Filfthy(5)
Zane offers an incredulous half-smirk and steps closer. The top of my head fits snugly beneath his chin, but I won’t let his size intimidate little old me.
Oh, no, no no.
I can go rounds with this meathead if I have to.
“First of all, this isn’t a brothel. This is a stoplight party,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact.
“Aren’t you a little old to be having a stoplight party?” I ask. “Or are you in some kind of grown man fraternity?”
He ignores me. “Second, a little house music does not constitute a club, and third, you didn’t politely ask me to take it down a notch. You requested that I relocate my entire party, and you pretty much demanded it.”
“That’s your interpretation of things,” I say. I’m well aware that each and every word leaving my mouth is not doing me any favors, but I refuse to stand here and let this Abercrombie athlete make me walk out of here with my tail tucked.
“Was there anything else you needed, Delilah? I have guests to attend to, so . . .”
My fists clench at my sides. He’s lucky I’m not a violent person, because a firm smack across his chiseled chin would feel really good about now.
“I guess we’re finished here,” I say.
It’s glaringly obvious he’s not going to cave to my request, so I suppose my business here is done.
Reaching for the door knob, I jerk the door open, gifting him a squinting glare, and slam it behind me. I didn’t think it was too much to ask for a little common courtesy. A little human decency. And if he thinks I was demanding it, he’s delusional. I was nothing but professional and dignified.
And I was right earlier.
Zane de la Cruz is a giant asshole.
Chapter 2
Zane
Coach Roberts truly believed that if I moved to a gated community in a suburb of Gainesville where the average resident is sixty-seven, it might calm me down. He thought it would break me of my “wild ways.”
Instead, I’ve felt like nothing more than a tiger pacing his cage, anxious to get out, to not be tied down, bossed around, and told what to do.
My neighbors to the north are Clarice and Don Chapman. Retired transplants from Big Sky, Montana. Mid-sixties. Clarice likes to lay out by her pool in modest floral bathing suits, slathered in SPF 50 as she bitches at Don for not clipping the hedges to the Home Owner’s Association’s-approved height. Why they don’t hire it out like the rest of the neighborhood is beyond me. By the time Don finishes, he’s sunburnt and blustery, throwing his shears and waving off Clarice as he heads inside to fetch her an ice-cold lemonade.
If that’s what married life is, then count me the fuck out.
Anyway, when the Chapmans cruise down the street together in their little green golf cart, they smile and wave like we’re pals here, but I’ve heard the things they say about me.
The lots here are huge, but they’re all landscaped to death. Voices carry. Out windows. Through hedges. Down retaining walls. Over fences.
I know what they think of me – especially that sassy ol’ Rue Rosewood next door. She’s seventy-five, has a hell of a lot of opinions, and she’s not afraid to make sure everyone within a five-mile radius of Laguna Palms knows them.
She’s also the HOA president, a role she takes very seriously.
Too seriously in my opinion.
That woman watches me like a hawk, noting my comings and goings. Dropping by with “friendly” reminders in the form of written warnings taped to my door.
How was I supposed to know that the trash can had to be hidden from street view Tuesday through Sunday? That we could only use white or gray rock in our landscaping? That backing into driveways wasn’t allowed because registration stickers needed to be viewable from the sidewalk? That we had mandatory Christmas light colors that coincided with our house numbers?
I’ll never forget her standing on my doorstep my first December in Laguna Palms. She was sweet, bringing a plate of sugar cookies decorated like snowmen. And then she demanded I take down the twinkling blue lights lining my roof and promptly replace them with red.
And here I was just trying to fit in. To be neighborly. I don’t even fucking like Christmas that much.
But despite the fact that Rue Rosewood has been the biggest fucking pain in the ass since the day we met, I kind of have a soft spot for her. She reminds me of my abuela, Magdalena, the grandmother who raised me since I was nine. We lost her a couple years ago, but not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. Or the crazy things that came out of her mouth half the time.
I never take Rue’s insults to heart, because if she’s anything like Magdalena was, they’re all coming from a good place, and somewhere beneath that hardened exterior is a whole lot of harmless fluff.