Page 26 of Playboy’s Purgatory

Opal looks up and sees me coming. The way her lips press together and her mouth turns down, I know she’s just as disappointed in me as everyone else. As am I.

I run my fingers through my hair and sit at the bar in the area where she’s working. I’m not entirely sure where to start and that’s new for me. Opal is two years older than me; I’ve known her my whole life.

We’re friends. I’ve never not known what to say to her.

She sighs and her face softens slightly. Can she see the regret written all over my face?

I’ve been avoiding Lola for days. I’ve been avoiding most people.

What I’ve done is start a certain coloring book for a certain ten-year-old little girl. I think it’s a rather effective use of my time. Certainly, better than how I used to spend my time, like when Lola would whisper her little kernels of bullshit.

“The flowers were beautiful,” Opal throws out there without preamble. Her lips press together for a moment before her mouth relaxes and she leans her forearms onto the bar. She studies my face for a long moment. “It was a real top-level move sending two arrangements. And I looked up the meanings for the flowers and informed Lara while I was there.”

Her eyes sparkle and I know that little tidbit was her way of helping me out. I’ll take whatever assist I can get at this point.

“It’s not enough though,” she tells me straight up. There’s no pity in her voice. Or sympathy.

“I didn’t think it would be,” I admit.

“Then what are you going to do?”

“Excellent fucking question,” I mutter more to myself than to her.

Opal pushes up off the bar and goes back to restocking while I ponder the very question that I’ve been asking myself.

“I think you need to also ask yourself why you’re so invested in this whole redemption quest you seem to be embarking upon,” Opal throws the words toward me.

Then her gaze shifts and her face goes blank. I know exactly why when a hand slides over my shoulder and someone wearing way too much fucking perfume sits down next to me. She keeps a hand on me, like I’m her damn property, the entire time.

It makes my skin crawl.

My jaw clenches but she doesn’t notice. Or she just doesn’t care.

“You’ve been so mopey,” Lola whines, every word dripping with complaint and begging for me to indulge her.

Opal’s eyes flash with disgust, but she keeps working, leaving me to deal with what I’ve allowed to fester in my own damn club. I’m very aware that this is my fault and it’s all because of what I allowed.

I gave Lola all the inches she wanted, and she took every single one with abandon and reveled in the miles she took.

That shit is on me.

I’m grateful when Opal stays close instead of stepping away. I hate to admit it, but I might need some backup, and we don’t put our hands on women.

I shrug Lola off me and give her an icy look. She pouts like we’re fucking playacting or something.

Intimidating men is kind of my bread and butter. But this club whore is looking at me like I’m just being silly and should just give into her. How the fuck was I so blind before?

Now I’m see much more clearly. I’m not liking what is coming into focus at all.

“Is this about Lara?” Lola’s question comes out somewhere between a pout and a whine. It grates against everything in me. She doesn’t see the warning in the way my body goes rigid. “Who cares about her anyway? It’s not like anything she was saying is true.” She scoffs, “And the brat? Please.”

What the actual fuck?

I look at her for a long, suspended moment, just trying to figure out where the hell this woman found the balls to pretend like her lies haven’t been laid out there like a head on a spike for the crows to feast on.

“Are you Vanessa’s biological mother?” I put the question out there bluntly, voice flat.

Lola goes pale. Her reaction is all the answer I need. And that’s only if I didn’t already believe Lara, but I did.