We got to work, but I knew I was operating on borrowed time caused by the coffee rush and this was confirmed when it slowed and immediately Tex turned to me.

“Not happy,” he boomed, even though I was three feet away.

I was not surprised by this announcement. Not because I ticked everyone off with my secrecy.

No, because Tex was rarely happy.

“What now?” I asked.

“You’re hooked up with Zano.”

Shit.

Here we go.

“Tex—” I started.

“That means you got Zano Family protection. So that means no one’s gonna fuck with you. So that means you’re gonna do whatever it is you’re gonna do, but still, shit’s gonna stay boring.”

I stared.

Tex kept booming. “That apartment explosion was a fluke. Those New Mexicans get wind you’ve got family protection, they’re gonna back off. Then where we gonna be?”

“Safe and happy?” Jet suggested, and Tex turned a narrowed gaze and knitted bushy brows to her.

“What fun is that?” he asked.

“Just pointing out,” I entered the conversation, “the other Rock Chicks had Nightingale and police protection, not to mention Sloan and Zano protection in some cases, and shit happened to them.”

Was I assuring Tex of impending danger and mayhem?

“You women burned your way through anyone stupid enough to spit into the eye of those tigers. There’s no one left,” Tex replied.

“Maybe those New Mexicans won’t get wind of all that,” I proposed. “Out-of-towners with no local known associates, they may be slow to cotton on.”

Yes, I was assuring Tex of impending danger and mayhem.

“It’s thin,” Tex muttered. “But it’s something.”

He turned back to the espresso machine and jerked off a portafilter with such force, the entire machine (and it was not small or light, not by a long shot) moved sideways half an inch.

He also kept muttering.

“And we got that book thing. Those badasses were beside themselves yesterday. Got a feeling that shit’s gonna get interesting.”

I had a feeling he wasn’t wrong

I looked to Jet.

Jet rolled her eyes and shrugged.

I got close to her and asked, “How are you feeling about the book thing?”

Her head tipped to the side before she replied. “I can’t find it in me to get worked up about it. Sure, there’s more detail in Indy’s book, but it isn’t like it wasn’t mostly all laid out in the papers.” She righted her head and went on to inform me, “Eddie’s not pleased.”

That wasn’t a surprise.

“So I’m thinking I should probably devote my attention to not getting wound up about it.” Her hand went to her belly. “He’s not big on me getting worked up about stuff.”

I knew that. If Eddie adored Jet before (and he adored her, in his macho badass way), he doted on her now. He was ecstatic (again, in his macho badass way) that she was having his baby, thus he treated her like porcelain. No Eddie Chats that pissed her off. No being bossy. It was all about soft looks and sweet touches and handling her with the utmost care.

It was pretty righteous.

Then again, Eddie had always been a really good guy (in his macho badass way).

So that wasn’t a surprise, either.

I dipped my head to her belly. “How’s preparations for the blessed event coming?” I asked, and she gave me her knockout smile.

“The addition is done,” she told me, referring to the new kickass laundry room Eddie and Hector added on to their house so Jet didn’t have to walk down to the basement to do laundry. “The nursery is done,” she went on. “Now he’s starting on refinishing the basement so we can move number one out to a bedroom downstairs,” she patted her big belly. “And move number two into the nursery upstairs when the time comes.”

“Forward planning,” I noted and got another big smile.

It was safe to say Jet, as well as Eddie, were looking forward to having a big happy family.

I pulled in a breath and got to the hard part.

“Okay, so how are you doing with me?” I asked, and her smile changed. It didn’t fade, but it grew softer.

“You’re Ally,” she answered.

I was.

“You do what you do,” she continued then her smile re-brightened. “I’m just bummed out I didn’t get the chance to tell you not to fight it.”

“I wouldn’t have listened,” I told her.

“They never do,” she replied, and that was so true, we both giggled.

The bell over the door rang.

I turned and watched Daisy charge in wearing a skintight baby pink Juicy Couture track suit with the hoodie unzipped so far you could see the lace of the cups of her bra. This was not a fashion option she chose while she zipped up that morning. This was a necessity as the fabric didn’t stretch enough to zip over her bodacious ta-ta’s.

“Yo,” I called my greeting seeing as her eyes were glued on me.

