Chapter 3 The Problem
Lola’s POV
I slept like shit.
Max telling me Octavio had gang ties hadn’t helped, and neither had Emilio punching him at Mama’s funeral, but those weren’t what kept waking me up.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Mama asking if I was happy.
By seven, I was done trying.
Natalie was already in the kitchen when I came downstairs, standing in front of the open refrigerator in one of Max’s T-shirts and a pair of fuzzy socks that looked ridiculous in August.
I sat down at the counter and watched her stare into the refrigerator.
“You planning on getting in there?”
“I’m deciding.”
“You’ve been deciding since I walked in.”
She looked over her shoulder. “You just got here.”
“And somehow I already know this is going to take forever.”
“I want eggs.”
“Make eggs.”
“And pancakes.”
“Then make pancakes.”
“And sausage.”
I looked at her stomach. “Jesus. How many people are you feeding in there?”
“The sausage is hers.”
“Of course it is.”
“She kicked when I looked at it.”
“That’s probably because you’ve had the refrigerator open for ten minutes and she’s freezing.”
Natalie shut the door with her hip. “You’re bitchy this morning.”
“I’m delightful.”
“You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“See? Bitchy.”
“I said you look tired.”
“You did not.”
“I meant tired.”
“Still rude.”
She smiled and went to the cabinet.
I watched her stretch for the pancake mix, miss it, and stretch again.
“Natalie.”
“I’ve got it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
Her fingers barely touched the box.
I got up and took it down.
She frowned at me. “I was getting there.”
“You were about to climb up.”
“I was not.”
“You looked at the counter.”
“I can look at things.”
“You looked at it like you were considering your options.”
She took the box from me. “I’m pregnant, not helpless.”
“You’re eight months pregnant. If Max comes down here and catches you climbing on the counter, I’m the one he’s going to yell at.”
“He wouldn’t yell.”
I stared at her.
She lasted about two seconds.
“Okay, he’d yell.”
“Thank you.”
“But only because he worries.”
“That makes it so much better.”
She handed me a bowl.
I looked down at it. “What’s this?”
“You’re helping.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re already standing.”
“That isn’t how employment works.”
“It is in this kitchen.”
Twenty minutes later, I was making pancakes.
Natalie was sitting at the counter eating sausage faster than I could get it onto the plate when Max came downstairs.
He stopped at the edge of the kitchen.
“What’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Natalie pointed at me with her fork. “She made breakfast.”
“I was forced.”
Max came over and looked at the stove. “Looks good.”
“Don’t encourage her.”
“Why?”
“Because then she’ll expect this again.”
Natalie looked offended. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
Max leaned down, kissed her head, and stole a piece of sausage off her plate.
She smacked his wrist.
“Really?”
“What?”
“You have your own.”
“Where?”
“In the pan.”
He looked over at the stove. “That’s far.”
“It’s six feet.”
“I’m hungry now.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
Max grinned and stole another piece.
I shook my head. “How are you two having a kid?”
Natalie pointed her fork at him. “I ask myself that all the time.”
The back door opened before Max could answer.
Emilio walked in, took one look at the food, and headed straight for it.
I pointed the spatula at him. “Don’t.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was getting a plate.”
“You were reaching for the sausage.”
“I can do both.”
“Not with that hand.”
He looked down at his hand like it had betrayed him. “What’s wrong with my hand?”
“It steals.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
He reached anyway.
I slapped him with the spatula.
“Fuck.”
Natalie started laughing.
Emilio stared at me. “Did you seriously just hit me?”
“You’ll live.”
“That fucking hurt.”
“You got punched in the face by grown men for twenty years, but the spatula’s where you draw the line?”
“I don’t expect the spatula.”
Max grabbed his coffee and moved away from the counter.
Emilio looked at him. “You gonna do something about her?”
“Nope.”
“President of the fucking club.”
“Not president of Lola.”
I pointed the spatula at Max. “See? That’s growth.”
Emilio muttered something and got his own plate.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Sounded like something.”
“It was Spanish.”
“I speak Spanish, dumbass.”
“Then you know what I said.”
“Yeah, and fuck you too.”
Natalie nearly spit out her coffee.
Emilio sat at the counter, smiling to himself while he cut into a pancake.
I noticed his knuckles when he reached for the syrup.
Still swollen.
I looked away.
Max didn’t.
“I’m making some calls today,” he said.
I knew what he meant without asking.
Natalie looked at him. “El Paso?”
“Yeah.”
