Her Gentle Gangster by Carolyn Faulkner
Chapter One
Michael
The poundingon my front door matches the pounding in my head. I roll to the empty side of my California king and shove the cool, unused pillow over my ears and eyes to blot out the rude interruption to my whiskey-soaked slumber.
The knocking continues, now with fresh urgency.
Emitting a groan mixed with a yawn, I rub my bloodshot eyes. In my season of life, a man my age should be too busy morning-fucking his wife even to notice some idiot knocking at 7:52 a.m. on a Saturday. A pair of soft thighs covering my ears seems like a most effective and pleasurable way to block out noise.
No such luck for me; the knocking continues.
I could ignore it. I shouldn’t; it could be HOA business, and I hate HOA business. On the other hand, maybe it’s not that. Perhaps I’ll get lucky. I grin ruefully, fantasizing that it could be the woman of my dreams knocking on my door. Wouldn’t that be the bee’s knees to fall in love at first sight at the age of 46?
Harrumphing, I sit up and look at the front door camera that’s connected to my phone. It’s my neighbor, Mrs. Hurley. Local busybody—not the woman of my dreams.
After throwing on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, I shuffle to the front door and open it four inches precisely, not enough for her to stick her foot inside and “take just a quick moment” of my time to complain about the height of someone’s lawn or the peeling paint on someone’s mailbox.
“Yeah,” I grunt.
If she’s annoyed by my abruptness and appearance—I didn’t bother checking a mirror before answering the door—her oversized sunglasses and Botox camouflage that fact.
“Mr. Brennan. I’m sorry to wake you—”
“Are you?” I ask though she doesn’t hear it or acknowledge my question because she keeps right on yapping.
“—but everyone is asking, did you issue a permit for this…this yard sale today? Because I don’t recall voting on a special exemption.”
I rub the pads of my thumb and forefinger into my eyelids to clear the cobwebs caused by too much whiskey the night before and because I have no idea what Mrs. Hurley is babbling about.
I also don’t like the way she said “yard sale” as if the idea of it is beneath her, like it’s equal to a tick on the tush of her obnoxious little terrier.
“Huh?” is all I can muster in the way of requesting more information.
Impatiently, Mrs. Hurley rams my door open wide; the force of it catches me off guard, and I stumble backward. Those new barre classes at the clubhouse are working for Mrs. Hurley’s core strength.
Bleary-eyed, I look past her and follow her pointing beige talons.
“Huh,” I remark, staring at the unusual sight at my best friend Bill’s driveway.
“Is that all you have to say, Mr. President?”
How I ever got roped into serving as the HOA president, I’ll never know. The velvet fog of retirement made me agree to “volunteer” for one thing or another, and as a newbie to Fox Chase life, the affluent suburbanites got their claws into me early. But I intend to weasel out as soon as possible.
“No. I’d also say that’s not something you see every day in Fox Chase.” A line of people stretches from Bill’s curb at the corner of Vixen Court and around Hunter Drive. Cars are easing their way around each other, drivers looking for places to park where there are none.
“There is a Hyundai parked in front of my house right now. A Hyundai!” Mrs. Hurley is chapping my last nerve. Not to mention her colossal tote bag is partially blocking my view of something particularly pleasing.
In Bill’s driveway, a soft, curvy female wearing a yellow sundress scurries around, arranging colorful items on long tables. The set-up does sort of look like a yard sale, but not exactly. It seems a little more festive than the yard sales my dad used to let me tag along to, while he scoped out deals on rusty hammers and socket wrenches. This ain’t that. I see balloons and cutesy little pendant banners in bright colors. Gingham tablecloths. There’s one of those portable awnings set up at a checkout station, presumably to keep the sun at bay from all that skin she’s showing in that dress. It’s all very quaint. But none of the charm comes close to that damn dress that taunts the hell out of me at the moment; its spaghetti straps show off her long, tanned arms and delicate collarbones; the length of the yellow chiffon hangs just short enough to reveal a pair of solid and feminine thighs. Mrs. Hurley is still pointing, so I feel free to keep staring, noticing the way this strange woman’s butt jiggles under the wispy fabric. She looks as delicious as lemon meringue, and the thought of lemons—and her lemons in my mouth—makes my mouth water.
