How Hard Can It Be

by Robyn Peterman

  Cecil colored fiercely and his hands clenched into fists. I was missing something about their relationship. Something bad. “I’m not sure,” he said quietly. “It’s Rena’s story. If she says he still can, then he still can.”

  “It’s not Rena’s story, it’s mine,” Evangeline ground out between clenched teeth. “I won’t remind any of you of that again. If you make that necessary, I will destroy you and everything you hold dear. Am I clear?” She pointed her nasty claw at us and waited.

  We nodded. I had never hated anyone so much in my life.

  “So,” she purred, “Rika, if the hero has no equipment, how does he satisfy the heroine?”

  That was actually a good question, but in the land of “I’m going to destroy your career,” there’s always a perfect answer. I simply needed to take a breath and start talking. Not knowing what would come out hadn’t been a problem yet... “He’s a vampire,” I stated, as if that would solve it.

  “So?” she shot back.

  “Clearly you don’t know the rules of the vampire.” I stayed in my casual pose on the couch and spoke condescendingly to the skank.

  “Yes, I do,” she insisted, examining her manicured claws.

  “I beg to disagree. If you knew the folklore of the magical undead, you would know that if you cut something off of a vampire. . . um, two will grow back in its place.”

  Shoshanna stood on shaky legs and excused herself to the bathroom. I was fairly sure she had just peed herself again. Quite honestly, I almost peed myself after that new nugget of information flew out of my mouth. Cecil went back to rocking.

  “Yes, yes.” Evangeline’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “I had forgotten about the double regeneration of the Blood Drinkers. I read about that in National Geographic a while back.”

  “Of course you did.” I smiled sweetly.

  “I did,” she barked. “You think you’re so smart, but you’re not.”

  “Then you must also be aware that a vampire, especially a time-traveling warlock vampire, can self-combust into a gooey green globule if he doesn’t masturbate regularly.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, “everyone knows that. I’ve known that for years.”

  “Good, then we should talk about product placement.”

  “Product placement?” She seemed confused.

  Cecil’s head shot up. I could swear he looked at me with admiration in his sad eyes, but I had to be mistaken. He was on her team and I still worried he’d clue her in. I ignored him and turned to my nemesis.

  “Yes, it’s similar to what they do in the movies. I figure you could make a fortune by advertising within your books. It’s never been done. You will be on the cutting edge.” I didn’t bother to mention that it was the cutting edge of obscurity and ridicule. I didn’t feel that was necessary information at this time.

  “How is it done?” Her greedy, permanently open eyes got alarmingly wider.

  I sucked in a quick breath and tried to squash down the fear that looking at her ignited in me. “We add things like, ‘The pirates ate a bucket of Bucky’s Fried Chicken and washed it down with a Smeerbeer followed by some Dancin’ Donna Donuts and some orange Yummyade.’ Stuff like that.”

  “But I’ve never heard of any of those products.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said leveling her with a look. She grew uncomfortable and fidgety under my surprised stare.

  “Oh, silly me,” she said tapping her brainless head, “Of course I know those products. I use them all the time! But how did they get all those things? They live in 1492.”

  Shit. “Yes, well . . . that’s why I added the time-traveling element. Pirate Dave can, um, pop back and forth to the future and go to drive-through windows of different restaurants.” I stared up at the ceiling, waiting to be busted.

  “Does he know how to drive?” she inquired.

  “Yes.”

  I’d gone too far. The silence in the room was ominous and I started to sweat. Damn it, maybe I should have stopped at the double penis thing . . .

  Evangeline stood and began to wobble her way around the room. I fully expected her to strike me at any moment. I tried to make myself as small as possible. Her eyesight seemed pretty bad . . . maybe she’d miss.

  “Brilliant,” she roared, scaring the hell out of me. “I will be the richest, smartest, most sought-after author of this century and the next. I will give you a list of the products that shall be in the story.”

  “Oookay,” I stuttered. “You should probably give me about three hundred or so and I will insert them everywhere.”

  “I was thinking more like five hundred.”

