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-Lilah-
When I wake, the sun creeps in through the blinds, and I already know before I open my eyes Dante isn’t in my bed with me, having snuck out at some point.
I guess I deserve that one.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that powerful men like to have the scales balanced. If you get something over on them, they want to make sure you get yours in return.
Acknowledging this fact doesn’t help ease the disappointment, though.
Twenty-Two
-Lilah-
I’m heading home that night when my sister calls again.
She has called me three times today and twice yesterday, not leaving any message, so I’m pretty sure no one’s died, but I’m also pretty sure that if I ignore this one, she’ll come and find me. Except, of course, she won’t be able to.
The address she has for me? I no longer live there.
The job I once had? I no longer work there.
The friends I used to spend nights with? I haven’t spoken to them since Lola was in the hospital.
And for that reason alone, I answer my phone.
“Jesus, I thought I'd have to call Dad as a last resort. See where you are,” my sister says, her voice coming through the speaker.
Speakerphone because I can’t handle a ticket today.
It was a long one. I did my new normal, a short four-hour shift in one of the poker rooms, but then Marco asked if I could stay late. One of the servers had the flu, and they needed someone to fill in. Of course, I agreed, staying to help serve the three—yes, three—bachelor parties that strolled in before Fancy walked in at nine, saying I could head out.
“How’s Libby’s?” I ask, ignoring her and any motherly nitpicking I know she’s dying to do.
Libby’s is the bakery my sister opened after fifteen years of dealing with our father’s shit. She finally cut him off—or so she thought—and opened her dream shop named after our mother in our hometown of Ocean View. Conveniently, she works and lives right next door to her tattoo-artist boyfriend, who would do quite literally anything for my sister. That includes knocking out Johnny Vitale and holding him hostage with his own gun while they waited for the cops to come after he tried to kidnap my sister.
The beginning of my end, in a way.
“Lilah! Where the fuck have you been?” she asks, bypassing my question, and it’s not irritation in her voice—it’s panic and worry.
Shit.
Our mother died when I was 10 and Lola was 15, and she took it upon herself to become the fill-in for her. So even though her own life is chaos—finally the good kind, but still chaos—I know she must have been worried.
“I just talked to you a few days ago! I’ve been working; I like going out. I’m a busy gal, Lol,” I say, stopping at a red light.
“The fuck you are. Called Adrianna, and she said you haven’t been out in, like, two months.”
Fuck.
I should have known my sister wouldn’t let anything go. I heard the disbelief in her voice the last time she called. I should have done more to nip her nosiness.
“I got the flu,” I lie, thinking of the illness going around the club. “Plus a promotion.”
“A promotion?”
“Yeah. I uh . . . I got a new account. It’s keeping me really busy.”
