Chore Whore by Heather H. Howard

Author:Heather H. Howard
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins

I hustle up Eden and Star from various places on the playground. While they admire the car, I come to grips with the fact that Ferraris only have two seats. I have four people. Ferraris don’t come with a minivan option or small bucket seats in the back. With the children’s hips squeezed harder than they’ve ever been squeezed before, and the seatbelt stretched around all three, I start the engine and head for Lucy’s.

As I cross into the Beverly Hills city limits, lights behind me twirl red and blue and a short blip of a siren tells me to pull over. I do so and wait for the sunglasses-and-bulletproof-vest-clad officer to approach. I keep my hands on the top of the steering wheel and stare straight ahead as every black person, no matter what sex or how light of skin, is taught to do by their elders upon the day of receiving their driver’s license.

“Driver’s license and proof of registration please, ma’am.”

I pull the registration from the leather owner’s manual in the glove compartment and slowly wrestle my purse from under the kids’ legs. Knowing good and well that I’m breaking the law by having so many people stuffed in a two-seater, along with my license and insurance papers, I hand him my CCW, my license to carry a concealed weapon. It’s gotten me out of trouble before. CCWs, when presented, let the officer know that the owner has been cleared with the Department of Justice and perhaps the officer should cut this person some slack. I also know the reputation of the Beverly Hills Police Department, hard-ass and unforgiving. I’ve never had to deal with them before.

“Ma’am, is there a weapon in the vehicle?”

“No, I don’t think so, but it’s not my car so I’m not sure. However, I do have permission to drive it. In fact, you’ll notice that my name is listed as an insured driver.”

The officer doesn’t say anything. I sit quietly. My three charges don’t utter a peep. He takes my information back to his cruiser and gets inside. We all wait in silence. I see through the rearview mirror that he is returning.

“Miss Brown, will you please step out of the vehicle.”

Son of a bitch. I know I’m in trouble now. My legs are trembling as I exit the car. I wonder what he’s going to do with the children while he’s hauling me off to jail for endangering kids’ lives by piling them in the car as if I’m trying to break a world record in a 1960s Volkswagen cramming session. I step up onto the curb and finally look directly at the officer. He looks severe and tough, with his police-issue sunglasses that penetrate me like laser beams.

“Cornelia Wren Brown?” he says, seriously.

“Yes, sir.”

“You clean up pretty nicely.”

“Sir?”

Mr. Police Officer cracks a slight smile followed by removal of his laser beams, and I realize that this SOB was my knight in shining armor a few days ago at the bank.

“Officer Holt, right?” I ask, relieved.

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