to ban all the bow-tie wearers and all the Howards from her profile, just in case.

  Thank God for the angel caller. It’d woken her up more than once, although by now, its sound felt more like a lullaby than anything else.

  As she was almost dozing off again, a sharp banging on the table jerked her awake. She blinked several times until she saw that there was a badge in front of her.

  She glanced up at the person standing by them. It was Adrian, looking dark and gloomy, his five o’clock shadow already quite thick. Before she could ask anything, he spoke. “You’re under arrest, Melinda Hayes. You thought you wouldn’t get caught if you changed your name? Are you trying to hustle an innocent man again?” Then he turned to Howard. “Or are you her partner in crime?”

  Howard sputtered all over the table, shaking his head so fast he was going to give himself a dizzy spell.

  “Then consider yourself lucky you ended the night with both kidneys and your checking account intact.”

  Leaving Howard speechless—something Rachel had been unable to do for the whole evening—Adrian grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of the bar.

  “But—”

  “Shh, I’m saving you.”

  Once in the car, she burst into laughter. “How did you know I was in dire need?” Talk about sheriff’s intuition.

  “I got your lost call.”

  Her what? She checked her cell and, sure enough, there was a three-second missed call to Adrian. “Sorry. Butt call. I must have accidentally pressed it.” Maybe she’d left the device on one of the thousand occasions she’d checked the time, before putting it back into her purse. “Thank you very much, though. Bow-tie prospect wasn’t a serial killer… unless talking someone to death is considered murder.” Which it should be, actually.

  His eyes crinkled in amusement. “Told you, Melinda Hayes.”

  Jeez, the imagination of the guy. Then it dawned on her. “Oh my God. Do you know what kind of comment he’ll leave on my profile? They’ll kick me off the dating service, never mind all the premium gold shit the OGs paid for when they registered.”

  Wait. On the other hand, getting kicked out wasn’t such a bad idea.

  “Sorry. It was either arrest you or borrow a kid from somewhere and pretend I was the husband you left at home to go partying. We did have a con artist called Melinda Hayes back when I worked in Boston. I thought it was better to go with a familiar scenario. Always plant a lie in between truths. More realistic that way.” The car engine roared to life. “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished,” she confessed.

  “Let’s go to dinner. I know of an upscale restaurant nearby. It’s a reservation-only place, but I could call and see if they can squeeze us in.”

  “Nah, not in the mood for a fancy restaurant. I prefer something fast.” Rosita’s, Tate and James Bowen’s Italian restaurant, would be a fantastic choice, but it was across the city. Too far away.

  “Got you,” Adrian said, making a U-turn. “Best hot dogs in town it is.”

  She studied him. “How come you transferred out of Boston?” He looked so at home here. Relaxed, happy. In Alden, he seemed… restrained. Angry.

  “I needed a change of scenery.”

  “Liar,” she said, chuckling.

  He turned to her. Smiled. “Why do you think I’m lying?”

  “That right there.” She signaled his smile. “Your face is frozen into a scowl in Alden. And you look constantly uptight, as if you have a stick up your ass 24/7.”

  He openly laughed. “Now that you’re a bit tipsy, the truth comes out.”

  “Nothing I haven’t told you before while fighting over the OGs,” she said, shrugging. “Or is this the famous selective amnesia 99 percent of all men suffer from?”

  He kept silent. Clever.

  “In Boston, I’m free. In Alden, the past drags me down,” he finally said.

  How ironic. She felt exactly the opposite. The city reminded her how her life used to be. How out of control she’d been. How alone and lost, stuck in a never-ending spiral of bad company and even worse choices.

  He parked the car and pointed at a food truck. “There. In five, you’ll try the best hot dogs on the whole East Coast.”

  Adrian motioned for her to sit at the only empty park bench and then walked to the couple who were manning the stand. They greeted him warmly, hugging and kissing him. Rachel had never seen Alden�
�s sheriff smile so big. He looked like a totally different person. If he had been attractive before, frowning and growling, now he was gorgeous. A total heart-stopper.

  “Friends?” she asked as he sat by her side and glanced at her. Yep, a heart-stopper on par with the Bowens. Why did he insist on keeping his face contorted into a scowl while in Alden?

  “Great people,” he answered. “They kept me fed when I was younger and short on cash.”

  “You love it here, I can tell.”

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “Boston is where I feel at ease. I hated all the shit I saw at work, but I was doing my part in getting rid of it.”

  “You were a detective, right?”

  He nodded. “Narcotics division.”

  “Any specific reason?” Most narcotics detectives she knew—and she’d known her fair share—were personally motivated to get involved in that cesspool.

  She didn’t expect him to answer, but he did. “My brother got into drugs during the years we lived on the West Coast. Life was hell. Running after him. Trying to get him into rehab. Trying to keep him there. Bailing him out every time he did something illegal to score. A fucking losing battle, all of it. He died from an overdose. I hate everything related to that world.”

  She did too. South Boston was swamped with drugs and the crime related to it. She could attest to that.

  Rachel turned to him, and then he pointed at her neck. “So this is where the chime comes from. Before, in the car, I thought I was hearing things.”

  She touched the pendant. “Greta said it’s an angel caller.” To her it looked like a collar for cats, but she hadn’t wanted to fight.

  The food arrived—four hot dogs, all overflowing with different toppings. “Best of the best for you guys,” the middle-aged man said.

  “Thanks. Orly, Rachel,” Adrian introduced them.

  Orly nodded, a smile flittering over his wrinkled face. “You’re his… friend?”

  By his tone, he meant “lover.” She shook her head. “Oh no, no, we don’t even like each other that much. We’ve been forced into a temporary truce. A painful one at that.”

  Adrian looked offended and Orly chuckled, moving away as another patron flagged him over. “Oh,” he said, turning back. “How’s Jade?”