Page 16 of Playboy’s Purgatory

“If she’s Lola’s daughter, how do you have her?” Playboy winces as he asks the question which I’m sure more than a few people are curious to know the answer to.

When I shoot him a look, his expression turns sheepish. As it should. The man should be looking for a shovel considering he’s the one digging his own grave right now.

“I was the second person to ever hold Vanessa; our mom was the first. Lola never held her,” my words are steady even though I feel the impact of them reverberate through me. “The morning she was being discharged, we showed up to take her home. Lola was gone. We didn’t see her again for two years. I spent that time going to culinary school and auditing business classes while caring for Vanessa. My parents helped, of course, but from the morning Lola disappeared, Vanessa was mine.” I look at my daughter and smile softly. “Really, from the moment I held her, she was mine.”

The silence in the room is absolute. When I turn toward Playboy, I watch, in real time, as he tries to reconcile what I’m telling him, what Vanessa already said would be true, and all the lies Lola fed him. There’s no doubt in my mind that she dripped poison in his ear little by little.

That’s on her.

But he believed her; that’s on him.

“I made it all legal. I finalized the adoption with the support of our parents.” I swallow hard past the lump in my throat that always forms when I think of that time. This shouldn’t hurt, but it does. “I never lied to Vanessa about who she is or who I am to her, legally and biologically.”

“She’s Lola’s daughter,” Playboy says it softly, more to himself than me.

“No,” my voice is firm and echoes like a gunshot. When he looks at me, his eyebrows pull together and I shake my head slowly. “She’s my daughter. Lola was pregnant with Vanessa and gave birth to her. I’ll never try and take that away from Lola. But Vanessa is my daughter. I’ve raised her.” I pause, a challenge ringing out in my voice as I add, “I have all of the paperwork to back me up, if you don’t believe me.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ryker’s voice is absolute and filled with steel.

I glance toward him to find him looking at me with a new kind of respect. I’m not sure what it means, but I give him a small smile of acknowledgement either way.

My hands are shaking and I curl them into fists to try and hide it. I’m not sure it helps much.

When I turn back to Playboy, he’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before. Really, he hasn’t.

For so long he’s been looking at me like I’m the enemy. His version of me was tainted by Lola. I wish it didn’t sting; it shouldn’t.

“When Vanessa was born, I was 17 years old. I had never had a boyfriend because every guy who showed any interest in me was manipulated by Lola.” I give him a flat look, hoping the true depth and meaning of my words sink in. I watch the realization dawn on him, like the sun breaking over the horizon line. If only I could laugh at the look on his face right now, but it’s far from amusing. It’s crushing. “I didn’t know anything about babies. I didn’t know I could love someone as much as I loved her the moment she was put in my arms. I didn’t know I could survive on such little sleep. I didn’t know hearing babies cry, no matter where I was, would send me into a panic. I became a mother out of necessity and love; I learned how to do it all even if I never did it perfectly.”

“Perfect for me,” Vanessa’s voice is soft, a gentle reminder of how we’ve found our footing together.

Necessary, yes. But no less profound because of it.

Anguish washes over Playboy’s features. He opens his mouth, but I hold up my hand. His mouth closes and his jaw clenches.

“Don’t.” I close my eyes, fighting against the seductive temptation to fall apart. “Don’t even think about apologizing to me because I can read the horror on your face. Now you think maybe you fucked up on this one.” I give him a droll look, and I swear the tips of his ears turn pink. “Let me assure you, you did. I warned you, but you kept sipping poison while telling yourself it was honey. That’s on you. I don’t want your apologies because you didn’t hesitate to judge me and decide you knew the whole story. She knew just how to manipulate you; believing her is on you too. Don’t involve me in your bullshit anymore. No more snide comments,” my words land like a warning.

Playboy swallows hard and nods. I glance around, making sure I’m not the only one seeing this. I’m not. Most people are looking at me with pride. If only that was enough.

“No more jeering insults,” I keep going, laying my demands at his feet. He nods and I breathe a little easier. “I don’t want to hear your voice, I don’t want to even see you,” my eyes narrow at him, wanting him to understand just how serious I am.

“I hate confrontation,” I mutter to myself and look at the floor while rubbing my forehead. “Fuck,” I curse under my breath.

When I look back up at Playboy, for a moment I think he’s going to reach for me. I take a step back without even thinking about it.

“As much as I want to take Vanessa and leave right now, I’m so pissed and so close to losing the last bit of control I have preventing me from strangling my sister and then you, I can’t drive,” my voice comes out far whinier than I want it to, but I’m past caring.

I’m past being done.

My stomach is in knots, and my entire body feels too damn hot. It feels like I could literally lift off the ground and launch into orbit using my anger and hurt as fuel.

Rumble, in all his gruff glory, steps in next to me. He gives me a soft smile before shooting a murderous glare at his son. “I figured beer would be out of the question now. How about lemonade,” he offers me a glass, and I take it with a grateful look on my face.

I drink most of the glass without stopping, breathing, or looking around. “Thank you,” I whisper to him before turning toward Vanessa. My eyes fill with unshed tears as I choke out, “I’m sorry I just told everyone that, are you okay?”

Her smile is bright and filled with ten years of memories, ones only she and I have. There’s a weight to her words, an importance, “I’m okay, Mama. It’s all just facts to me and facts can’t hurt you,” she uses my own words on me. How many times have I said the same thing to her? “You never hid anything from me, and you were always honest about who you are, while loving me and giving me a home.”

My shoulders relax a little more. She’s okay. Her wounds aren’t raw like mine.