I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my voice steady. "So, you want me to bow to the HOA and fuel their cars for free?"
"I want the drama gone," he said. "I don't care how."
He walked out without waiting for my response. The door slammed so hard a shelf of beef jerky shook.
I sat behind the counter and exhaled slowly. My hands were trembling, not from fear, but from a new fire building in my chest.
"This is insane," I whispered.
Tessa sat beside me on the little step behind the counter, sipping her coffee like this was all part of the Thursday routine. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "if Beverly wants war, maybe it's time we stop playing defense."
I looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"Not pranks, not yelling, something smarter." She tapped her temple. "We expose her—everything. Her lies, her misuse of authority, her abuse of HOA power. We let the whole town see the truth."
I shook my head. "Beverly controls the HOA. She has a cult following."
Tessa grinned. "But I have something she doesn't."
"What's that?"
"A cousin who works in the mayor's office."
I blinked. "The mayor? As in the mayor of Cedar Ridge?"
She nodded. "And he owes me a favor."
Part of me knew this was madness. The other part, the part that had been humiliated, threatened, filmed, and nearly suspended, was ready to fight back.
Tessa leaned closer. "Tonight, we gather everything. Security camera footage, the 911 transcript, screenshots from HOA groups, and tomorrow—"
"What happens tomorrow?"
She smiled like a strategist preparing to flip a kingdom. "Tomorrow," she said. "We invite the mayor to the circus Beverly built."
Outside across the street, Beverly lifted her megaphone and screamed something about economic oppression. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and felt the shift within myself. No more being intimidated. No more being painted as the villain. No more letting an HOA dictator decide my fate. If Beverly wanted a showdown, she was going to get one. And this time, the entire town would be watching.
By noon, word had already spread farther than I'd ever imagined. Apparently, when an HOA president declares a gas station an enemy of the community, people take notice—mostly because it's entertaining. Ridge View Meadows residents weren't exactly strangers to drama. Most of them lived under the constant fear of fines for harmless offenses like leaving a garden hose visible or choosing the wrong shade of beige paint.
Beverly Lang had turned the neighborhood into her personal kingdom, and folks were used to bending under her rules. But seeing her go to war with a gas station—that was new, and people love new.
The first real sign of escalation came in the form of three HOA board members marching down the sidewalk like a parade of angry mall cops. They carried clipboards, wore matching Ridge View Meadows polo shirts, and strutted around as if they had jurisdiction over the entire county.
Tessa spotted them from inside the store and whispered, "Here comes the HOA enforcement task force. God help us all."
They didn't enter the store immediately. Instead, they formed a semicircle outside the front door and began taking photos: photos of the pumps, photos of the trash cans, photos of the security cameras, photos of me through the glass as if capturing images of a dangerous wild animal. Tessa waved joyfully at them. They didn't wave back.
Finally, one of them—a man with an unfortunate mustache that looked like it had been drawn on with a marker—stepped inside. He held out a clipboard like it was evidence in a crime investigation.
"Sir," he announced. "We are filing a community standards violation."
I blinked. "Against who?"
"Against you," he said triumphantly. "For refusing service to residents of Ridge View Meadows."
I stared at him. "Sir, this isn't an HOA property. You cannot file—"
He thrust a pen toward me. "Sign here to acknowledge the violation."
I pushed the clipboard gently back toward him. "Respectfully, no."
The man looked personally offended that I didn't crumble in fear of Beverly's kingdom. His mustache twitched. "This will be escalated," he threatened.
Tessa leaned over the counter. "Sweetie," she said kindly. "You're wearing Skechers and a polo shirt, not a badge. Please go away before you sprain something."
He gasped and stormed out, shouting at the other board members. They huddled like a football team planning the next disastrous play.
But Beverly wasn't done. She arrived minutes later, flanked by two SUVs and at least a dozen HOA supporters waving new signs. These weren't handwritten anymore. No glitter, no poster board. These were professionally printed, glossy, bold, dramatic fonts: Stop business discrimination, Restore HOA rights, End hostile service practices.
Tessa whispered, "She made posters, Mark. She had posters printed. This woman is a menace with a credit card."
And Beverly herself—she carried a megaphone the size of a toddler. She climbed onto the curb as if ascending a stage and began speaking to a crowd that had grown from curious bystanders to full-fledged spectators.
"This business," she declared, pointing directly at our store, "has engaged in targeted harassment against our HOA community. They refused our right to service. They denied our essential needs. And today, we stand united."
"Pay for your gas!" a man across the street shouted.
The crowd laughed. Beverly glared at him.
"We stand united," she continued, "against oppression."
Oppression—a strong word usually used for actual injustices. Beverly was applying it to gasoline. I wiped a hand down my face.