Page 14 of Playboy’s Purgatory

“Lola was never unloved,” I focus back on Playboy, making sure he’s listening to every word I say. “She was the one who got most of mom and dad’s attention, at least at first. She stole every birthday present I was given starting from my sixth birthday until I turned fourteen and she was brought home by police for the first time.” I click my tongue and shake my head, muttering, “She turned on the tears perfectly back then too.”

Playboy’s eyes widen slightly and I can see the cracks starting to form in his resolve, but I know it’s going to take a lot more for him to believe me. At this point, I don’t even care if he honestly believes me. I just need him to stop saying shit to me which comes from a place of misinformation because the barbs still land.

“Everyone thought she was so sweet. It was an act she put on whenever it suited her, whenever adults were around. In private, she was vicious and always went for the most vulnerable place to maximize impact and pain. Then she would twist the situation around, giving just enough truth to allow people could buy in to her words without needing the proof.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly while I deftly ignore the eyes boring into me. Everything in me hates this. But I’m also done hiding from the truth. Keeping my mouth shut hasn’t done a damn thing for me up to this point.

Who have I really been protecting anyway?

“When she was caught stealing at 14 for the first time, the police brought her home thinking my parents would be able to discipline her. It didn’t help. She didn’t care what punishment was given and kept doing whatever she wanted to do. She started drinking and then the drugs started. The people she hung around with encouraged her behavior. They egged her on, gave her drugs, told her how special she is while denigrating our home, our parents, and me.”

The thought of Vanessa being in the same situations Lola put herself in, willingly, has my heart clenching. I glance at her and know the pain of it is written all over my face.

My voice goes soft as I look at my daughter, one I had no choice but to claim the moment I saw her. “My parents enabled her and I didn’t understand it then. Now, I get it a little bit. They loved her and they didn’t know what to do or how to help her.” I shake my head slightly and look back at Playboy. “I never took anything away from her. I never competed with her. I never pulled people onto my side as if our lives are some game where winner takes all.”

Something shifts on Playboy’s face and it’s like watching a death rattle. He’s trying to fiercely hold onto a lie. It’ll become smoke between his fingers.

“The people she was hanging around with were all older and preyed on her. Nothing was going to stop her. My parents tried and they agonized over her.”

I remember hearing them crying, but I never went to them. It was too raw and her actions made me feel unsafe. What if those people showed up at the house? What if they tracked me down because of something she said to them?

It wouldn’t have been the first time something like that happened. She learned that manipulating guys kept her hands clean.

After clearing my throat, I push down the memories from that time in my life. “She never had the chance to steal another birthday present after that year because I never got another one. Our parents were afraid of Lola taking it personally.” With a slow shake of my head, I answer the question written on more than one face. “If there was something I needed or asked for, I got it. But I didn’t get another gift wrapped for my birthday.” I shrug one shoulder, my words turning casual in a way which has people shifting from one foot to the other, “Lola would have stolen or broken it anyway, so I understood.”

“We run background checks on everyone.” Playboy grasps onto the words like a lifeline. As if they mean something.

“I’m sure you do,” I agree with a nod. “What’s that got to do with what I’m telling you?”

“If she was running with that kind of crew, something would have popped up,” he reasons.

I arch an eyebrow. “How comprehensive is the background check you run on a woman you only think of as,” I pause because what I want to say is a hole but can’t, “protected entertainment?” Before he can answer, I wave a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Lola learned that if she uses boys and men to do her bidding, she can keep her hands clean. She has no record as an adult. Sealed juvenile records?”

I let the unsaid words hang there. I’m curious about what face Whiskey is making since I know he’s the tech guy around here. But I don’t look for him. We haven’t interacted much anyway.

The insinuation that she’s done it again by manipulating a certain leather wrapped biker starts to slink through the air like mist. I don’t need to say it.

Fuck, I want to. It’s difficult to hold myself back. I manage it; fucking barely.

“I can’t tell you if everything she told you is a lie,” I admit because trying to say otherwise isn’t going to help in this situation. “Some of it might not have been. But if she painted herself as the victim with me as the villain, then I can say with absolute certainty that it’s the other way around.”

His eyebrows pull together and he scoffs in such a way that it reminds me of a man dangling by his fingernails on a cliff’s edge. “Of course you’d say that. Now it’s just a she said-she said thing.”

“Don’t slap him,” I mutter softly to myself, and I swear I hear Vanessa snort out a laugh. One corner of my mouth twitches. “I can prove it, if you want me to. I’m not sure what would be enough. Court documents? Screenshots I kept because there were moments when I thought no one would believe me? A phone call with my parents? They eventually stopped enabling her, but it took years and a lot of pain before that happened. A lot of rehab and therapy too. Bills for those could be produced. They have a whole file,” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

I completely fail.

Someone in the crowd stiffens, but I don’t pay them any attention.

“What about why you got pregnant with Vanessa?” He says it like his words are a trump card. A whole lot of panache without a hint of merit.

Honestly, for a good twelve seconds, I have no idea what his words mean. Then a dawning horror starts to move through me from the tips of my toes to the end of every strand of my hair.

My words are slow and measured, my voice containing something closer to feral than I’d like, “What do you mean ‘why I got pregnant with Vanessa’?” I point a finger to my own chest, unwilling to only take a verbal confirmation. “Me?”

His face screws up with a face somewhere between are you unwell and I’ve sucked on a lemon. I’ll be honest, it’s not a good look on him.

When I glance back over to where Lola was sprawled out like a cat about to go into heat only moments ago, she’s gone. Of course she is.