Confessions Of An Old Lady Read Online Free PDF Page A

let you in. Once you’re his ‘old lady,’ you’ll be close to all kinds of valuable information.”
    “If he’s such a notorious ladies’ man,” I interrupted. “What makes you think I’ll be able to get his attention and keep it? I’m not sleeping with him. Not even for the assignment.”
    “You don’t have to,” Renly said with a chuckle. “You’ll think of something else.”
    Beauford leaned forward. “Now, you won’t be allowed into any of the private club meetings, or anything, but you’re a woman. You know how to get a man to talk. Just use your feminine wiles and gain his trust. Do you think you can do that?”
    “I can try. But what if he doesn’t like me? What if he doesn’t even give me the time of day?”
    “Oh, trust me,” said Renley. “Looking like that…you’ll get his attention. The hard part will be keeping him interested. You’ve got to play hard-to-get.”
    “Yeah, I think I can do that.”
    “Of course you can. You’re a woman. That’s what you women do!” Renley said, seeming satisfied with his own sense of humor.
    “Ha, ha. Very funny.”
    “All right, now let’s go over some more details,” Beauford insisted.
     
    ***
     
    We spent each day for the rest of the week meeting in the conference room and going over the case files. Renley and Beauford also taught me everything I needed to know about biker lingo and how to walk and talk like a biker chick.
    It was Renley’s idea to go to a biker bar in Glenview just to get a feel for the atmosphere I was about to immerse myself into. Since I didn’t have my bike yet, I rode on the back of Beauford’s Harley, my arms wrapped around his thick waist.
    We pulled up to Dottie’s Bar & Grill just outside of Chicago in the town of Glenview around ten o’clock Friday night. Just like the boys, I dressed up in my finest biker gear, complete with torn blue jeans, a Harley Davidson hoodie, and my boots. As the three of us walked in, I immediately noticed the difference in the atmosphere from anything I had ever experienced in my life. It wasn’t very loud, except for the jukebox playing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell.” It immediately reminded me of my dad, who used to play Skynyrd on the weekends while he worked on his car.
    No one really paid much attention to us, so I guessed our get-ups were working like they were supposed to. We walked up to the bar and sat down at the empty barstools. Renley ordered us each a Budweiser. I never drank, so I looked at him quizzically. He only nodded, which I took to mean that I had to at least pretend to drink it. I held the beer to my mouth and took a tiny sip. It was as disgusting as I’d remembered from high school, which was the last time I’d had an alcoholic drink. I never really partied in high school, as I was too focused on school and getting straight A’s. Of course, it didn’t make me the most popular girl in school, but I graduated valedictorian and went to the University of Kentucky on a full academic scholarship.
    We sat there for about an hour, just shooting the breeze, quietly talking about our respective childhoods. Renley shared how he was a scrawny little weed of a boy who got picked on all throughout grade school. Then, his sophomore year, his dad bought him a workout machine and he beefed up and went back to school his junior year six feet tall and one hundred eighty pounds of pure muscle. No one ever bothered him again.
    Beauford told us the story about how he was recruited by the DEA while working as a beat cop in Los Angeles. An agent met him on an investigation and was impressed by his gumption and offered him the opportunity of a lifetime. He went through agent training and the rest was history.
    Suddenly, our conversation was interrupted by shouting behind us. We all turned to see a few of the bikers arguing and pushing one another. One of them grabbed a bottle, took a big swig, turned it upside down, and bashed the other one over the head. Blood and beer