CHAPTER 7
LARA
I look up when the door of Bunz Out opens. And I freeze in place. Because the sight in front of me deserves such a reaction.
Opal is wearing a bright red dress with white hearts. That would be normal enough, I suppose. It’s the angel wings that really give the whole outfit choice a strange, quirky kick.
“What on Earth are you wearing?”
Opal does a little spin, her hair flaring out around her while making her wings flutter slightly.
I clap while teasing her, “That little spin does not answer my question.”
“Duh,” she strikes a pose, “I’m cupid.”
My eyebrows pull together as I look at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a diaper?”
“Listen,” her voice drops, “that was not going to happen. This was about as festive as it was going to get. Especially since I’m only here to deliver something.”
I laugh softly while holding my hands up. “If it’s more flowers, I’m good. Really. They were nice and Vanessa is obsessed, but no more.”
“No flowers this time,” she promises with a twinkle in her eye.
Opal prances toward the counter, spinning and kind of leaping—if I’m being generous—while making kissing noises. My face scrunches up and I take a big step back.
I could easily slip into the kitchen and avoid all of this. I’m trying to run a damn business here.
Now there’s a live show?
The cackle that comes from a table has me shooting Lorraine Martin an apologetic look. Given that she’s Ryker’s grandmother and has watched Opal, and all the former club kids, grow up, means she’s used to the shenanigans. I’ve heard plenty of stories since moving to Dogwood Ridge.
Playboy was at the center of more than a few of them.
I violently push the thought away. Because I am not thinking about him.
Opal gently places an envelope on the counter like it’s spun gold. I look at it like it’s a fucking bomb.
Lorraine pipes up from the corner, nosey as all get out while her voice stays sweet, “Is that boy finally making up for all the shit he’s been stirring up?”
She doesn’t need to specify who she’s talking about. We all know.
When Opal grins and nods her head enthusiastically, Lorraine just nods sagely. You would think she orchestrated the entire thing.
She didn’t.
“He sent both ladies of the house,” Opal puts on a fake posh accent, “stunning flower arrangements.”
Lorraine scoffs, “He’s gotta know flowers won’t be enough for the mess he’s in.” I nod and give her a look of appreciation because she’s only saying the truth. “But he is a good boy,” she shrugs in a way which is far too indulgent for the woman I know her to be.
Lorraine strikes fear in most of the town. Not because she’s mean or cruel, but because she’s strict. She rarely gives people second chances and has a strong sense of right and wrong. Then there’s how she doesn’t give a fuck.
It’s impressive. I kind of want to be her when I grow up.
Even though I’m desperately trying to ignore its very existence, my gaze keeps darting back to the envelope.
My name is written on the front in a neat, unhurried script. Looking at it makes my heart pound in my chest.
When I look up, Opal is giving me an encouraging smile. It has me narrowing my eyes at her.
“Why are you helping him, traitor?” There’s no real heat in my accusation and Opal’s smile only widens in response.
“Well, I had front row seats to him shutting Lola all the way down while threatening her place in the club, as well as reminding her that he’s never wanted her,” her voice is filled with glee.
“What?” I breathe the question out.
“From the way he said it, I don’t think he ever touched her,” Opal’s voice drops conspiratorially. “He said he never wanted her and only felt sorry for her because she reminded him of his mother.”
My eyes widen, but I force myself not to let my heart soften or to feel the vindicated satisfaction starting to creep in. It would be far too easy to give into such a feeling.
There were so many times while growing up when Lola twisted the story in just a way to make me the villain and the scapegoat all at the same time. She was a master at turning people against me.
It didn’t matter how many times I told the truth. She manipulated them and played her part perfectly. Then she’d always come out on top.
A twisted part of me wishes I could have seen her face when Playboy told her he didn’t want her. I’m not entirely sure he never touched her, but it’s not any of my business.
The thought of him not being with her, not crossing that line, is too fucking tempting. Wanting to believe it doesn’t make it true.
I’m not going to let it matter to me one way or the other.
Sure, keep telling yourself lies.
“He also told her,” the way her voice trills with excitement sets my teeth on edge, “that he wanted you the moment he saw you even though he treated you horribly out of some twisted sense of obligation.”
“No, he didn’t,” I blurt out the denial before I can stop myself.
