Page 19 of Harley
“Vivie. The girl won’t open the door on a random unknown knock,” a female voice snapped.
“What would you do? Bang on it and shout?” a woman with a French accent replied.
“Stop arguing. You’re probably scaring her,” a third stated.
“Shut up, Rosie, knock again,” a fourth demanded.
My eyes were huge as the women argued amongst themselves.
“Well, Oakley’s got to be inside. Harley mentioned how fucked her feet are,” the first said and banged harder.
Scared, I flinched back.
“Hey, Oakley, I know you’re in there. I’m Harley’s Aunt Marsha. You can open the door, sweet girl.”
Concerned, I chewed my lip and wished I had a phone to call Harley.
“We’re all Harley’s aunts,” the one called Rosie announced.
“You’re not!” the fourth replied.
“Summer, I’m married to Calamity. That makes me Harley’s aunt,” Rosie stated.
“That does not, Rosie, you were a princess and a Hellion,” Marsha retorted.
“Hey, I was never a Hellion! Shit, I was better behaved than those little fuckers. How could you compare me to Eddie?” Rosie exclaimed, outraged.
“Let me pick the damn lock, for fuck’s sake,” a fifth woman said.
“Irish, you’ll scare the pants off her!” Summer retorted.
“As if you fuckin’ lot haven’t already. Fuck. Poor girl’s probably locked herself in the bathroom,” Irish replied. She didn’t sound Irish to me.
Carefully, I opened the door, and four women beamed at me while the fifth scowled at the others.
“I recognised the names Calamity and Eddie,” I said by way of introduction.
The older woman stepped forward. “Hello, honey, I’m Marsha. Now, how about you move back, and we come in and keep you company?”
Without argument, I obeyed quietly. The women bustled in carrying bags and dumped them on the floor.
“At least Harley sprang for a nice room,” Rosie drawled, looking around. I knew that was Rosie because I recognised her voice. Dang, she was pretty.
“Qui, Harley is not such a tightass,” Vivie said.
“Put the accent away, who are you trying to impress?” Rosie demanded.
Vivie let out a delicate snort. “I am French!”
“And grew up in America,” Summer retorted. That meant the scowling woman was Irish.
“Sorry, Oakley. I tried to stop these interfering peahens, but they got a bee in their bonnet. And while they bicker worse than the hellions, they’ve got good hearts,” Irish stated, folding her arms.
Four glares aimed in her direction, and then the women stared at me.
“You’re stunning,” Vivie offered.
“Thank you.”