It’s been way too long since I grabbed on to a soft, squeezable bottom. I bet those thighs of hers would do a more-than-adequate job of noise canceling. Better still, those thighs look strong enough to snap my neck efficiently. I silently groan at the thought of dying with a smile on my glazed-over face.
Mrs. Hurley insists on interrupting my little death fantasy. “Mr. Brennan!”
“I’m going, I’m going. Keep your Lululemons on,” I bark.
I shuffle past Mrs. Hurley and meander down my front steps and across my lawn, my eyes examining the wavy blonde bob on Sundress Lady. That’s not Bill’s wife, Corrina. I’d be a world-class jerk if I found myself popping a boner over my best friend’s wife. But this woman’s hair is similar. A visiting sister-in-law from out of town? Who is she? She doesn’t live there, as far as I know—I kind of wish she did.
“Mr. Brennan?!”
Mrs. Hurley is still on my property, demanding attention yet again. Grunting, “Yeah?” I turn around to see her now pointing at my bare chest. “Aren’t you going to get dressed first?”
“Avert your eyes if you must, Mrs. Hurley. But keep pointing at my chest like that, I’m going to have to register a complaint with the Fox Chase HOA sexual harassment department.”
She splutters and trails off, “There’s no…such department…I didn’t mean to….”
I turn and continue on my way over to Bill’s house, my eyes locked on the pretty blonde with the cute and very busy ass, still arranging and decorating and looking stressed. Maybe I can be of help with that. With selling…whatever that is. Girl Scout cookies? Shit, yes, I’ll buy every last box and effectively put an end to this whole shindig. Everyone wins. Mrs. Hurley gets to shuffle off to the clubhouse with a slightly less sour look on her face, pretty Sundress Lady gets some quick cash, and maybe I get a phone number.
The aroma hits me first, and I understand what’s going on here. This isn’t a yard sale but a bake sale. The first scent that strikes me is cherry pie, and I immediately begin to salivate. Maybe I’ll get something sweet for breakfast from her to counteract this hangover.
The next thing that hits my senses is her voice. But it doesn’t make me drool; it hits me with a dose of reality right across the face. “Now, now, everyone. I’m not quite ready yet. The sale starts at 8 a.m. And it’s only 7:55. I’ve still got a batch of brownies in the oven.”
Her words stop me dead in my tracks and turn my throat to the Sahara Desert. I know this person. She’s Cara Williams, the soft-spoken second daughter of Bill and Corrina.
If I thought I would be an asshole for popping a boner for my best friend’s wife, this is an entirely more profound level of asshole. Bill’s daughter. The sweetest, most introverted of all five of the Williams girls, at that. As I recall, the one I used to see on my early morning runs in the city. I would spot her reading her books under a tree in the park near my condo before school.
I should turn around and go back inside, take a cold shower, drink some water, eat some protein to soak up the remnants of this alcohol. I used to eat at a fantastic little restaurant near my condo for post-hangover chilaquiles. There’s nothing like that around here, and I don’t know how to cook. I could order some Taco Bell to be delivered. Not the same—not even close—but maybe the aroma of a crunch-wrap will be enough to drive Mrs. Hurley off my porch.
I could do that. But then that would leave poor Cara under the scrutiny of Mrs. Hurley and any number of other neighborhood busybodies who might complain about the Williamses to the HOA. I don’t want that to happen, either.
I have to do the right thing. I always do the right thing by the family that has taken me in on Thanksgivings and Christmases.
As I approach, I can’t help but notice Cara looks very different from the painfully shy high school valedictorian to whom I’d cut a sizable check just a few years ago. The angelic girl is selling cakes on her parents’ front lawn.
This simply won’t do. It won’t do for me to be having thoughts about her rump, and her thighs, and her cleavage in that dress, even if the message hasn’t reached my wide-awake cock yet this morning. And it won’t do for her to be going to any effort to collect money for anything. It doesn’t sit right with me. Not across the street from my house. And not when I, her Uncle Michael, can easily cut a check or whatever it is that she might need.
Uncle Michael. God. I’m a sick, desperate man.
I’m going to put a stop to this. Now. I’ve got to make her go away. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Besides, I don’t like the way people are so eager to hand her money. There must be fifty people lined up and more coming.
I’m putting a stop to this circus once and for all.
Why? Because I’m the motherfucking HOA president, and I have to enforce the rules.