The Ruckup (Cape Coral Swamp Cats: Rugby and Romance #2)

Chapter 1 – Maddie

Mafia Who?

Maddie

“NO, MRS. DORSEY.” I grip my head in my hand—thumb at one temple, fingers at the other—and squeeze hard, trying to fight off the tension headache rapidly building behind my eyes. “You can’t put a skylight in your bathroom.”

“But it needs natural light. There’s no window in that room, so it’s pitch black without the overhead on.

” The newest tenant at Sweet Side Apartments continues trying to plead her case.

“I could trip and break my neck. And since my ungrateful son can’t be bothered to come visit me, you won’t know I’m dead until my juices start to drip on Betty while she showers. ”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because what the fuck? I get that a person usually starts thinking about their own mortality as they get older, but this goes well beyond that. “I think you need to cut back on the hours you spend watching murder documentaries.”

Maybe I should just ask Hillard, the property’s maintenance man, to cut the line to her cable. Give Mrs. Dorsey a few days to reset her brain before we ‘discover’ the issue and fix it.

“Also, how do you understand that Betty would be victimized by your…” I try to think of a word besides juices, because I’m already going to have nightmares about this conversation. “Demise, but it hasn’t clicked that Sue’s upstairs bathroom would be on the other end of your skylight?”

It's not rocket science. Mrs. Dorsey’s apartment is on the third of four floors. She calls me at least once a week to complain about how loud Sue walks. How has she not mathed out the fact that a hole in her ceiling wouldn’t look at the sky?

It would look at Sue’s naked crotch.

When they offered me this job, I was shocked and, honestly, a little confused.

My resume features nothing but a half-finished associates degree and five years’ experience as a private nanny.

Not for a single second did I think they’d call me for an interview, let alone hire me as the property manager for Sweet Side’s biggest fifty-five and up community.

Now I’m starting to see why my job history could be considered relevant.

“Fuck Sue. She’s a bitch anyway. I’ll drill all the way through her ceiling too.” Mrs. Dorsey spits the threat and accusation through the line. “If I’m lucky, she’ll get in the way and end up with a hole in her head.”

I sigh, letting my hand drop to the top drawer of my desk. Yanking it open, I pull out the economy-size bottle of ibuprofen. No amount of squeezing is going to stop the throb building inside my skull.

This is a job for pharmaceuticals.

“We’ve talked about this, Mrs. Dorsey.” I pin the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can wrench the lid off the bottle of pills. “I understand you and Sue have had issues, but you’ve got to stop coming up with ways to accidentally kill her on purpose.”

“I wasn’t going to kill her.” I can hear Mrs. Dorsey’s smirk in her words. “That would be up to the construction workers putting in my skylight.”

I throw three gel caps between my lips and tip back a mouthful of the Mountain Dew Zero on my desk, lifting my eyes to the ceiling as I swallow them down and say a prayer for patience.

“As I’ve said, you can’t put a skylight in your bathroom.

Not only is the sky not accessible through your ceiling since Sue’s bathroom is in the way, but you signed a lease agreeing not to make any structural changes to your rented apartment.

” I stress the word rented since she seems to keep forgetting the place doesn’t belong to her.

Mrs. Dorsey scoffs. “Then how in the hell am I supposed to keep from breaking my neck in the dark?”

I don’t know how to answer that without sounding condescending, so I’m not even going to try.

“My first suggestion would be by turning the lights on.” I drink down a little more of my guilty pleasure soda, hoping the added caffeine will knock out any pain the pills don’t.

“My second recommendation would be to get a night light.”

Mrs. Dorsey makes a weird harumphing sound. “Fine.”

I think we’re finally done with this conversation, but then she keeps going.

“Don’t blame me when Betty comes to tell you I’m leaking on her forehead.”

My head falls to the desk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I leave my forehead pressed to the slightly soft surface of my leather desk pad for a few minutes after Mrs. Dorsey hangs up, trying to wrap my brain around how in the heck someone could end up like that.

Probably too many years spent catering to an ungrateful husband who expected her to do everything but mow the lawn. While also expecting her to work a full-time job. Because that’s what his mother did.

I know that’s how my abuela ended up the spicy, zero-fucks given inspiration she is.