Opal purses her lips together. “I had a front row seat to the whole scene. If only I had some popcorn,” her tone turns wistful.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, are you going to open the letter that poor boy poured his heart into or not?
” Lorraine poses it as a question, but it sounds more like a demand.
She mutters under her breath, clearly agitated, “In my day, letters meant something. It was an art and it was respected. People don’t understand how special it is these days.
I’m liable to wake up one day and find the entire postal service closed down as if it isn’t a national institution worthy of respect. ”
“Poor boy?” I shoot her a bewildered expression, knowing she said a whole lot more but only able to latch onto one thing.
She gives me a droll look and looks back at the envelope. Waiting.
With a heavy sigh, I open the envelope and pull out the paper inside. Then I can’t look away.
Lara,
I’m sorry for the horrible way I treated you. I should have never listened to a viper, but I did. I can’t erase it, but I can apologize for it and try to make it right.
I’ll be honest, I’m not entirely sure how to do that. Where do you even start in this kind of situation?
First, I owe you an explanation.
My mother was a club whore. She only wanted to trap a patched member; the one she happened to get pregnant by was my dad. Dad never claimed her and she never got a patch.
I don’t think that getting a patch would have changed the outcome all that much, unfortunately. She had her own issues, and she was more interested in getting high than being a mother. I never knew her but heard plenty of stories. There weren’t many that were complimentary.
While I was growing up in the club, I saw the way club whores were treated.
Not bad, necessarily. They’re safe and they make the choice to be here.
Still, they weren’t Old Ladies. The more I watched, the more I wondered what kind of person my mother was; if she was a victim of circumstances or if circumstances made her a victim to both her choices and her addiction.
I’m starting to figure out that I might never answer those questions about her.
Maybe that’s okay? I’m not really sure.
I’m not telling you this to gain your sympathy. I just need you to know there is a reason behind me wanting to believe Lola and her manipulations.
I might not have known her, but I got an impression of my mother from all the stories. When I met Lola, she reminded me of my mother. Because of that, I never touched Lola.
It wasn’t a fair comparison, to either person, but I’m screwed up and trying my best. I didn’t see it then, but I’m starting to see it now. Too little, too late definitely comes to mind.
But I’m trying here.
Maybe that’s not enough. It probably shouldn’t be, honestly.
I’m just hoping maybe your heart can soften just a little for me with my whole sad roots story.
It has screwed me up for a long time.
That does not make my behavior or my words okay. They weren’t. I was cruel. I was mean. I tried to always find the softest place to land the hit.
I’m sorry I allowed my past to blind me. The worst part is I’m not sure I was blind the entire time. Because I didn’t just take everything that she said as gospel. I watched you and the way people interacted with you, turning toward you like you are sunlight incarnate.
Then I twisted what I saw with my own eyes to fit the narrative which was easiest for me to swallow. Because I wanted to. I didn’t want to think too hard or ask too many questions.
That’s on me.
I felt like I owed something to Lola. To my mom, really.
It’s not an excuse and it doesn’t change a damn thing, but I’m trying to figure it the fuck out and learn to be better.
There’s not much I’m all that good at. I’m a damn good enforcer for the club. I’m a good brother. I take care of my family and what’s mine.
The thing I do best is tattooing.
My art has gotten me through the darkest days of my life and helped me find some sort of hope. Since I don’t know what you like or what I can do for you, one thing I know I can offer and deliver on is a tattoo.
You can get anything you want. Whatever size you want. Wherever you want it.
Maybe it’s not something you’d like? Do you have any tattoos? Would you even want one if you don’t have one?
I have no idea. I’ve spent so fucking long looking at you through a skewed lens, but I have no idea who you really are. Not really. Nothing beyond the surface things I’ve picked up and can’t be ignored.
Like the way you love Vanessa.
A tattoo isn’t much, not really in the grand scheme of things. But it’s something I can offer that’s part of me and something I can do really well. At the end of the day—cake eating aside—tattooing is all I really have.
Even the club was handed to me by being a legacy kid. I could have chosen a different path, but the one I was on wasn’t difficult to walk either. And they helped me pursue my dreams with my own shop and they’re always there to support me.
If getting a tattoo isn’t something you want, how else can I support you?
Please. Let me make this right. Not for me. For you.
J