  “Even better.” I nodded solemnly.

  “Yes, well, I am an experienced businesswoman. I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand the importance of quantity.”

  “I am learning so much from you. Thank you.” I bowed my head in reverence and so she wouldn’t see the shit-eating grin on my face.

  “You’re welcome. Cecil,” she snapped, “you will escort me to my chambers and I will develop a list so the hired help can continue crafting my story.”

  “Very well, Madame,” he said. He took her bony arm and they left.

  I collapsed on the couch in a fit of giggles until I heard Shoshanna talking to herself out in the hallway . . . only her conversation wasn’t one sided. She was being dressed down by Evangeline. I moved quietly to the door. I would take that bitch out if she hurt LeHump.

  “So you think you’re free now that your illegal, gay, Canadian, terrorist ex-husband has a green card,” the Viper laughed. “Well, I’m here to tell you, you’re not.”

  “Canadian terrorist is actually an oxymoron,” Shoshanna informed her.

  “What did you call me?” Evangeline shouted.

  “Oh my God,” I heard Shoshanna mutter. “Generally speaking, Canadians are pacifists, so terrorist and Canadian do not belong in the same sentence.”

  Logic evidently confused Evangeline because there was a prolonged moment of silence while she thought of a comeback. “Whatever,” she barked. “Your obsession with gay terrorists is not my problem, but I am still your problem.”

  “And how’s that?” Shoshanna asked calmly.

  “If you desert your duty, I will destroy your troops. Utterly and completely,” she spat triumphantly.

  “You do realize there is a dungeon reserved for you in Hell,” Shoshanna said.

  “Take that back, you nasty old woman,” Evangeline seethed with mounting rage.

  “I take it back.” I could hear the steely edge in Shoshanna’s voice. “It’s not actually a dungeon, it’s just a hole. A hole in Hell, crawling with worms and maggots and other truly nontalented, hideous, stupid people just like you.”

  “Sticks and stones,” the Viper laughed. “Sticks and stones may break my lovely bones, but names will never hurt me. Just remember that, Sue. I own you and all your little friends.”

  “You don’t own Rena. You’re paying her.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised at the way things turn around, Shosheshe. I don’t pay people, people pay me. When you rule the world like I do, everything goes your way. Always.”

  I heard her stilettos click down the pink marble hall and fade away. I quickly ran back to the couch. Should I let Shoshanna know what I’d heard? No . . . if she wanted to tell me she would.

  It took her a few minutes, but my little friend came back into the room as if the hellish hallway conversation had never happened. She was pale, but had a big smile on her face . . . all for my benefit. I was sure I couldn’t have loved her any more than I did in this moment. This crazy profane woman was one of the best things that had happened to me in a long time. I was more determined than ever to bring Evangeline’s career down in a roaring inferno.

  “You made me wet my pants again,” Shoshanna laughed. “We need to copyright your warped brain.”

  “I’m pretty sure you won’t make any money off that”—I grinned—“but it could la
nd you a suite in the mental hospital.”

  “And those products! Were any of those real?”

  “Nope,” I grinned. “Just in case this pile of poo backfires and lands on us, I don’t want to get sued.”

  “Brilliant,” Shoshanna cackled and clapped her hands. “It makes the skanky ho look even stupider than she already is. Goddamn, it would be terrifyingly fucking awesome if we could get her to publicly go on record endorsing Smeerbeer and Bucky’s Fried Chicken.”

  “Yep,” I giggled.

  “You know, if we could focus your ideas, you might make a fine writer one day.”

  “And if I turn around three times and click my heels together, little green munchkins will jump out of my ass.” I rolled my eyes and hugged her. “I’m a terrible writer and I know that. It’s just that I’m not happy being an accountant . . . I think I’m searching for a place to feel good and worthwhile. I love numbers, but as you can imagine, I don’t fit in very well in the stuffed-shirt corporate world.”

  “I can’t see someone with your mouth working out too well in an office setting,” she smirked.