I leaned against the counter. “Who?”
“Couple people I know down there. Guys who’ve been around a long time.”
“You think they’ll know Octavio?”
“They might know who he runs with.”
“Good enough.”
Max glanced at me. “That’s it?”
“What else do you want?”
“I don’t know. Figured you’d have twenty questions.”
“I have questions. You don’t have answers yet.”
“Fair.”
I picked up my coffee. “Besides, I can always spend the morning Googling ‘violent asshole from El Paso’ and see how far that gets me.”
Emilio laughed into his plate.
I looked at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Pancake went down wrong.”
“Sure.”
He smiled without looking up.
Max took a drink of coffee. “Until I hear something, just keep your eyes open.”
“I always do.”
“And don’t go anywhere alone.”
“I don’t anyway.”
Emilio looked over. “You’re not working tonight, right?”
I turned toward him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
His fork stopped.
“Lola.”
“What?”
“You just buried your mom.”
“I know. I was there.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I’m working.”
He sighed. “Maybe take one fucking night.”
“No.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, go ahead.”
“I said maybe take a night.”
“You didn’t say maybe.”
“I just fucking did.”
“You started with ‘you’re not working.’”
“I asked if you were working.”
“Same tone.”
Max looked down at his coffee.
Natalie suddenly became very interested in her pancakes.
Emilio rubbed his forehead. “Can we not do this at eight in the morning?”
“You started it.”
“I asked a question.”
“You asked it like my boss.”
“I’m not your boss.”
“Great. Glad we cleared that up.”
He looked at Max. “You hearing this?”
Max shrugged. “I learned years ago.”
“Coward.”
“Smart.”
I went back to the stove.
Behind me, Emilio said, “Octavio’s still around.”
“I know.”
“And we don’t know who he’s tied to.”
“I know that too.”
“So maybe disappearing into a packed strip club tonight isn’t the best idea.”
I looked back at him. “Disappearing?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“The place gets packed. You’re working. You’re in and out of VIP. People come through those doors all night.”
“So?”
“So I don’t fucking like it.”
There it was.
Not an order.
Still annoying.
I turned the burner off. “Then don’t come.”
His face tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
“No, apparently you don’t.”
“Enlighten me.”
“I’m worried about you.”
The kitchen went quiet.
I looked at him.
He looked pissed that he’d said it.
That almost made me smile.
Almost.
“I’ll be at the Den,” I said. “With half the club.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“Emilio.”
“What?”
“I’m going.”
He sat back in his chair, jaw working.
I picked up my coffee.
He muttered, “Stubborn as fuck.”
I looked over my shoulder. “And yet you keep coming around.”
“Yeah.”
The way he said it made me hesitate.
Only for a second.
Then I walked out.
By nine that night, the Devil’s Den was loud enough to drown out almost everything in my head.
Perfect.
Candy had apparently used enough vanilla lotion for the entire dressing room, Sugar was digging through bags looking for her setting spray, and Maria was trying to glue down the corner of an eyelash that refused to cooperate.
“I didn’t take it,” Candy said.
Sugar looked up. “I didn’t say you did.”
“You were going to.”
“I wasn’t even talking to you.”
“You looked at me.”
“I’m looking at everybody because one of you bitches stole my shit.”
Candy pointed across the room. “See?”
Maria caught my eye in the mirror. “She definitely took it.”
“Fuck you,” Candy said.
“You stole my nipple covers.”
“I borrowed them.”
“For three weeks.”
“I forgot.”
“You wore them onstage four times.”
“They were comfortable.”
I laughed.
Maria immediately turned around. “There she is.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to tell you your ass looks great.”
I looked down at the pink rhinestone bottoms I’d put on. “Continue.”
“Best ass in New Mexico.”
Candy snorted. “Debatable.”
“You jealous?”
“Of Lola? Constantly.”
“Correct answer.”
Nobody asked me about Mama.
Nobody asked if I was okay.
I could have kissed Marge.
My first set went by fast. The second went even faster. By midnight, I was sweaty, my feet hurt, and I had stopped thinking about funerals and Octavio every thirty seconds.
Jeff caught me at the bar afterward.
“Haven’t seen you.”
“Been busy.”
“You okay?”
“Nope.”
He nodded once. “Want a drink?”
“Yep.”
That was why I liked Jeff.
He knew when to shut the hell up.
He bought me a drink and slid a twenty across the bar.
“You going back up?”
“Eventually.”
“Can I request a song?”
