CHAPTER ONE
Layla
Days Earlier …
“It’s so nice to see you dear. It’s been a long time. You’re looking … different.”
I nod and force a smile onto my face as I place menus down in front of the elders from my parents’ church, Judy Pryor and her husband Roy. I ready my mini tablet to take their order and resist the urge to tell her to take her judgmental eyes elsewhere and go fuck herself.
“It has been a long time,” I respond, ignoring her comment about my looks as she eyes the floral and vine tattoos that run down the length of my bare arm. “You’re doing well?” I ask politely. My voice is sickly sweet, and from another life.
“I am. Always so busy with the church, you remember how that is?”
“Of course,” I answer quickly. What she really means is: You know, when you used to come to church? Her eyes continue their judgment as I rattle off the specials. When I’m done, she looks up at me with mock care.
“Are you okay, Layla? You haven’t been around since … well, you know …” Her voice trails off as she takes in my much longer, now more auburn hair. It used to be a very dull shade of brown in my younger years—a lifetime ago, when I checked all of her boxes.
She didn’t know me then any more than she does now, but she didn’t need to. I was there. I could’ve been murdering squirrels in my spare time, but if I was in that building on Sunday, I was “a little dear” and “a real sweetheart.”
“I’m perfectly well, thank you for your concern.” I fight the sarcasm in my tone. Giving her nothing but saying everything all at once. Fuck right off, Judy.
I take their order and click “submit” on the tablet to send it to the kitchen.
“It’s good to see you both,” I say politely. Before I can turn away Judy reaches out and touches my arm, invading my personal space.
“I have to ask, do you have a new church family? A fellowship group to pray over you?”
I remind myself that I desperately need the tip from their bill and gently pull my arm away.
“It’s been a long while since I’ve had time for a fellowship family,” I answer.
It’s true, and it’s also the understatement of the year.
Not that she could know, but being in school, in a fast-track program for massage therapy, takes up most of my free time.
Not to mention I work thirty hours a week just to keep myself fed and housed.
Plus, I’m still grieving the death of my best friend in the whole world, so making the church a priority isn’t really on my radar right now.
“Well, if you ever feel called to come back to the church, we’re all here for you. And we’re all praying.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pryor,” I say through my fake smile. “That’s very kind of you. Your drinks will be out soon.”
I turn and blow out a breath. Simmering anger courses through me.
Not one of them was actually “there for me” when my mother was stolen from me.
None of them knows she died on the very night that she was finally going to set herself free.
No one but me knew she was leaving, because on the outside, my parents’ marriage was a thing to be admired.
But on the inside my father was controlling, misogynistic and abusive.
Sometimes, when he drank too much, he would hit my mother, and then spend the next week apologizing and gaslighting her into believing she’d deserved it.
All the while he was having affairs and gambling their life savings away.
But all that mattered was that they were there front and center every Sunday morning, so they were a real blessing to the community.
They portrayed that false image better than anyone could have imagined. But none of that matters, because they’re gone now—and one thing my mother’s death has taught me is that a public image is complete bullshit.
I can’t go back, but I can promise myself I will never end up like my mother, in a loveless marriage taking shit from a man in the name of his church.
I will be myself and be happy, however that looks.
I haven’t lost my faith, and I don’t need to draw closer to God. God and I have an understanding. We’re good. I most definitely don’t need people like Roy and Judy to tell me how to live in order to please God when they’re holding onto countless sins of their own.
For example, Judy is a shit disturber who loves to gossip about anyone and anything at the church.
I bet she goes to her women’s meeting this week and tells everyone there how she saw poor Layla Monroe …
“And she’s got so many tattoos now and she’s colored her hair.
She’s lost her faith. Everyone pray for her.
” Then she’ll talk about how I’m working as a server when I was supposed to be a teacher.
I see through her sad existence though. Her false goodness.
Because if her faith was truly her cornerstone, it wouldn’t matter to her where I work, how many tattoos I have or that I’ve drifted away from the church.
It would only matter that I was a good person, which I am, and she would truly care about me, which she doesn’t.
And it’s not like where I work is a dive bar.
The Palm Club is the most upscale boutique restaurant in Harmony, Georgia.
It’s the place people come to eat on a first date, or an anniversary.
Its cozy atmosphere boasts warm brick interior walls, wrought iron tables with live edge wood tops, and accent lighting.
Greenery and twinkle lights cover the ceiling, and the whole place bleeds hip and rustic local hangout.
They also don’t know that teaching was my mother’s dream for me, and that when she died, I figured at that point there was no reason to follow her dreams and instead began to follow my own.
Even if that means exhausting myself just to afford this semester’s tuition, and putting up with the judgy glares from people like Judy and the roaming, hungry eyes of her husband.
I bring them their drinks and force another fake smile as the restaurant becomes busier and the sky outside darkens with clouds.
It’s a typical evening for Harmony in July.
Our town is close to Savannah and the water, which means we don’t go many days without a thunderstorm to cut the humidity in the summer.
Today is certainly no exception. It’s a scorching 103 degrees outside, so I barely even flinch when the loud crack of thunder rocks the large pane-glass windows just after six.
“You need to take that break,” my friend and coworker Chantel reminds me.
Her full pouty red lips turn up in a grin.
She’s got this job down pat after two years here.
She’s teaching me all about choosing clothes that are just revealing enough, yet still classy.
Chantel calls the look “classy fuckable.” And she’s a master at it, with her long blonde tresses hanging down her back in waves, her black pencil skirt, and the white sleeveless blouse that shows just the right amount of cleavage.
It’s a style I’ve tried to emulate tonight, in my black leather skirt and off-the-shoulder white bodysuit with a more open and revealing back.
My thick, wavy hair is a soft shade of copper.
It’s piled into a high ponytail with face-framing bangs and some wisps left out to accentuate my brown eyes, which everyone always tells me are my prettiest feature.
My lips are the perfect shade of crimson and my nails are manicured to match, painted by my own hand to save money I just don’t have.
A fleeting memory of paying upward of a hundred dollars to get my nails done flashes through my mind, but those days are gone.
Now I thrift my looks, and thankfully, Chantel has an incredible collection of heels she lets me borrow to make my legs seem longer than my five-foot-four frame allows.
“I’ll take my break soon. It’s a packed one tonight. I’m alright for now,” I tell her as my drinks order comes up and I grab them with ease.
“Uh-huh,” she mumbles. “You never learn,” she says with a laugh. I’ve only been here since March, when I left the retail job that was making me half the amount in a week as I earn in two shifts here.
“Well, babe, if you aren’t taking yours yet, I’m taking mine. Cover me for a few?” she asks.
I nod, and am just getting ready to deliver table two’s Long Island iced teas when the glass double doors bearing The Palm Club’s logo fly open.
The humidity from outside rushes in—warm air and the smell of rain—but a shiver runs through me as three very wet, very ominous-looking bikers take up the entire entrance.
They’re completely out of place among all the after-work businesspeople and the town’s upper crust, and they wear the colors anyone living in Harmony would recognize: the Hounds of Hell Motorcycle Club.
Anyone here will see dangerous outlaws, but the moment I glimpse their leather and the ink on their skin, all I can think of is my mother’s face the last time I saw her—and the police sketch that’s lived in my head for almost two years.