I’ve been broke. I’ve been lonely. I’ve been left.
I can handle a clubhouse.
At least that’s what I’m hoping when I ask again. “Please.”
Lottie exhales like she’s losing an argument with herself. “Fine. But you stick with me. You don’t wander. You don’t drink like you’re trying to forget what’s-his-name.”
“I won’t,” I lie immediately.
Getting ready with Lottie feels like a ritual I wasn’t raised for but somehow understand. She tosses me a black tank top and a denim skirt that’s shorter than anything I own.
“You don’t dress like you’re going to church,” she says. “You dress like you know someone’s going to look.”
I borrow her eyeliner. She braids my hair loose and messy, then steps back with a small smile.
I know what she sees.
I’m not tall like her, not built like a brick wall with a mean right hook. I’m five foot five on a good day, with legs that got strong from waitressing double shifts and hauling boxes at the pawn shop. I’ve got hips that don’t lie, and a waist that only looks small because I work too much to sit still long enough to snack.
My hair’s honey blonde, the kind that darkens at the roots because I can’t afford salon upkeep every six weeks. It falls past my shoulders in loose waves that never do exactly what I want, like it’s got its own opinions and wants to tell the world.
Just like everyone around here.
My eyes are blue. Not icy, not dramatic. Just plain.
I don’t wear much makeup most days. I can’t justify wasting it on mopping floors and pricing used chainsaws. But tonight I’ve got mascara thick enough to matter and lip gloss that shines when I press my mouth together. The tank top fitsa little tighter than it should. The skirt shows more thigh than I usually let anyone see.
“You look dangerous,” Lottie says.
My stomach flips. “In a good way?”
“In a way men get stupid about.”
The Lockup smells like smoke and whiskey, like sweat soaked into wood over decades. Music rattles the walls. Laughter cuts through like everybody in here knows everybody else’s sins and keeps them close.
I stick close to Lottie at first. I really do.
Then somebody hands me a drink.
Then another.
Then Holler laughs and slings an arm around Lottie and tells me I’m safe here.
Then the music gets louder and my fear gets quieter.
Somewhere in the blur, I see him.
I don’t know his name yet. I just know the way he leans against the wall like the building belongs to him. Like everything in it does. He’s older. Not old. Just grown in a way men my age ain’t yet. Muscular shoulders. Light brown beard going gray at the edges. Wedding ring flashing when he lifts his beer.
Married.
That should stop the thought.
It doesn’t.
I hate that it doesn’t.
I don’t talk to him. He doesn’t talk to me. But once, just once, his eyes slide my way, and it feels like getting caught doing something I’ll never confess to.
