“I’m Daisy.”
I turned my head and saw the platinum blonde was close, and with her was the African American lady.
“This is Shirleen,” she continued, jerking a thumb to the woman beside her.
“’Sup?’ Shirleen asked.
“Um…” I didn’t answer.
Daisy then smiled huge.
“Welcome to the Rock Chicks.”
And when I bit my lip, she emitted her tinkly-bell laugh.Chapter NineToothpasteEvieMy day had started out crazy.
And moved to bizarre.
And I didn’t know how to handle it.
We ate breakfast at Mag’s pad (all of us) and the bad part about that was, during some of it, he was in his shower, which meant he left me alone with a number of lovely, funny, clearly kindhearted (but definitely crazy) women.
And I didn’t know how to handle myself alone with a number of lovely, funny, clearly kindhearted but crazy women.
I mean, the gals at Smithie’s I’d call friends.
But seeing these women around each other, I realized we only gabbed when getting ready or on breaks or when we were swiping off makeup before going home.
I didn’t have time to actually be friends with them.
Babysit their kids when they were in binds, yes.
Go clubbing or out for brunch?
No.
Form deep, abiding bonds over shared experiences, laughs, good times, bad ones, forging friendships that would endure for eternity?
Definitely no.
And this took my mind elsewhere.
This being to the fact I’d never really had any friends. Even when I was young.
It’d hurt back then, that I was never invited to any birthday parties or sleepovers.
My mom’s advice had been, “Try to stop being so…weird.”
My dad’s was, “They don’t like you, fuck ’em.”
He’d even used the F-word. I’d been nine.
My teachers loved me because I was smart and I’d started having to be the mature one in my family from a young age, and I think they guessed that and felt sorry for me.
But friends?
Sitting and watching the Rock Chicks I came to the realization I’d eventually buried the fact that I never could make friends.
So I didn’t really have any.
As I was ruminating on this, not happily, I learned that Mag fortunately did not take long showers or primp prior to work.
He came out in short order, scarfed down food I did not make for him as part of a multilayered thank-you, then he led me to his front door by holding my hand, which felt beautiful.
There, he’d taken me loosely in his arms.
Which also felt beautiful.
He’d then said, “If they get you into a car chase, make sure they drive right to a police station.”
Which freaked me out.
“Kidding,” he murmured, right before he bent and touched his mouth to mine.
Which felt more beautiful than all the rest.
He’d then left, which was good, even if it was bad, and not only because I liked him, but in this situation, he’d become my touchstone, and not having him around freaked me out more.
The Rock Chicks read my freak-out and thus Roxie shared that their friend Jules was “The Law.” I’d been introduced to them all: Indy (redhead), Jet (blonde), Roxie (also blonde), Ava (another blonde), and Ally (the brunette) rounded out Daisy and Shirleen. The Stella they mentioned was Stella of the famous rock band Stella and the Blue Moon Gypsies and she now lived in LA, but she was currently on tour or she’d be there “faster ’n snot” (Daisy’s words) to be “in on your action” (also Daisy’s words).
“Sorry?” I asked.
“She obviously hasn’t read the books,” Jet mumbled.
“You probably should read the books,” Lottie suggested, making herself some scrambled egg whites at the stove.
From my perusal of his fridge and cupboards prior to starting breakfast, I discovered Mag had an Evan-approved balanced diet of say, a quarter healthy stuff, and three-quarters absolute garbage.
Lottie, as evidenced by those egg whites, was known to treat her body like a temple.
Mo, I had no idea, but he looked like he could drink acid and his body would regard it as fuel.
“She was a vigilante slash social worker,” Indy said. “Jules, that is. Now she’s a mother slash social worker slash wife slash hot chick slash Rock Chick.”
I blinked but said no words.
“Breaking it down,” Ava took up the thread. “Go to Indy for hair advice, Jet for recipe advice, Roxie for fashion advice, and Ally or Jules to kick someone’s ass for you.”
I blinked at her again.
“I’m hair advice too,” Daisy claimed.
Jet sucked in her lips and lifted her brows.
Indy carefully shook her head at me so I’d see it, but Daisy wouldn’t.
Rock Chick Mental Note Two: Don’t let Daisy do my hair.
Then again, Daisy’s was currently fashioned into a Farrah-Fawcett-on-steroids ’do, so I could see that.
Shirleen, who was stretched out on Mag’s couch, called, “I see you got a commando boy, but just sayin’, you come to me if you need the Hot Bunch. I schedule their asses. I’ll get one free quick, you need someone shot or trussed up and thrown in a trunk.”