  “Hmm, coming from a woman who touts butt plugs, ass-less leather chaps, and uses the word fuck as a noun, verb, pronoun, and adjective, I’ll take that as a compliment,” I giggled.

  LeHump took a bow. “It was meant as one . . . Rena, I was thinking, you probably won’t get paid until we finish. Do you need a loan for a car? I’d be happy to help you out and you can pay me back whenever. No worries.”

  My stomach clenched and my eyes welled with tears. She was trying to help me escape the Viper without having to reveal anything. I loved her so much it made my teeth hurt.

  “Um, no, but thanks. My Aunt Phyllis gave me the money.”

  “The one with the aliens in the gas tank?” she asked.

  “One and the same.” I grinned, hoping she didn’t notice how glassy my eyes had become.

  “She sounds like a lovely lady.”

  “I’m very lucky.” I looked directly at Shoshanna. “I am blessed with some very special women in my life. Women I would be lost without.”

  “Awww, get over here, you little fucker.” She pulled me in for a bear hug. “I know a couple of women who would be lost without you, too.”

  I smiled and let my tears fall onto her Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt. Life may be complicated, but it’s still pretty good.

  Chapter 12

  Saturday morning rolled around bright, sunny, and fucking cold. Poppy Harriet seemed to enjoy the cooler temperatures. Her house was freezing.

  “Would you like a sweater?” she kindly asked. I was sure my blue lips prompted her offer.

  “Sure,” I smiled, taking the hot pink fuzzy sweater from her. Not really my color, but it was nipple-puckering cold in there.

  “I’m trying to save money,” she apologized for the frigid conditions. “I’m on a fixed income and it’s a bit tight right now.”

  “I love a nice chilly room,” I lied. “It keeps me on my toes.” The same ones I feared losing to frostbite.

  “The girls should be here any minute.” She moved nervously around her cute little home rearranging her chintz pillows and crocheted afghans.

  “Why are the ladies coming?” My gut clenched in disappointment. They didn’t trust me. Possibly my use of the words johnson and skin flute might have misled them into believing I had a tiny brain. It still made me feel bad that they felt the need to babysit.

  “This is going to be a hard day for me, Rena. I need their support. My life is a little . . . ahhh, messy.”

  Oh shit, that did not sound good. I’d arrived with a light heart and now it was sinking fast. There was so much more to this story than a few name changes. I had a bad feeling today would lead to more illegal activity on my part. Having a kind-of sort-of date with a cop tonight only made everything worse.

  “Do you want to tell me anything before the gals get here?” I asked, hoping to find out what crime I was about to commit.

  “No.”

  “Do you want to give me the paperwork so I can get started?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to cut a hole in your floor and do some ice fishing?”

  “No,” Poppy Harriet laughed, tossing me one of the many afghans placed around the room. “Rena, I’m sorry. I’m nervous and a bit gassy from stress.”

  A little too much information, but she was truly distressed. A change of subject was in order. “So Poppy Harriet, have you ever been married?”

  “No, I was never lucky enough to have any gentlemen suitors.” She dropped her eyes to the carpet to hide her embarrassment.

  God, I felt like an ass. I should probably stick to the weather. With Poppy Harriet looking away, I was really able to study her. She was attractive in a big-boned way, fit, stylish. I loved the little neck scarves she always wore. She must have a ton. Every time I saw her, she was wearing a color-coordinated neck scarf tied in a jaunty little knot at her throat. Her personality was a hoot; she was funny and loving and kind. What in the hell was wrong with men? I wondered if her upper lip had been a source of ridicule when she was younger. I would love for her to let me wax it . . . She did get a tad touchy about things. Bringing up her hairy upper lip might send her into a tailspin.

  “What do you write?” I asked, hoping that this subject would cheer her up. I realized I had no idea what her genre was. I knew Nancy was a cookbook queen and Shoshanna loved the whips and chains, but Joanne and Poppy Harriet were still a mystery to me.

  She blushed a sweet pink and lowered her eyes. “Last month my amorous tool manual came out.”

  “Amorous tools?”

  “Love tools,” she giggled.

