that excuse?”
“At the time.”
“And later? Did he say anything?”
“Yes, but I thought he was bluffing. Trez’s never been a thief.”
“Seems to me he’s stolen three times in the last few days, alone. First you, then Lockwood, and now First Bank of Marrero.”
She deflates. “This isn’t like him. I thought when I came down here he’d taken my money to buy drugs. He’s developed an addiction to pain killers.”
“Why’s that?”
“He wrecked his bike a few years ago.”
“Regardless, your loser brother is now a bank robber.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Someone needs to. And now he’s involved you.” I pull out my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling the New Orleans Chapter.” Lola’s still got that worried look in her eyes, but she doesn’t try to stop me.
Knuckles picks up. “Hey, Memphis, what’s up? You find that chick you were looking for?”
“I did. What do you know about a Mason Lockwood?”
“I know you don’t want to fuck him over, why?”
“Apparently Rock’s son already has.”
“Hell, Memphis, my chapter does business with Lockwood.”
“Shit.”
“Does he know who the kid is?”
“I don’t think so,” I hedge. “But he spotted me with Rock’s daughter, so maybe.”
“Lockwood finds out that kid is connected to the Royal Bastards, this could have club implications. It could fuck up our dealings with him.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Thanks, man.” I disconnect and scroll through my contacts.
“Now who are you calling?” Lola asks, the agitation in her voice escalating.
“Rock.”
She grabs my arm before I hit call. “No, please, you can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because…”
“Because why?”
She glances toward the bed. “I’ll sleep with you if you want. Just don’t call my father.”
My brows arch. I can’t believe she’s making this offer. “This isn’t let’s make a deal time, Lola.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Is that what you think of me? Sorry, babe, while your charms are undeniable, I like my women willing, not as payment.”
She lifts her chin, maybe upset that she offered, maybe upset that I’m not so easily manipulated as to take her up on it. A second later her eyes fill and overflow, a silent tear streaking down a cheek to her quivering lip.
“Those won’t work on me, either.”
She lifts a hand to brush them away, dipping her head and refusing to look at me. I see her shoulders shaking, and she stutters in a breath. I realize in a split second, her tears aren’t contrived; they’re real. I try to steel myself against them, tightening my jaw, but it doesn’t work.
She goes over to the French doors, rubbing her upper arms as rain begins to pelt the glass.
I move to stand behind her. “Lola?”
“When I was fourteen my mother died. Ever since my family has been fractured, splintered into three damaged pieces: my brother, my father, and me. All hurt in our own way.”
“How’d she die?”
“My mother was on the back of my brother’s bike. He rounded a corner as someone was backing out of a driveway, and he slammed right into the car. The accident killed her instantly. My brother was severely injured, his leg shattered, his shoulder broken. In the years since the wreck, he’s been through a bunch of surgeries and a lot of painful physical therapy. He’s not healed yet, physically or emotionally. The pain is still there.”
“I’m sorry.” The words seem inadequate for such a monumental loss, but I don’t know what else to say, except to voice my concern for her. “And you?”
“Me?” She acts surprised, as if no one ever asks how it affected her. She huffs out a sad laugh. “I’m the most fucked-up one of the bunch.”
“Why’s that?”
“Ask anyone in the club. They’ll tell you I’m nothing but trouble and a pain in the ass, and probably a bitch to boot. I’m sure you’d agree with them.”
“I hardly think you cause that much trouble.”
“I do. I’m always stirring shit up.”
“Why?” She shrugs, and I press her. “Lola, why?”
“Maybe I want the attention. Maybe any attention, even if its only because I did something wrong is better than nothing. Did you know they call me the Ice Queen behind my back? Sometimes even to my face.”
It’s so absurd that laugher slips out my lips.
“It’s true. They say I’m a cold bitch. I wasn’t always.”
“So, the accident and your mother’s death did a number on you, on all of you. Then you’re letting it win.”
“It already has.”
“That’s fucked, and you know it, babe.”
“Do I?”
“It was tragic, no doubt about it, but you can’t let that ruin the rest of your life. It’s been what, six years?”
She nods at my calculation.
“You’ve given the