at this game, but today I’m exceptionally motivated. In fact, I peek over the top of the blindfold to see where I’m hitting.
Yes, Blake Hudson has me cheating at pinata. That’s how low I’ve sunk.
I smack it right between the legs.
“Jerk-face!” I shout. I have to keep it G-rated because of the kids, but in my head I’m saying other things.
Whack.
"Stuck-up son of a gun!"
I smash it again.
Somebody taps me. “Not now!” I protest. “I have one whack left!”
"Winona!" It’s Isabella. She taps me harder. “Take off your blindfold.”
I rip my blindfold off and scowl at her. “You’re interrupting my whack therapy! Somebody better be bleeding.”
She waves her hand in an impatient gesture. I look at where she’s pointing, and suck in a startled breath.
Looming over Edna and Clarita is Dove-Gray Dickweasel, Mr. Robot, the Lord God King of all Boss-holes…Blake Hudson himself.
Chapter Thirteen
Winona
The setting sun bathes Blake in a syrupy light that caresses the sharp planes of his face. Yes, Blake Hudson’s not only obscenely handsome, he comes with his own back-lighting.
Well, screw you too, Mother Nature.
Henry slides out from between a cluster of my friends, clutching his ever-present briefcase, and makes his way to Blake’s side. He’s got one of Edna’s burnt-hockey-puck cookies in his free hand. He takes a bite, winces, and tosses it to Xena. Xena catches it in her mouth and drops it on the ground.
“Good plan,” Henry says to Xena. “Impressive likeness, sir,” he says to Blake, nodding at the pinata.
Blake gives him a narrow-eyed glare, then turns his attention back to the pinata I’ve been bashing in the crotch. Slowly, his gaze sweeps the courtyard and pauses on the “pin the tail on the donkey” poster that’s propped up on an easel. The donkey has Blake’s head. This morning, Isabella grabbed a picture of him from the internet, printed it out, cut the head off with fiendish glee and pasted it on the donkey.
“Oops.” I smirk at him and hold out the baseball bat. “Would you like to take a whack at the world’s biggest son of a…” I glance at the kids. “Creep?”
He looks at the pinata. "What in the actual hell? Surely that’s not supposed to be me.”
Before I can say oh yes it is, something splatters the front of his navy blue merino wool suit. He lets out a muffled curse. I look around for the source of the attack, then I grin. Clarita’s ten-year-old nephew Jorge just shot him with a Super Soaker.
“And I got more where that came from!” Jorge yells at Blake, glaring menacingly. “You fired my friend.”
Blake spreads his arms and smiles at him. “I come in peace. I’m here to hire her back.”
My jaw drops. “You what now?”
Jorge looks at me hopefully. “I can shoot him again, though, right?”
Before I can respond, his friends train their water guns at Blake, and wet splotches explode up and down his suit. Blake lets out a shout of anger and blocks his face with his hands. Henry discreetly takes half a dozen steps away, leaving Blake alone and dripping.
“Stop!” Clarita calls out to the kids. “He’s hiring her back!”
They lower their water-guns, looking bereft. I love that she waited until they’d finished splattering him before she called for a ceasefire.
“Awww! Come on!” they shout indignantly.
“Thank you, guys!” I yell at them. “Appreciate the support!”
“We’re going to reload,” Jorge yells back, shooting Blake a threatening look. They all trot off to the outdoor spigot on the side of the building.
Water runs down Blake’s face and splats onto his splotchy jacket. Henry has a hand over his mouth, and he’s vibrating from the effort to hold in his laughter.
I pluck a paper napkin from my purse and scrub at Blake’s face hard enough to take off a few layers of skin.
“Ouch!” He grimaces and steps back.
“Sorry, just trying to help. You should probably stop coming around here.” I smile with sweet concern. “It’s hell on your suits.”
“That’s fine.” He grimaces, snatches his handkerchief from his pocket, and wipes his dripping face. “I have a whole store full of them.”
“Also, how did you even find me here?”
“I have my ways.”
“Threw money at the problem, as usual?” I guess. “Bribed the landlord?”
“Something like that.”
Clarita rolls her wheelchair a little closer to us and looks him up and down.
“I’m not so sure about you. What do we think, honey?” she calls out to her husband.
Nestor looks up from his magazine. “What are we talking about, querida? I think what you think.”