Too bad I didn’t get inspired sooner. Then maybe I wouldn’t be where I am now.

With a groan, I lift my head from the desk, feeling cautiously optimistic when it’s not pounding. My positivity is short-lived, because within seconds, the entry door to my office dings, signaling my tenth visitor of the day.

And I know I’m not lucky enough for it to be a delivery man.

Aiming my plastered-on customer-service smile at the vestibule, it turns genuine when I see the trio bustling through the doorway.

I probably shouldn’t have favorite tenants, but it’s really difficult not to.

There seem to be two extremes in the complex—people like Mrs. Dorsey and her arch nemesis Sue on one end, and the three women grinning at me on the other.

“What can I do for you ladies?” A little of the tension in my shoulders dissipates as Sylvia, Sharon, and Betty filter into the room I haven’t had the time or inclination to personalize in the month I’ve been here.

Sharon plops down into one of the utilitarian chairs across from me, smoothing back her light brown shag. “We heard Deborah was giving you shit and came to see if you wanted us to egg her car.”

“What the hell, Sharon?” Betty glares at her seated friend from behind the frames of her gold-rimmed glasses for a second before turning to me, expression warming. “What she meant to ask was if you wanted to go out drinking with us after you get off.”

Sharon tips her head, eyes squinting. “No. I’m pretty sure I got it right.”

“We’re not egging Debbie’s car.” Betty scowls, looking like a contradiction with her cute little sweater set and bubble gum pink fingernails. If you looked up grandma in the dictionary, her gray-haired, wrinkled face would be smiling back at you.

Except for right now. Right now she looks like she’d cut a man with her kitchen knife before beating him to death with a cast-iron skillet.

Betty crosses both arms over her narrow chest. “She’d know it was me and call the cops because she’s pissed I’m getting laid and she’s not.”

“I told you, we call that heifer by her government name.” Sharon lifts her brows. “And Deborah’s pissed her nephew took over the family when her husband died and she didn’t get to play mafia bossette.”

I blink, trying to keep up with the rapid-fire conversation happening around me. These women might not be running races anytime soon, but their mouths could set land-speed records. It takes a second, but eventually one comment stands out and has to be addressed. “No egging cars.”

Why do I feel like the adult in this situation? As if I’ve suddenly been put in charge of a group of hormonal teenagers suffering from a combination of angst and estrogen withdrawal.

Another word from their tirade finally registers. “Mafia?”

Three sets of eyes come my way, settling on where I sit behind my desk, wishing I had something a little stronger than ibuprofen to get me through this day.

Sharon cocks her head at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m stupid. “Did you really not know, honey?”

“Know...what?”

A pit forms in my stomach. I’m already in over my head with this job.

Sally, the woman who had it before me, wasn’t as big on organization as she probably should have been.

So, in addition to learning how to do the millions of tasks required of me, I’m also trying to get the place in order.

And the last thing I need is someone throwing around the word mafia with a straight freaking face.

I can’t be worried about paying off bribes and fearing for my life.

Anymore than I already do.

Sharon’s brows slowly climb her forehead, eyes shifting around the room, pausing on each of her friends before coming back to me. “Oh, nothing. Just a running joke we have around here that everyone acts like they used to be in the mafia.”

My lips flatten out as I consider what she’s saying. “Why would they want to act like they were in the mafia?”

I don’t get the point. Maybe to impress people? Scare them? Insert some drama into their retired years?

But Sharon waves my question off. “You know how old people are.”

Considering they’re talking about pretending to be in the mafia, threatening to egg cars, and inviting me out to go bar hopping—I obviously don’t.

“Back to the reason we’re here.” Sylvia, the smallest and sassiest of the group, redirects the conversation. “You should come out with us tonight. Let off a little steam.”

A part of me is genuinely flattered they want to spend time with me, but another part of me is confused about why exactly they believe I would be a fun addition to their girls’ night. My life is a mess. I’m a mess. Not exactly the kind of person who’s fun to be around.

I’d still go in a heartbeat if I could. The idea of drinking enough to forget my current state of existence is extremely appealing.

"I really appreciate the offer." I sigh, slouching in my chair. "But I already promised my parents I would go with them to a Christmas party."

