First time I'd seen the kid up close. 19, maybe 20. Designer everything. Shoes that probably cost more than my monthly electric bill.
That cocky smirk rich kids perfect in prep school. The type who's never heard no in his entire pampered existence. "Mr. Rodriguez," Vivian announced like she was serving a warrant. "I'm conducting routine property compliance inspections today." "Routine inspections?" I was still half asleep, with coffee breath and bed head in full effect. "Since when?"
"Since always. Community standards require regular assessment." Trevor snickered. Actually snickered.
"Nice pajamas, dude." Now, I'd done my homework after those first violation notices. Spent hours reading HOA law websites, legal forums, even called my buddy who works in property management. Turns out most HOAs can only inspect common areas and whatever they can see from public spaces.
Private property requires specific bylaw provisions written in black and white. "Show me where in these bylaws it says you can inspect private property," I said, crossing my arms. Vivian's smile could have cut glass. "The general maintenance clause gives me authority to ensure compliance."
"Which section, exactly?" She ignored me, marching around my yard like she owned it. Trevor followed, making snide comments about my rental quality landscaping and pointing out every minor imperfection like he was conducting a military inspection. The measuring tape came out.
The camera started clicking. That familiar metallic taste of rising anger filled my mouth. "Violation one," Vivian announced dramatically. "Trash cans visible from the street."
My trash cans were tucked behind my fence. You'd need a drone to spot them. "Violation two: garden hose improperly stored." The hose was coiled neater than a Navy ship.