She didn’t reply, and I knew I was getting it from Daisy when she kept up her charge right behind the espresso counter, grabbed my hand and dragged me out toward the bookshelves.

Down the aisle we went and she turned right at the W-X-Y-Z section.

She stopped us in the middle of the row, turned and tipped her head back to me.

“I’m workin’ with you,” she announced.

Fuck!

“Daisy—” I began.

She lifted a hand palm out, pearl-painted, lethally-long fingernails pointed to the ceiling, and I could see the tips were brushed with hot pink on the diagonal and every one had a little heart of rhinestones affixed to it.

I didn’t usually allow people to shut me up, especially giving me The Hand. And Daisy was not carrying a purse and her tracksuit didn’t afford any opportunities to hide anything, but even without a stun gun handy, Daisy found ways to get her way and I wasn’t in the mood for a catfight in the W-X-Y-Z section.

So I shut up.

She dropped her hand.

“After you left, Indy told us on the hush-hush you’re puttin’ out a shingle,” she declared and I took a calming breath.

I hadn’t even told Ren. Or my family.

But Indy had told the Rock Chicks.

I was seeing that I needed to be far more thorough in my instructions in the future as Daisy kept talking.

“She explained we gotta keep our traps zipped. And sugar, you know we will.”

I knew no such thing.

She kept going.

“She also said we gotta keep our noses out of your business. We all agreed.”

I wasn’t certain I believed her, especially since she just told me she was going to work with me. As for the rest of them, that remained to be seen.

“But I’m workin’ with you,” she repeated.

“Daisy, I can’t—”

Her hand went back up and she immediately started talking.

“Not with you, with you, like, in the field. I’m gonna be Shirleen to your Lee.”

I stared.

Then I felt that feeling I felt earlier start to move through me and again it was far from bad.

This was because Daisy’s idea was far from bad.

“You know,” she continued, “I tried the society gig and the charity gig. Both of those did not work for me.”

I did know that. I also knew that neither of those worked in a big way. The one and only charity function Daisy gave ended up in a standoff complete with firearms. The crème de la crème of Denver society wasn’t hankering for another such escapade, even if it was for a good cause.

“And no one wants me to do their hair for some reason, so the salon idea I had is out,” she stated.

At that, I tried (and failed) not to look at her hair which made her four inches taller than she was, but she still had two ponytails sticking out the back and they were both tied with baby pink satin ribbons.

In other words, if big hair made you closer to God, Daisy’s hair was touching the Pearly Gates.

And that was the only way Daisy knew how to do hair. So if you weren’t up for the Southern Woman Style, you were screwed. And let’s just say that the vast majority of women in Denver fit in two groups. Those who mountain biked (and not with big hair). And those who drank cosmos (and they might have big hair, but not Daisy big).

Thus no one championed her salon idea.

“And sugar, I need to find a way to spend my days,” she kept going. “The Rock Chicks are petering out. There’s no hands to hold and no need for me to turn my home into a safe house. The other day I noticed my stun gun had a cobweb on it. After I had a word with my cleaning lady, it made me think. And what I think is, I can send an email and an invoice. So we’re teamin’ up.”

“Daisy, honestly, this isn’t a bad idea,” I told her, and her blue eyes lit up. “But I don’t have any clients yet.”

She waved her hand in front of her face, dropped it and leaned in.

“To get clients, you gotta have infrastructure,” she stated authoritatively. “So, that’s why I got Roxie on designin’ your website. And Ava’s mockin’ up a couple ideas for a logo for you. She’s gonna do our business cards and letterhead.”

Our?

“And I’m lookin’ for some office space. Marcus knows some people and I told him to put us in touch with the people he knows. In no time,” she snapped her long-nailed fingers, “we’ll get you set up.”

I decided to focus on the Rock Chicks finding ways to be involved and provide support that would not lead to their Hot Bunch boys losing their minds, and not scary words like “our,” and I smiled at Daisy.

“It’s cool the way you guys are all kicking in, chickie. But I have to have your solemn Rock Chick Vow that, if we do this, you answer phones and send invoices. You don’t get involved and you also help me make certain the other Rock Chicks don’t horn in in a way that’ll make things difficult for me.”