Page 1 of Rent a Bad Boy

1

ISLA

The first thing I notice from twenty yards away is the piece of paper stuck to the front door.

Terrific. Exactly what I wanted to find once I pulled up in front of the house I share with my grandmother after an endless day of classes. All I wanted to do was put on my comfy clothes, start up a playlist, and get my homework done. But no. The homeowners association had other ideas.

The notice is taped to the door at eye level. Somehow, that feels personal. Like they measured my exact height before taping it to the front door, just to make sure I couldn’t possibly miss it on my way inside.

Not that I could miss it even if it were hung way over my head. Not with the words NOTICE OF VIOLATION printed in capital letters at the top of the page. At the bottom is printed Cardinal Oaks Association: A Friendly Community.

Do they not see the irony here?

I peel the notice off the door without bothering to stop and read it, because I already know what it says. The same thing it always says. Livestock is prohibited per Section 4.3 of the community bylaws.

Livestock. I own chickens. It’s not like there are cows grazing in the backyard. I don’t have pigs wallowing in mud.

This is the fourth notice I’ve received. Grandma swears up and down that the homeowners association’s bark is worse than its bite, but I have to wonder. Eventually, they’re going to get tired of leaving notices that go ignored. They’re going to take action. And then what? It’s not like we can pretend we weren’t warned.

Once I’m inside the house, I call out, “Grandma?” Not that I need to call out. All I have to do is follow the sound of the music coming from down the hall. The little ranch house is the perfect size for the two of us, but on days like this, when my grandmother is obviously feeling good and in a party mood, the walls feel a little closer than normal.

I’m not sure what I’ll find as I walk slowly down the hall with the letter still clenched in my hand. I can smell her hairspray and perfume through her closed door—I swear, the woman is determined to create her own personal hole in the ozone layer. I read somewhere that used to be something people worried about. Obviously, she didn’t get the memo. Either that, or she chose to ignore it, the way she always ignores things that don’t interest her. The list is pretty long.

Her bedroom door is open a crack. I tap my knuckles against it before easing it open. One never knows what they’ll find. Thankfully, she’s fully dressed, giving her hair another heavy spray. At this point, it’s basically a bleach-blonde helmet.

“Oh! Where did you come from?” she calls out over the Madonna song blaring from her stereo.

I have to turn the volume down, since I don’t feel like screaming. “You didn’t hear me come in, I guess.” I sit on the corner of her bed and take in tonight’s outfit. She’s standing in front of her full-length mirror wearing a leather skirt shorter than anything I’ve ever personally owned. She decided to pair it with a leopard-print top in a shade of neon green that almost offends my eyes. Like, leopards don’t come in neon green. Realism isn’t her thing. Otherwise, she wouldn’t dress this way at the age of sixty-three.

“How do I look?” she asks, doing a spin before returning to the makeup she’s applying. “I went through five different outfits before deciding on this one.”

Yes, and the remnants of her decision-making are strewn across the bed. There are times I wish I felt as free as she does. Of all the things I could’ve inherited from her, an ounce of her “I don’t give a damn” energy would’ve been nice.

Instead, I cringe inside at the sight of acid-wash jeans with rhinestones along the back pocket. A crop top I’m glad she decided not to wear, since I doubt it would cover much more than her boobs. A dress that I seriously hope has a lot of stretch to the material, as from where I’m sitting, it looks like something a toddler could wear. For somebody who makes it a point not to attract attention, this is basically my own personal nightmare.

“Where are you going tonight?”

“Out for dinner. Then maybe dancing at that retro club downtown.” She sets down her mascara on top of the cluttered dresser before digging through a drawer and pulling out a pair of neon-green leg warmers that match her top almost perfectly. She tugs them on over her bare calves, explaining, “I knitted these myself, you know? Took me two weeks. My hands don’t move as fast as they used to, but they still move.”

“Who are you going out with?” Do I sound casual? I’m trying to sound casual.

“Somebody from the app. You haven’t met him.”

The app. I had a feeling. “So, what’s his name?” Do I sound neutral? I’m trying to sound neutral.

“David. He’s twenty-nine.”

Jesus wept. Somehow, I manage not to roll my eyes, though it takes serious effort. “Grandma.”

She finishes with the leg warmers before giving me a wounded look. “What? He’s well above the legal age, and he’s not even the youngest man I’ve ever dated.”

Why doesn’t that make me feel any better? “What does he do?”

“How should I know?” she asks with a laugh before waving a hand covered in rings. “That’s the kind of thing you find out once you get together. All I know is he has a motorcycle. You know how I feel about motorcycles.”

I do, and I wonder how she’s going to manage to ride on one in a skirt that barely covers her butt when she’s standing up straight. But that’s not my problem. I have other things on my mind.

“We got another letter,” I say, holding it up for her to see. “The usual. We have ten business days this time. That’s the shortest deadline they’ve given us yet.”