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“Uh, no.”
She blows out a breath. “I grew up around an MC. It’s common. Lost Kings owned CB long before I came into the picture. I know it’s run a lot cleaner than it was before Rock was president—if that’s a concern.”
“Not exactly.”
Finally she seems to find some sympathy for me. “I understand why it’s intimidating.” She shifts, and absently slides her hand over her hip. “Wrath probably hasn’t worked there regularly since before we met, so unless we’re forced to go there for an event or something, I try not to think about the place. The girls aren’t always the nicest.”
“No kidding,” I mutter. “What do you mean forced?”
“Nothing sinister.” She rolls her eyes. “Like, we have our holiday parties there, sometimes. Or other club-related events. We’ll go to show our support for the club.”
“Oh.” I guess if I replace strip club with bar or restaurant, it’s not that much different from owning any other business.
“Does the strip club bother you that much?” she asks.
I sense the real question she wants to ask—is Crystal Ball what broke you up?
“Not really.”
“Willow said you handled yourself well when you visited.”
“She did?” I can’t keep the shock out of my voice. “Wow, you guys talk about everything, huh?”
She mimes bringing a phone to her ear. “The LOKI gossip hotline at work.”
I chuckle and want to hug her for taking my mind off this awful situation. Just having her here to talk with has helped so much.
“Look, if you have questions about the MC, you can always ask me.” She shifts her gaze to Libby, then back to me. “In private. Call me, stop by my studio, whatever.”
“I’m not sure it’ll be a problem anymore,” I mutter. “But thanks. Hey, do you do senior portraits too?”
“Sure. I’ve done a few.”
My obvious attempt at changing the subject sort of kills the conversation. We fall silent again.
A nurse comes in to prod at Libby who grumbles about the interruption of her sleep. I can’t help smiling—that has to be a good sign.
After she leaves, I turn toward Trinity. “The cops came by to ask questions last night. I’m worried now that Libby’s more with it, they’re going to return,” I say in a low voice that hopefully doesn’t disturb Libby.
Her eyes widen. “Damn.” She grabs her purse and searches through it. “Hope’s out this way for court today. I’m going to ask her to stop by.”
“No. You don’t have to do that. That’s not why I mentioned it. I don’t want to…” I don’t bother finishing the thought. Trinity’s already sending a text.
“She won’t mind,” Trinity says, tucking her phone away. “I talked to her earlier and she was going to try and swing by anyway.”
I don’t know how I feel about women I barely know showing up for me. For us. “Thank you,” I murmur.
Trinity reaches over to pat my hand. We return to our quiet state again. This time, the silence feels less awkward.
The click of heels over the tile floor draws my attention to the hallway. A few seconds later, a woman in a black pantsuit and emerald-green silk blouse strides in. Dressed in her lawyer armor, with her dark reddish hair pulled into a neat bun, Hope hardly resembles the woman who’d been snuggling in her husband’s lap like a teenager at the clubhouse the other night.
That was fast.
“Hey, momma bear,” Trinity greets, standing to give her friend a quick hug. “How was your first jump back into court?”
“It sucked.” Hope sighs and sets her briefcase on the empty chair in the corner. She shrugs off her blazer and drapes it over the back of it. Where the heck did she manage to find a blouse that fits over her generous chest without the buttons gaping? It’d probably be a weird question to ask someone I don’t know all that well, right?
“Charlotte’s client didn’t show up,” Hope continues in a quick, flustered tone. “So I had the pleasure of getting yelled at by Judge Turner this morning. That’s how my first day back in court went.” She huffs and slides her hands over her hair, tucking a few stray strands behind her ears. “A pleasant reminder of why I hate practicing law,” she adds with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
“Well,” Trinity sweeps her gaze over her friend, “you look good.”
“Thanks.” Hope claps her hands together and focuses her intense green eyes on me. “How are you, Emily?”
“I’ve been better.”
She nods sympathetically, her gaze shifting to Libby. “Is she okay?”
“She will be.” I feel more confident about that than I did last night.
“All right. What are we dealing with? The police want to interview her?” she asks, in a getting-down-to-business tone.
“Uh…” I sit straighter under her scrutiny. “Yes and I don’t understand why. She wasn’t driving. From what I understand, someone blew through the intersection—where the stop sign’s been missing for a while—and hit them.”
