Page 30 of Playboy’s Purgatory

“Listen,” her voice drops, “that was not going to happen. This was about as festive as it was going to get. Especially since I’m only here to deliver something.”

I laugh softly while holding my hands up. “If it’s more flowers, I’m good. Really. They were nice and Vanessa is obsessed, but no more.”

“No flowers this time,” she promises with a twinkle in her eye.

Opal prances toward the counter, spinning and kind of leaping—if I’m being generous—while making kissing noises. My face scrunches up and I take a big step back.

I could easily slip into the kitchen and avoid all of this. I’m trying to run a damn business here.

Now there’s a live show?

The cackle that comes from a table has me shooting Lorraine Martin an apologetic look. Given that she’s Ryker’s grandmother and has watched Opal, and all the former club kids, grow up, means she’s used to the shenanigans. I’ve heard plenty of stories since moving to Dogwood Ridge.

Playboy was at the center of more than a few of them.

I violently push the thought away. Because I am not thinking about him.

Opal gently places an envelope on the counter like it’s spun gold. I look at it like it’s a fucking bomb.

Lorraine pipes up from the corner, nosey as all get out while her voice stays sweet, “Is that boy finally making up for all the shit he’s been stirring up?”

She doesn’t need to specify who she’s talking about. We all know.

When Opal grins and nods her head enthusiastically, Lorraine just nods sagely. You would think she orchestrated the entire thing.

She didn’t.

“He sent both ladies of the house,” Opal puts on a fake posh accent, “stunning flower arrangements.”

Lorraine scoffs, “He’s gotta know flowers won’t be enough for the mess he’s in.” I nod and give her a look of appreciation because she’s only saying the truth. “But he is a good boy,” she shrugs in a way which is far too indulgent for the woman I know her to be.

Lorraine strikes fear in most of the town. Not because she’s mean or cruel, but because she’s strict. She rarely gives people second chances and has a strong sense of right and wrong. Then there’s how she doesn’t give a fuck.

It’s impressive. I kind of want to be her when I grow up.

Even though I’m desperately trying to ignore its very existence, my gaze keeps darting back to the envelope.

My name is written on the front in a neat, unhurried script. Looking at it makes my heart pound in my chest.

When I look up, Opal is giving me an encouraging smile. It has me narrowing my eyes at her.

“Why are you helping him, traitor?” There’s no real heat in my accusation and Opal’s smile only widens in response.

“Well, I had front row seats to him shutting Lola all the way down while threatening her place in the club, as well as reminding her that he’s never wanted her,” her voice is filled with glee.

“What?” I breathe the question out.

“From the way he said it, I don’t think he ever touched her,” Opal’s voice drops conspiratorially. “He said he never wanted her and only felt sorry for her because she reminded him of his mother.”

My eyes widen, but I force myself not to let my heart soften or to feel the vindicated satisfaction starting to creep in. It would be far too easy to give into such a feeling.

There were so many times while growing up when Lola twisted the story in just a way to make me the villain and the scapegoat all at the same time. She was a master at turning people against me.

It didn’t matter how many times I told the truth. She manipulated them and played her part perfectly. Then she’d always come out on top.

A twisted part of me wishes I could have seen her face when Playboy told her he didn’t want her. I’m not entirely sure he never touched her, but it’s not any of my business.

The thought of him not being with her, not crossing that line, is too fucking tempting. Wanting to believe it doesn’t make it true.