He waited.

He did not want to ring that bell again, but no one was answering the door.

He looked left, saw some steps down from the porch that led into the overgrown bush that was the side yard, and was about to head that way thinking it’d lead him to ¾, when he sensed movement.

He turned back to the door, looked down, and saw a short elderly lady had pulled back the paisley.

She, against what even he would advise, instantly opened the door to a tall, fit man in a Club cut that she did not know.

But once the door was opened, it was Rush who fought taking a step back.

She was wearing an I Dream of Jeannie outfit, but all in purples and greens, and instead of harem pants, the bottom was a skirt made of filmy scarves.

What the fuck?

“Howdy!” she cried.

“Uh, hey,” he replied. “I’m looking for Rebel St—”

He didn’t get that out.

Her blue eyes brightened, her mouth spread in a huge-ass smile, and she lifted both hands.

Cha-ching!

Christ, she had finger cymbals.

“My Rebel girl’s got a hot one!” she exclaimed. She then narrowed her eyes at him. “Please tell me you’re sleeping with her.”

Again.

What the fuck?

“Uh—”

She cut him off, not that he knew what to say. “Or want to sleep with her.”

Rush shut his mouth.

She brightened again and another cha-ching!

“Excellent!” she shouted.

“I take it she lives here,” he noted in order to move this along.

She nodded. “Out the back.” Cha ching. “I’ll show you.”

Before he could tell her he could find his own way (even if in that green tangle he wasn’t sure he could), she moved out onto the porch on bare feet, toes painted varying shades, all of them from a rainbow, shutting the door behind her and forcing Rush to get out of her way.

She then hustled to the side where Rush had seen the steps.

Without a choice, he followed her.

“Okay, I’m assuming with your Club cut that you aren’t into trad, you know, convention, or judgment, but it’s important to me, especially with my Rebel girl, not to be a cock blocker, so don’t judge her by me.”

While he processed a woman in an I Dream of Jeannie outfit who looked like a grandmother saying the words “cock blocker” and knowing what a cut was, she stopped one step down toward the wilds and looked up at him.

“I’m seventy-three, I bet you wouldn’t have guessed that.”

He stared into her cute, but very lined face framed by a big head of long, thick, curled, attractive but very gray hair on her tiny body, and he could see with the flesh exposed, sagging skin, and decided not to reply.

She swiveled her hips. “I stay young and supple belly dancing, among other things. I also participated in an orgy at Woodstock.” She leaned up to him. “The Woodstock. I was tripping. Primo LSD. I don’t remember all of it. I do remember elephants watching, though I’m pretty sure they weren’t real. The sex was still rad.”

This was way too much information.

“In other words,” cha-ching, “I’m a dyed-the-wool hippie,” she declared.

“Right,” he muttered, deciding not to tell her the finger cymbals and rainbow toes had already communicated that.

As well as a lot of other shit.

She turned and skipped gracefully down the steps, and that made her seem like she was sixteen years old.

She did this talking and with him following her.

“Now, Rebel girl’s got a far-out aura. She’s all pink and orange and blue.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “And tons of red.”

She winked like he knew what the fuck she was talking about and again turned forward as she moved him through a path made of wide, randomly set stones that led through a jungle, which grew direct from the earth and a shit-ton of pots, huge to small.

This was punctuated with a variety of seating areas from either furniture or blankets or pads or pillows or poofs on the ground.

There was also a variety of shit hanging from branches: wind chimes, candle holders, beads, stained glass, dream catchers, Chinese lanterns. And other shit peppering the earth: gnomes, goddess statues, laughing Buddhas, Kokopelli, sun dials. And more shit tacked to tree trunks: green men, a tie-dye sign that said Peace, Love and Fairy Dust, a portrait of Frida Kahlo.

Christ.

She stopped to hold a low hanging branch out of his way as he passed her, then he stopped so she could lead again, all the while she babbled.

“She lost the green she used to have, and there’s been a lot of gray for a long time, which I must admit, I find concerning, but nothing can diminish her multi-hued wonder.”

“Right,” he muttered again.

She again stopped, this time abruptly, and on the narrow path fenced in by vegetation, he had no choice but to stop with her.

“But even though she’s a lot of pink, she’s no flower child.”

“Okay,” he said.

Her eyes went up and down his length. “I could totally see her as a biker babe.”

Rush said nothing.

She leaned toward him, this time conspiratorially even though, as far as he knew, no one was anywhere near. “Can you imagine the wind in all her gah-lor-ee-us red hair?”

He could imagine something in that hair, but even as much as he’d like her on the back of his bike, he wanted to start with his fingers.

“Yeah,” he answered.

She smiled again. “I bet you can.” She recommenced walking. “I love her. Adore her. Not only is she an awesome tenant, she’s my yin.”

“Your what?”

She halted again and turned back to him. “Yin to my yang. I’m fairy dust. She’s curls of steel. Still delicate, and beautiful, but slivered from strength. Not magic. I’m air and water. She’s earth and fire. I’m a petal. She’s the root. I’m a sunbeam. She’s a moonbeam. Opposites attract, my boy.” She wagged a bony finger complete with one side of a cymbal up at him. “Remember that.”

She started walking again, and fortunately not too much farther they hit a low, white picket fence that wouldn’t contain a three-year-old, was wound with some green-leafed vine and randomly every few slats, at the top, a rainbow-colored peace sign was painted on it.

Beyond that, more of the stone path that led to another house, this one much smaller, surrounded by greenery. It was painted turquoise and had boxes filled with trailing plants and flowers in each window.

“Here she is!” she cried.

She skipped through a low gate that was hanging drunkenly open and useless and not only because it was overwhelmed by vines, to the front door Rush would swear he saw in a Peter Jackson movie.

It was then he saw the cats roaming around.

A gray one slinking over a window box.

A black one snoozing in the lap of a large meditating gnome.

A black and white one sitting, tail twitching, in the shadow by the door.

“She’s not a cat lady, I am. I have twelve. They know I’m their minion. So they gravitate to Rebel because they scent her as their queen,” the woman declared before knocking on the door and shouting, “Rebel girl! Open up. And I hope you have condoms!”

Jesus Christ.

The door opened and Rebel stood there looking like she belonged there wearing a colorful silk scarf wrapped around the top of her head, the rest of her spectacular hair flowing out under it, a big misshapen tee in a dark pink that fell to her hips, made sexy because it was falling off one shoulder, and a tight, faded jean skirt, its ragged hem hitting her at her upper thighs.

Bare feet with toes painted one color.

Red.

Great legs.

Tanned.

Long.

No surprise.

All gorgeous.

“If you don’t have prophylactics, darling, I have plenty,” the woman announced.

Rebel tore her pretty blue eyes off Rush and looked to her landlady.

“Jesus, Essence, did you trip him out with all your hippie shit?”

“Of course I did, dear. Trial by fire,” the woman replied.

“Please tell me you didn’t share your Woodstock orgy story,” she begged.