I tried to get out of going. I'm not in a very festive mood this year, and spending an evening surrounded by people from my past probably won't help that any.

Especially since I'm not such a big fan of my past right now.

"That sounds like fun." Betty's enthusiasm is unfounded.

A fact Sharon seems to understand. She scoffs, brows pinched together as her head swings Betty's way.

"Are you high? That sounds terrible." Sharon turns back to me.

"No offense, dear. I'm sure your family is lovely, but I don't imagine they’re up to the challenge of helping you forget that piece of shit ex-husband of yours. "

The headache I've been trying my best to get a handle on throbs deep in my skull. "He's not my ex-husband yet."

Despite my best efforts, Drake’s managing to find every way possible to drag our divorce out.

I’m not fighting him on anything. We have a prenup that says if we're married under five years, I walk away with nothing, and that's fine with me.

I'm just glad to be walking away instead of being taken away in a body bag.

And, looking back, that was probably more of a possibility than I realized. One I probably came way closer to experiencing than I care to think about.

"Well if that party gets too boring, you just call us, and we’ll come get you.

" Sharon stands, hands going to her hips.

"That goes for any other time you need rescuing.

" She steps closer, eyes sharp on mine. "You grab that phone and you call my number.

I'll be there in a heartbeat.” She leans over the desk, voice deadly serious when she adds on, “And I've got nothing to lose. "

My eyes widen, because right now, if anyone sounds like they might have been in the mafia, it’s Sharon.

"If you say you'll make Drake swim with the fishes, I might have a mental breakdown.

" I can handle a lot of things—I think I've proven that over and over these past few months—but finding out the job I'm already struggling to prove I can handle involves negotiating with mobsters might send me spiraling.

Sharon snorts, rolling her eyes. "First of all, none of us owns a boat." She meets my gaze. "And second, why go to all that work when you can just feed him to the alligators?"

Is she kidding? I can't tell if she's kidding.

Worse, I can't tell if I'm completely opposed to the idea. Not after everything he's put me through.

Deep down, a part of me finds comfort in the thought of Drake being gone permanently. Of never having to worry about him again. I should probably feel bad about that, but after spending my whole life trying to make everyone else happy, I'm going to consider it personal growth.

"She's still joking." Sylvia's voice is loud and abrupt. "If that jackass ever disappears it's probably because he decided to leave the country. Definitely not because anyone kidnapped him, chopped him up into pieces, and sprinkled him across the Everglades."

My eyes drag around the room. "That sounded oddly specific.

" And it has a pit forming in my stomach.

I've spent my life being the nice girl. The one who never said anything bad about anybody.

It wasn't by design, it was because I genuinely believed people were good.

I thought evil and horrible humans were in the minority.

Imagine my surprise when I found out I was sleeping right next to one of them.

“Ignore them.” Betty waves at her friends dismissively. "Are you sure you want to go to that party? You could just claim sickness and go out with us instead."

Even though I'm a little scared they might not be as joking as they claim about this whole Mafia and murder thing we've been discussing, I genuinely appreciate how much they’re trying to be here for me. And if it were another night, I would absolutely take them up on their offer.

But I can't.

Sighing, I check the clock and see that my workday is done and I've got to go home and start getting ready.

“I promised my parents I’d go with them, and they’ll be really disappointed if I back out.

" My relationship with my parents is…strained. I feel like tonight might be a good step toward repairing the damage done while I was blind enough to think Drake was looking out for my best interests, instead of slowly alienating me from everyone I could lean on. “And I’m going to get to see people I haven’t talked to in years. ”

My parents have a tight circle of friends, and it will be nice to catch up with them. See how everyone is doing.

Is there one person in particular I’m most interested in getting my eyeballs on? Maybe. But no one needs to know that.

I’m not trying to find myself a new man. That’s the last thing I need or want. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping to see my childhood playmate Leo Casselini in the flesh. Find out if the professional rugby player looks just as big and brawny in person as he does on TV.

It’s not like I’m going to actually talk to him. I doubt he even remembers I exist, so what’s the harm in doing a little ogling? A little fantasizing that he’ll whisk me away from the awfulness my life has become.

It’s not like that’s actually going to happen. I’m not that lucky.