Page 48 of Roses Are Dead
I opted for cream. “Thanks. That was a cold ride.”
She nodded, looking at my layers of clothes. I had to resort to almost everything I owned and two of Bear’s thermals. All of that still didn’t keep me from feeling like a popsicle that had been run through a cheese grater.
“You need some proper shit to wear. You a size six?”
“Mostly.”
She squinted. “I’d guess that mostly is your scrawny ass, but you’re a medium up top, right?”
Since she’d nailed it, I just nodded.
“Cup size?”
“What?” I choked on my coffee.
Betty Jo cleared her throat and grabbed my chin. “Bear brought you here, half frozen on a bitch of a day to ride wearing practically nothing that would keep the wind from giving you hypothermia. He’s going to pay dearly for that mistake. I’m going to load you up with at least seven hundred dollars of clothes. You got a problem with that?”
“No?” Maybe? “I’m not a charity case.”
She laughed hard. “No, you ain’t, but that doesn’t mean that overgrown idiot doesn’t deserve to fork over some scratch. Cup size?”
“C.”
She scanned my bulky clothes. “Thirty-four, right?”
I nodded again.
She led me through the house to a workroom that had stacks of fabric and leather, three sewing machines, including one contraption I’d expect to see in a factory, and racks upon racks of clothes. Not just any clothes, biker clothes. Male and female styles, mostly in black leather, and at least two more racks of outfits you’d see at Fantasy conventions, or Renaissance fairs. “You made all of this?”
“Sure did.”
Wow. I might have stepped through an enchanted gate. And this woman who, despite the tattoos and heavy makeup, was my fairy godmother in black leather.
“When you’re not dressing like a Mormon hobo, what do you like to wear?”
I looked down, embarrassed. She’d pegged the style. “Goth or dark fairy-core but it’s been a while.” There was no need to dress up when you wore a lab coat for work. And since coming back to help Beth, I hadn’t had time to find a scene, let alone been free enough to go.
Her eyes lit up. “Screw seven hundred, let’s try for seven thousand.” Under her breath she muttered, “Stupid Bear.”
The first thing she held out was a leather trench coat. It was best described as, what if the Old West met Lord of the Rings Mordor-style. I loved it.
I had to take off three layers before I could try it on. As I took off the last shirt, I forgot I was only wearing a white T-shirt underneath. Betty Jo caught my arm and stared at the bruise.
“Tell me Bear didn’t do that.”
“He didn’t.”
She stared at it for too long. “That was from a cane or something thicker. Which idiot do I have to kill?”
These bikers and their threats. “No one.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I asked.
“Don’t lie to me.” She took the coat out of my hands.
“I’m not lying, you don’t need to kill anyone.”
