Page 84 of Dizzy

The woman steps back, scowling so nasty I can’t make out anything except for hot pink lipstick, an angled bob, and expensive highlights.

This has gotta be Sharon.

“Where’s Dwayne?” she snaps.

“Dwayne?” Oh, she means Dizzy.

She sneers, raking her gaze over me. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Who are you?”

I finally get loose from the blanket and swing my legs over the side of the couch. My ass is sore. My brain’s slow. I scrub the crust from my eyes.

Sharon stands in the middle of the unholy toy mess, judging and finding everything sorely wanting. She scans the room, and everything she sees turns her face sourer. A half-eaten bag of chips on the floor. Coffee rings on the end table. Me.

“Don’t tell me you’re the maid,” she sniffs.

She pushes a dirty, balled-up sock away from her with the toe of a shiny beige high heel. She’s dressed like a lady who works in a bank. Ruffle-waisted tan pantsuit with a thin braided belt. Chunky hot-pink beaded necklace and matching bracelets. Big sunglasses with rhinestones on the sides propped on top of her head.

We don’t have women like this in Dalton, but I’ve seen them on TV. Stressed-out women who get paid to yell at each other.

“Not the maid, no.”

Her eyes catch on the scratches on my bare legs. Yeah, I’m not sure what Dizzy did with my pants.

Her lip turns up, disgusted. “Seriously? Are you even eighteen?”

“Sure am, ma’am. Are you Parker and Carson’s grandma?”

I make sure to smile as big as I possibly can.

She sucks her teeth, and her eyes go cold and calculating. “Oh. You’re one of those club whores, aren’t you? Honey, you are too young to be fucking men twice your age for a place to stay.”

Dizzy’s not twice my age. Not quite.

“I appreciate your sincere concern for my well-being, but I assure you, I’m fine.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sure you are. This is a new low for Dwayne. He lets you around my kids?”

“Haven’t bitten ‘em yet. I’m house-trained.”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

I shrug a shoulder. I wish there were bottoms nearby I could pull on. If I have to fight this bitch, I’d like to be wearing pants when I do it.

Luckily, she’s decided I’m not worth the time. She whips out her phone and dials.

“Where are you?” she demands, turning her back to me.

There’s a deep rumble from the other end of the line. Dizzy.

“I’m at the house. Something came up. I’m back in town for a few days. I figured you’d have picked up the kids by now, or I’d have gone to the school.”

She rests her high heel on top of a soccer ball and rolls it back and forth.

“Yeah. I met her. We’ll have a conversation about it when you get here. How far out are you?”

More low rumbling. She says, “Okay.”

And then she turns back to me, and I swear, it’s exactly like the scene in that dinosaur movie when the raptor finds the kids hiding under the table. Like she can already taste the meat.

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