  “You mean like vibrators and stuff?” I asked out of sheer politeness. I feared her answer the same way I feared Bryant Gumbel.

  “Oh, mercy me, no. I’m talking about garden-variety things you can find at your local hardware store to spice up your love life.”

  “Like what?” Why did my mouth keep moving before my brain could stop it? Although, it was fascinating. Train wreck fascinating.

  “Paintbrushes, garden hoses, lawn gnomes.”

  “Wow,” I feigned interest. Thankfully I was able to stop myself from asking how one would use a lawn gnome during sex. Unfortunately I knew I would ponder that one for years to come.

  “It’s the only thing I can publish that she doesn’t want.” Her voice broke and she fiddled with her neck scarf.

  “You mean Evangeline?”

  “Yes,” she said flatly. “What I really write is beautiful sweeping sagas about Highlanders. Historicals with breathtakingly brave heroines and handsome, complicated heroes. I adore complex stories where not everything is as it initially seems. My villains are evil, though not at first; eventually they always go down. Violent deaths are a specialty of mine, as well as romantic sex scenes. I’m so in love with Ireland and Scotland. I set most of my novels there because of the mystical beauty and the magnificent landscapes.”

  “Can I read one?” I asked, blown away by her description. Her books sounded amazing. There was so much more to her than met the eye.

  “If you go to O in the romance section of the bookstore, you’ll see ten of my novels.” Her eyes clouded with tears and her voice was soft.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Before she could answer, the front door flew open and the babysitting brigade arrived.

  “Holy fucking hell,” Shoshanna grunted. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit in here.”

  “Poppy dear”—Nancy shivered—“you really must turn the heat up. I’m afraid you’ll catch pneumonia.”

  “Holy Lutheran Jesus,” Joanne moaned, bringing up the rear. “I can see my breath. It’s warmer outside.”

  “I’m sorry, girls, but you know I’m on a budget,” Poppy Harriet reminded them.

  Shoshanna, in a fit of pique, slapped a wad of bills on the table. “My treat, turn up the damn thermostat.”

  “Fine,” Poppy Harri
et laughed. “This wasn’t such a problem when you ladies were in menopause.”

  “That was about twenty years ago,” Joanne muttered, turning the temperature up to eighty.

  “I made a cheese log and I’ve got some chili going in the Crock-Pot. Does anyone want something to drink?” Poppy Harriet asked.

  “Coffee.” Nancy was still shivering. “Come on, dear. I’ll help you make it.”

  I wrapped the afghan tighter around me, wishing I’d worn more appropriate clothes, but I hadn’t known I’d be visiting Antarctica. LeHump and Joanne grabbed fleece blankets from a stash behind the couch and hunkered down next to me.

  “This sucks,” LeHump moaned. “How in the hell does she live like this?”

  “I have no idea.” Joanne was trembling.

  “Hey, why are Poppy Harriet’s Highlander books in the O section?” I asked, moving closer to Joanne, hoping her larger frame would give off more heat than tiny little Shoshanna’s.

  “Because they’re under O’Hara. Evangeline Slag-ass O’Hara,” Joanne fumed. “That horrid woman stole ten books from Poppy Harriet and now she can barely afford to heat her house.”

  A wave of nausea washed through me and my mood veered sharply to anger. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, I’m not.” She shook her head regretfully. “I wish I was. And now the damn IRS is after her.”

  “I told her she can come live with me now that Kevin is moving out, but she won’t hear of selling her house. It belonged to her mother.” Shoshanna shrugged her shoulders and burrowed deeper into her blanket.

  IRS. Shit. Maybe I could figure out a way she could get some money back from the government . . . she said she’d paid her taxes, so if she was being truthful, the IRS couldn’t touch her. Faking more confidence than I felt, I got up and went to Poppy Harriet’s desk. I assumed the large box labeled IRS Bastards would be a good place to start. The ladies turned on the TV and got immersed in Jerry Springer, and I went to work. I was grateful no one was looking over my shoulder. Maybe they did trust me.