Page 6 of Playboy’s Purgatory

He’ll figure it out. Or he won’t. Either way, my only goal is to get through today without something big happening. Or humiliating.

Vanessa bounces into the kitchen and I can practically feel the excitement radiating from her. It puts a smile on my face even as dread curls in my stomach. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have agreed to go to this family day at the club.

I’ve been refusing everyone’s invitations for a while. I won’t go to the club. I don’t frequent club owned businesses. I don’t refuse customers when they walk through the door of Bunz Out just because of their connection to the club. Also, I don’t ignore my friends, even if they’re in love with one of the SOMC bikers.

Those friends are the same ones I have to blame for today and Vanessa’s excitement. If they hadn’t oh so casually mentioned the BBQ to Vanessa, I could have pretended I never knew about it.

Instead, I got puppy dog eyes turned on me along with a big pouting lower lip.

I’ve never been able to say no to Vanessa.

Damn it.

My daughter would have been so disappointed if I told her we couldn’t go. So, here I am, packing up the cookies which have already cooled while mentally building a wall around my feelings and heart. I won’t allow that asshole to be able to touch the softest part of me.

I only hope he knows Vanessa is off limits when it comes to his ire. I have no issue defending myself, I do it well. But when it comes to my daughter, I’m even fiercer. She deserves nothing less.

“How many kinds of cookies did you make?” Vanessa asks the question while eyeing the boxes I’ve started to put together.

“Enough,” I force the word out and hope it doesn’t wobble the way my insides feel like they are. “Hopefully I managed at least one kind everyone likes.”

Vanessa giggles, her blue eyes sparkling. “As long as you have mine,” she sing-songs, but I can hear the slight warning.

I shoot her a look and her smile widens. She knows I always make her favorite—red velvet with white chocolate chips. If I don’t watch her, she’ll eat a dozen of them.

When she reaches for the container with her favorites inside, I click my tongue. “No way, missy-moo. Hands off.”

Her little lower lip pops out, and she widens her eyes as she tries to look innocent. I only purse my lips; she knows her little innocent act doesn’t work on me. I’m immune. For the most part.

When I glance at her, I try one more time to talk her out of going today. “You know there aren’t going to be other kids there, not really. There aren’t a lot of families from what Graycie has said,” I remind her.

“I don’t need kids there to be entertained,” she shoots back, her voice containing an edge of sass.

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, but I don’t say anything. Am I already imagining us leaving early because she’s bored? Yes.

A thoughtful look crosses her face before she muses, “Should I take a game? Or a deck of cards?”

Damn it.

“If you want,” I offer. “I don’t think it would be a bad idea.” I add the words on, needing to encourage her looking for a solution, even if I don’t necessarily want to encourage her to find ways for us to stay at the BBQ longer than necessary.

“Consider it done.” She gives me a decisive nod and then flounces off to do her own bidding.

I almost snigger when I think about bikers using the deck of cards with all the princesses which I bought when we first moved into our new place. They better not complain. Or else they’ll be answering to me.

Warmth fills me as I look around our apartment. It’s not huge, but it’s big enough for us. The commute can’t be beat either. The best thing about living above my bakery is that I can be down in the kitchen early in the morning while knowing Vanessa is safe just one floor above me. I made sure we had a good security system too, just in case.

Our home is cozy with a plush couch where we have movie nights. The kitchen table is probably a little too big for the space, but Vanessa uses every inch when she’s painting or doing homework. Every wall has pictures of some of our sweetest memories.

My gaze snags on our first picture. She was just minutes old and in my arms. I’m looking at her with understanding, resolve, and love. I knew, in that moment, I would do anything to keep her safe.

It was naïve of me to think I’d ever have to fight Lola for her. Part of me thought she’d have some maternal instinct that would kick in. It didn’t throughout her entire pregnancy, but maybe when faced with the reality of her daughter?

It never kicked in. Even now, ten years later, it hasn’t. I’ve given up hoping for it.

Honestly, I shouldn’t have held out hope even on the day Vanessa was born. Not when I had to go through Lola’s room more than once to find her stashed liquor bottles during the pregnancy. It was a miracle when Vanessa was born healthy except for being a little underweight.

I’d do it all over again for my daughter. She became mine during sleepless nights, fevers, and hushed one-sided conversations about my dreams for our future.