Sedona Law 5 by Dave Daren (romantic novels in english .TXT) 📕

“Is that a rooster?” Vicki asked and cocked her head to the side.

“Ah, hell no,” I groaned as I jumped up to look out the window.

But, sure enough, there, wandering through our little patch of green, was a brown and white rooster, proud, feathered, and pecking at our flowerbeds.

“What the … ” Vicki went outside, and I followed her.

Several other chickens now walked around with the rooster, and I grabbed a broom and shooed them all away.

“Where are they coming from?” I grumbled.

“Over there,” Vicki said as she pointed.

“Hello, new neighbors!” an old woman in a pink bathrobe greeted us before she called to the fowl. “These are just Alfie, Mickey, and Rory. Don’t mind them. They’ll be no trouble.”

Vicki and I both smiled weakly, and the woman stuck out her hand.

“Petunia,” she introduced herself. “Petunia Olivares-Bunn, Mr. and Mrs … ?”

“Oh, uh … ” I scratched the back of my head at the awkward moment.

“Not Mr. and Mrs.,” Vicki cut in smoothly. “I’m Vicki and this is Henry, and we live right here.”

“Oh.” Petunia frowned and flipped her palm in a dismissive gesture. “Well, it’s alright, not to worry. It’s modern.”

I wasn’t really looking for her opinion of our living situation, but I was too distracted by one of the chickens, who practically made eye contact with us and then squawked really loud.

“I don’t think it likes us,” I muttered.

It squawked again, and this time its sound had a conversational rise and fall to it, with, I could have sworn--

“Christ Almighty,” Vicki said to finish my thought. “That chicken is griping us out.”

“That’s Alfie,” Petunia said. “He does that.”

“He does that?” I repeated.

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “He’s just a little temperamental. It’s okay, Alfie.” Petunia bent down low and fed the chickens some sort of crumbs from her hand. “Mommy’s here.”

“Well,” I cleared my throat, “it was nice to meet you, Petunia.”

“Nice to meet you too,” she said. “We’ll be great neighbors. If you ever need a cup of sugar, don’t hesitate to come by.”

“Will do,” I said as we walked back toward our house.

We went inside, and I looked at Vicki. A moment later, we both burst out into laughter.

“It’s time to move,” I snickered.

“Definitely,” she gasped as she wiped at her eyes. “If those cluckers destroy my flowers, so help me God, we’ll be having chicken soup for dinner every night for a month.”

With dinner largely over, Vicki and I settled in for a long night of the usual: binge watching Netflix. I guess it had something to do with our shared past of the entertainment world. I used to be one of those snobby jerks who kept up with what was going on in “film,” and talked endlessly about directors, made fun of mediocre special effects, and saw everything that was out, but only on opening night.

I’d calmed down a lot. I credit Vicki for much of that. She’s so relaxed and it’s easy to relax with her. So, this time, we settled on Les Miserable over Jimi’s Red Hot Purple Haze Salsa and kale chips. By the time Anne Hathaway got groped up by a pervy assembly line foreman, we’d gone through the entire mason jar.

“What the hell?” I grumbled to Vicki as I held up the empty jar.

“Pig,” she said before she scrunched her nose and made oinking sounds.

I laughed. “Uh-huh. Ms. Purple Haze breath.”

Vicki just giggled.

So, Anne Hathaway got fired from her job at the assembly line, something to do with some cranky old hens who got their panties in a wad over her sending child support to an estranged daughter. Hugh Jackman was the boss, and presumably a good guy, but he didn’t notice poor Anne’s desperate plight because he was too busy being worried about Russell Crowe sending him back to prison. I just kept waiting for the frump-to-glam moment that’s in every Anne Hathaway film ever made. Instead, she ended up being a hooker who sold her teeth.

“This is depressing,” I muttered.

“It’s about the proletariat at the start of the French Revolution,” Vicki said.

“Did you just use the world ‘proletariat’?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

She laughed and held up her phone. “I was quoting a blog.”

“Ah,” I sighed. “The French Revolution. I think we’ve had enough of the American one this week.”

“They’re kind of the same thing,” she said.

“No, they’re not,” I answered. “The French Revolution had guillotines and Marie Antoinette running for her life, with her cake. The American Revolution had farmers with pitchforks, and cannons and Mel Gibson traipsing through South Carolina with muskets.”

She laughed. “Mel Gibson, huh? I’m telling Alfred.”

“He’s heard worse,” I said with a shrug.

“I believe that,” she giggled.

“Russell Crowe’s a good singer, though,” I commented after a pause.

“I know,” she mused. “I didn’t expect that.”

By the time Hugh Jackman adopted Anne Hathaway’s daughter and raised her to adulthood, I fell asleep, and Vicki wasn’t long after me.

We awoke the next morning to roosters. Yes, the roosters. I’d always been a peace and nature respecting type of guy, but at that moment, I’d never wanted a gun more.

“Shit.” I rolled over and rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”

“Time to move,” Vicki croaked and buried her head under a pillow.

I checked my phone on the nightstand. It was five thirty, and from my vantage point, it was still dark outside. Screw what the rooster thought.

“How is she getting roosters in the city limits?” I grumbled. “Is that even legal?”

“This is Sedona,” Vicki muttered from beneath her pillow. “The city probably thinks it’s trendy.”

I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but the rooster crowed again.

“We’re getting an architect today,” I said as I threw off the covers and got