Page 15 of Brewbies
The pewter-haired pensioner whipped around, shaking one of his walking poles at Darby as she passed. “This is for pedestrian use!”
“So’s your mom,” Darby shouted, adding a hand gesture for good measure.
So much for exercise burning off the black mood that clung to her like the briny coastal fog.
If anything, the accumulation of clammy under-boob sweat and a sense profound regret for her choice of outfits had only augmented her fomenting discontent.
The crotch of her romper had crawled so far up her ass, she could practically taste the tiny red cherries printed on the cotton-poly blend.
Given, the halter-topped one-piece would have been a risky selection even if she hadn’t been forced to utilize alternate methods of transportation, but since her verbal gutter brawl with Sheriff Dickbiscuit, Darby hadn’t exactly been thinking clearly.
Piiing.“Coming through!”
The rangy pack of oblivious skateboard-toting teenagers shuffled along shoulder to shoulder, spilling out into the street.
Darby laid into her horn, and immediately regretted it.
Because rather than opting for the upgraded supersonic safety buzzer the manager at the cyclist store had recommended, Darby had insisted on his installing the old clown horn she’d been given as a gift at the pediatric oncology wing where she’d volunteered. The sound produced by the bright pink rubber ball and dented brass cone fell on a spectrum between pressurized gluten fart and a startled duck.
Darby defiantly squeezed it anyway, galvanized by the sight of her destination in the distance.
Brrippa-brippa!“Guys! Move it!”
Now, the boys not only stopped, but turned around to face her.
Thank God and gravity, five adolescent jaws dropped open and the phalanx of hormone-packed bodies parted like Red Sea.
Darby gave them an appreciative nod, feeling five sets of eyes glued to her various body parts as she sailed up to the metal bike rack just down the street from Nevermore Bookstore.
The playing card she’d secured to metal spokes with a wooden safety pin slowed its ticking as she applied the brakes and steered into one of the slots.
Reaching into the handmade wicker basket mounted to the chrome handlebars, she withdrew a bike chain roughly as thick as those used to tether battleships in the Kitsap naval harbor.
Between the extra-padded, extra-wide vegan leather banana seat, painstakingly restored Holiday Rose paint job, and thick, white-walled tires, the 1952 Schwinn Starlet had set her back almost a grand.
Guilt pricked her as she unlocked the cargo box mounted over the rear tire and lifted a foil-covered plate. It seemed to grow heavier in her hands with every clip-cloppy step of her wedge sandals. Not because the fudgy, salted-caramel squares were packed with a metric shit-ton of butter and bittersweet chocolate.
Because they were packed with deception.
Under normal circumstances, the idea of greasing a couple palms with seditious sweets wouldn’t bother her in the least. Even on her best days, Darby’s conscience performed about as well as the mediocre-est of government employees. Generally clocking in for its shift, but demonstrating a real lack of enthusiasm for the work.
Unless that work involved Cady Bloomquist, apparently.
When Darby had informed her loyal, decadent-drink-loving customer that she’d be coming to tonight’s book club “really for real this time,” Cady had been so shamelessly happy, so puppy-bouncing-out-of-a-beribboned-basket excited, that she’d broken into an impromptu happy dance right there at the Brewbies’ pickup window.
Like her decision to attend the biweekly gathering of Nevermore Bookstore’s Bare-Naked Book Club, the baked goods she’d brought for its members to consume had been made with an ulterior motive in mind.
Bribery.
Pure and simple.
If she was going to turn the tide of public opinion, she’d need allies.
And if she happened to pick up a few useful tidbits that helped her make Ethan Townsend’s life a misery in the process…well, that was just icing on the vengeance cake.
Pausing outside the eggplant-purple facade with its ornate Gothic shingle, Darby fixed a smile on her face before pushing open the door. The friendly squeal of old hinges announced her arrival as she was met by the heady bouquet of old books and freshly brewed coffee. Spicy and fruity with a hint of vanilla.
Colombian, most likely.
