“You and Mom are my life, stupid.” Then she shoved me again, “I’m moving back to Denver.”
I shoved both her shoulders.
“Are not!” I shouted.
She grabbed onto my hair, yanked and didn’t let go.
“Am too!” she yel ed.
Then we went down, mostly yanking each other’s hair and yel ing, “Let go!” but we also rol ed around, she bit my shoulder and I elbowed her in the ribs. It was nothing we hadn’t done before, though, the last time we did it we were in junior high.
Al of a sudden, we were soaking wet. We froze and looked up and Mom was holding an empty plastic pitcher.
Then we looked down at ourselves. We were wet through.
Lottie was okay; she was already wearing a skin-tight black tank top. Though her mascara was running down her cheeks.
I was wearing a white, long-sleeved, scoop-necked tshirt, which had been rendered virtual y see-through with the water. I was also wearing my laciest bra, you could see it, but thank God it was holding up and not exposing the whole show.
“My two girls, rol ing around on the floor of a coffee house. Goodness gracious, get up, ” Mom snapped, standing and utilising the Diva Threat pose much better than I could do it, even with one arm.
We got up.
I turned to Lottie.
“Are you real y moving to Denver?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she answered.
“But you love LA,” I said.
“Johnny and I split up. LA’s shit without Johnny and I miss the mountains. I’m comin’ home.”
She smiled at me.
She didn’t miss the mountains, she missed her family.
I smiled back.
I had to admit, it would be nice having Lottie home.
“You wanna job?” Smithie, suddenly, was there.
Dear Lord.
I performed the introductions, sopping wet and not giving a damn. “Smithie’s my boss at the strip club. Smithie, this is my sister, Lottie.”
“I know who the f**k she is. She’s Lottie Mac, Queen of the Corvette Calendar,” he said to me and turned to Lottie,
“You dance at my club, I’l give you a f**kin’ marquee. I’l give you a spotlight. I’l clear the stage for your dances. I’l have to buy a f**kin’ velvet rope and hire new bouncers.
Shee-it, you’l be drivin’ a Porsche in a week.” Lottie looked at him.
“That works for me,” she said, as if that was that.
“What?” I yel ed.
Smithie turned to me.