“Who are you?”
“Everyone calls me Hot Mama. You don’t remember a damn thing, do you?” She shakes her head and grabs me by my cheeks, looking me over. “You’ve been through it, baby, but don’t worry. We’re gonna straighten your crown.”
“My what?”
“Get cleaned up and meet me in the kitchen. There aren’t any free rides here.”
Confusion clouds my thoughts. I stare at the bandages wrapped around each of my wrists. The last thing I remember is running into the trees outside of Kings of Anarchy MC’s clubhouse. Tyrant’s ugly words come crashing back into me with full force.
Anger and sadness burns through my veins. I should have killed him for what he said. For touching me. My bladder aches and I stumble getting out of the bed. My feet hit the worn wooden floor. I glance down at the socks covering my feet that have little white dots on the bottoms that grip the floor. There’s a bandage and tape biting into the crook of my elbow.
Everything feels strange. I lick my teeth, hating the fuzzy texture. I find my way into the bathroom and nearly cry with relief when I empty my bladder. I glance down at the hospitalgown I’m wearing, but this doesn’t look like any hospital I’ve ever seen.
Hot Mama. I roll the name on my tongue. Is this the place Hector told me about? It all sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t hold on to a thought for nothing. I’m groggy and feel like I’ve been run over.
“Clothes are on the bed,” Hot Mama calls from another room. It takes me longer than it should to get changed into the sweatpants and tee shirt.
“Get your finger out of your ass. I called like I said I would. How the hell would I know? She just opened her eyelids. Yeah. Right. No. Mhmm. Heard that before.” I try to follow the conversation, but I have zero clue what she’s talking about other than the fact that I’m awake.
I trudge down the hallway and find this kooky woman in the kitchen pouring a shot of liquor into her coffee. “How do you take yours?” she questions without looking at me.
“Cream and sugar.”
She grunts and twists the cap back on the liquor bottle. “Cream is in the fridge. Might want to give it the sniff test.”
I dig a mug out of the cabinet and pour myself a coffee, then take a tentative sip. I nearly gag. “Damn, that’s strong.” Hot Mama watches me over the rim of her cup, her eyes sharp as nails. I know a test when I see one, so I drink another mouthful and force a smile. “Tastes like you boiled it in motor oil.”
“You got jokes,” she says, and her smile is tight and lopsided. I sense she’s not someone you bullshit, so I keep my mouth shut while I stir in a questionable glop of creamer and some sugar.
I wince at the pain that radiates through my wrists when I try to put the creamer back in the fridge. It’s like someone took a blowtorch to my nerves. The first sip burned all the way down to my stomach, but the next one is sweet and warm.
“Tablets are on the counter. You’re supposed to take one every few hours. Won’t make the hurt go away, but it’ll help.”
I stare at the orange prescription bottle and hesitate. I still can’t decide if I want to survive another day.
Hot Mama snorts. “You gonna pout or are you planning to eat something? There’s donuts in the tin.”
I try a donut. It tastes like chalk, but I force it down.
She nods in approval. “If you’ve got questions, now is the time to spit them out. I’ve got shit to do.”
I’ve got plenty, but am smart enough not to ask some of them.
I squint at her and try to figure out if she’s for real. “You running a halfway house or something?”
“Not exactly.” She thumps her mug down on the Formica. “A place for girls like you,” she tells me, then shrugs. “Well, not just girls. Anyone running from the wrong people.”
“So I’m in another club’s house?”
“We’re not running guns or whores or any of that shit anymore. That’s old-school. These days I run a half-assed rehab. Keeps noses clean. The fuck do you think you're doing here?"
“What am I supposed to do here?”
“You want a bed and food, you’ve gotta put in hours. If you think you’ll just sit around and pet the damn cats, you can tell Big Daddy or Hector, whichever you answer to, why I let you starve.” She grins at me as she ashes her cigarette into the sink.
Hector. My skin goes clammy at the mention of his name.
“How do you know him?”
