Page 2 of The Ruckup
Aiming my plastered-on customer-service smile at the vestibule, it turns genuine when I see the trio bustling through the doorway. I probably shouldn’t have favorite tenants, but it’s really difficult not to. There seem to be two extremes in the complex—people like Mrs. Dorsey and her arch nemesis Sue on one end, and the three women grinning at me on the other.
“What can I do for you ladies?” A little of the tension in my shoulders dissipates as Sylvia, Sharon, and Betty filter into the room I haven’t had the time or inclination to personalize in the month I’ve been here.
Sharon plops down into one of the utilitarian chairs across from me, smoothing back her light brown shag. “We heard Deborah was giving you shit and came to see if you wanted us to egg her car.”
“What the hell, Sharon?” Betty glares at her seated friend from behind the frames of her gold-rimmed glasses for a second before turning to me, expression warming. “What she meant to ask was if you wanted to go out drinking with us after you get off.”
Sharon tips her head, eyes squinting. “No. I’m pretty sure I got it right.”
“We’re not egging Debbie’s car.” Betty scowls, looking like a contradiction with her cute little sweater set and bubble gum pink fingernails. If you looked up grandma in the dictionary, her gray-haired, wrinkled face would be smiling back at you.
Except for right now. Right now she looks like she’d cut a man with her kitchen knife before beating him to death with a cast-iron skillet.
Betty crosses both arms over her narrow chest. “She’d know it was me and call the cops because she’s pissed I’m getting laid and she’s not.”
“I told you, we call that heifer by her government name.” Sharon lifts her brows. “And Deborah’s pissed her nephew took over the family when her husband died and she didn’t get to play mafia bossette.”
I blink, trying to keep up with the rapid-fire conversation happening around me. These women might not be running races anytime soon, but their mouths could set land-speed records. Ittakes a second, but eventually one comment stands out and has to be addressed. “No egging cars.”
Why do I feel like the adult in this situation? As if I’ve suddenly been put in charge of a group of hormonal teenagers suffering from a combination of angst and estrogen withdrawal.
Another word from their tirade finally registers. “Mafia?”
Three sets of eyes come my way, settling on where I sit behind my desk, wishing I had something a little stronger than ibuprofen to get me through this day.
Sharon cocks her head at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m stupid. “Did you really not know, honey?”
“Know...what?”
A pit forms in my stomach. I’m already in over my head with this job. Sally, the woman who had it before me, wasn’t as big on organization as she probably should have been. So, in addition to learning how to do the millions of tasks required of me, I’m also trying to get the place in order. And the last thing I need is someone throwing around the wordmafiawith a straight freaking face. I can’t be worried about paying off bribes and fearing for my life.
Anymore than I already do.
Sharon’s brows slowly climb her forehead, eyes shifting around the room, pausing on each of her friends before coming back to me. “Oh, nothing. Just a running joke we have around here that everyone acts like they used to be in the mafia.”
My lips flatten out as I consider what she’s saying. “Why would they want to act like they were in the mafia?”
I don’t get the point. Maybe to impress people? Scare them? Insert some drama into their retired years?
But Sharon waves my question off. “You know how old people are.”
Considering they’re talking about pretending to be in the mafia, threatening to egg cars, and inviting me out to go bar hopping—I obviously don’t.
“Back to the reason we’re here.” Sylvia, the smallest and sassiest of the group, redirects the conversation. “You should come out with us tonight. Let off a little steam.”
A part of me is genuinely flattered they want to spend time with me, but another part of me is confused about why exactly they believe I would be a fun addition to their girls’ night. My life is a mess.I’ma mess. Not exactly the kind of person who’s fun to be around.
I’d still go in a heartbeat if I could. The idea of drinking enough to forget my current state of existence is extremely appealing.
"I really appreciate the offer." I sigh, slouching in my chair. "But I already promised my parents I would go with them to a Christmas party."
I tried to get out of going. I'm not in a very festive mood this year, and spending an evening surrounded by people from my past probably won't help that any.
Especially since I'm not such a big fan of my past right now.
"That sounds like fun." Betty's enthusiasm is unfounded.
A fact Sharon seems to understand. She scoffs, brows pinched together as her head swings Betty's way. "Are you high? Thatsounds terrible." Sharon turns back to me. "No offense, dear. I'm sure your family is lovely, but I don't imagine they’re up to the challenge of helping you forget that piece of shit ex-husband of yours."
