Page 11 of Playboy’s Purgatory

I tentatively sat down next to her and reached out to steady her when she swayed slightly. My voice was filled with concern, “What anniversary?”

Lola was quiet for a long time. She just stared down at the bottle of whiskey in her hand. I wasn’t prepared.

“Today’s the day I found out that the likelihood I’ll ever get pregnant naturally is extremely low,” she murmured the words softly and I had to strain to hear them.

My eyebrows slammed together and a mixture of feelings I couldn’t decipher filled me. Her movements were slow and unsure as she looked up at me.

“I had always wanted to be a mom,” her voice was flat, like she was simply stating a fact that didn’t have anything to do with her. “That day, I gave up on my dream. It wasn’t easy to hear; I was far too young to deal with something that changed my entire life.”

“I’m sorry,” the words felt hollow and completely underwhelming.

They were all I had.

Lola’s gaze shifted as she nodded like my words were ones she’d heard before, far too many times before. She stared into space looking hollowed out.

“Lara got pregnant with Vanessa within two months like she had something to prove. Again.” Her mouth tipped down in a frown. “She had just graduated from high school, but she wanted the impact of it.”

I froze in place, my brain unable to process Lola’s words. Unable to believe someone would get pregnant just to be cruel.

My question was filled with dread, “What do you mean?”

“The day she gave birth,” her voice drifted through the room without a breeze to carry it, “when Mom and Dad stepped out to call everyone and get Lara something to eat that she was craving after being in labor for hours, I found out the truth.” She swallowed hard, her eyes filled with something like grief. “She was cradling Vanessa in her arms, a soft smile on her face, but her words were vicious. ‘This is just another thing you’ll never have. It was so easy for me.’” She said the last part as if she was speaking from the past and hearing the echoes of her sister’s cruelty.

I didn’t know what to do. When she reached for me and curled up against my chest, I didn’t push her away. Her tears were soaking my shirt even though she cried silently.

The last thing I was willing to do was add to the cruelty she’d already endured. Eventually, her tears stopped and she shuddered against my chest, my arms only loosely wrapped around her. I didn’t offer any more comfort, not wanting to cross a line without realizing it.

Because the last thing I’ve ever wanted was Lola in my bed.

Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke again, “I thought I would escape it being in my face all the time when I moved here. Then she followed me.”

She sounded so fucking helpless and lost. I had no idea what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.

I didn’t offer her empty, placating words. I didn’t sympathize. I just stayed.

We haven’t talked about it since then, but I’ve watched more closely. The way Lola looks away whenever Vanessa is anywhere near her. The little attempts Lola has made to show Lara and everyone else that she’s got someone backing her now.

As I’ve had the chance to think about it more, the more I’ve burned with anger on Lola’s behalf. I’m filled disbelief that the same woman who tormented her sister is so well liked around town.

People think she is brave for being a single mother. No one has questioned why she had a child so young.

People were impressed that she opened her business. They rave about the bakery and everything she makes. That hype, at least, is valid.

She thinks she’s untouchable. It pisses me off.

So does the way she looks at me.

It’s a damn good thing the last thing I care about is how she feels about me. She doesn’t hide it.

The way she tries to always make it seem like I’m listening to the wrong person and don’t have all the information is such a classic manipulation tactic. I’ve seen the way my brothers look at me when I’m unwilling to let Lara off the hook and poke at her instead. They don’t get it; they haven’t heard about the things she’s done.

Just because Lola is a club whore doesn’t mean she isn’t telling the truth.

“Playboy,” Scratch gives my shoulder a shove and I look up him. He’s looking at me with concern in his eyes, and I have to wonder if this is the first time he’s called my name. “You good, man?”

“Oh, yeah,” I brush him off. “I’m good. Just tired.”

He lets out a low chuckle, but the smile slides off his face when he looks up and sees Lola coming back in our direction. The moment she sits down, she slides a beer into my hand with her lips in a pout and grievance written all over her face.