“You can request anything you want.”
“That mean you’ll dance to it?”
“No.”
He laughed. “Worth a shot.”
We talked for a few minutes before I noticed Emilio at the other end of the bar with Bobby.
Bobby was saying something to him.
Emilio was staring at us.
I smiled.
Jeff followed my eyes and groaned. “Oh, come on.”
“What?”
“I like my teeth.”
“Your teeth are safe.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Lola.”
I laughed.
“He’s not going to do anything.”
“Then why does he look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like he’s trying to figure out where to hide my body.”
“He always looks like that.”
“No, he does not.”
I leaned closer. “Are you scared of him?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“You keep coming here.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He looked at my chest.
I laughed. “Fair.”
Jeff started telling me about getting pulled over outside Albuquerque, and I made absolutely no effort to put more space between us.
Every time I glanced toward Emilio, he was still looking.
By the time Jeff got to the part where he told the cop he was technically already through the light when it turned red, I was leaning against the bar laughing.
Then I caught Emilio’s expression again.
I leaned closer to Jeff.
He stopped talking.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
He looked past me. “Trying to get me killed.”
“Nobody’s killing you.”
“I’m gonna need that in writing.”
I patted his arm. “You’ll be fine.”
“That’s not comforting.”
I left him at the bar a few minutes later and headed toward the dressing room.
I had almost made it when Emilio came up behind me.
“Seriously?”
I turned around. “What?”
“Jeff?”
I stared at him for a second, then laughed.
He frowned. “What’s funny?”
“You.”
“Glad I could help.”
I turned toward the dressing room again.
“Lola.”
“What?”
“He was practically sitting on top of you.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“He was close enough.”
“Close enough for what?”
“You know.”
“Nope.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That shit where you act like you don’t know exactly what I mean.”
I smiled. “Oh, I know what you mean.”
“Then why are you making me fucking say it?”
“Because I want to hear you say it.”
His mouth shut.
I waited.
He looked toward the bar, then back at me.
I laughed under my breath. “Thought so.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You know damn well you were doing that to piss me off.”
“Maybe.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It worked.”
“Yeah. Congratulations.”
I went to walk past him.
He caught my elbow, then let go almost immediately.
“Lola.”
I looked down at where his hand had been, then back at him. “What?”
“Why him?”
“Why not?”
“You don’t even like him.”
“I like him fine.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You don’t know who I like.”
He gave me a look.
“Okay, you know some of them.”
“Some?”
I smiled. “There. That.”
“What?”
“That face.”
“What fucking face?”
“The one you’re making right now.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“You look ready to go find Jeff and throw him through a table.”
“He was grabbing on you.”
“He touched my arm.”
“Same fucking thing.”
I laughed. “No, Emilio. It really isn’t.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. You hate it.”
He didn’t answer.
I leaned back against the wall. “You always have.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Remember that oilfield guy from Roswell?”
“He was a dick.”
“He tipped me five hundred dollars.”
“He slapped your ass.”
“I’m a stripper.”
“He still shouldn’t have done it.”
“Okay. What about Miguel?”
“Fuck Miguel.”
I started laughing.
“He was nice.”
“He was married.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I did.”
“Of course you did.”
“And he had herpes.”
My mouth fell open. “What?”
Emilio shrugged. “Heard it from Bobby.”
“Why the fuck did nobody tell me that?”
“You weren’t sleeping with him.”
“That’s not the point.”
“See? Saved your life.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“You’re welcome.”
I tried not to laugh, which only made him grin.
Then I remembered why we were arguing.
I folded my arms. “Jeff isn’t married.”
“Don’t care.”
“No herpes that I know of.”
“Don’t care.”
“Good tipper.”
“Lola.”
“What?”
“Quit fucking with me.”
My smile faded.
“Then quit making it so easy.”
He stared at me.
I pushed away from the wall. “You do this every time.”
“Do what?”
“Get pissed.”
“I’m not pissed.”
“You followed me back here.”
“I needed to talk to you.”
“About Jeff.”
“About you.”
“Same thing tonight, apparently.”
He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t like watching guys crawl all over you.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Of course I fucking know.”
“Then why—”
“Because you don’t get to care only when somebody else is looking.”
He went quiet.
I wished I could take it back as soon as I said it.
Not because it wasn’t true.
Because it was.
Emilio looked at me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“I said nothing.”
“You’ve been running your mouth for ten minutes and now you’ve got nothing?”
“Fuck you.”
“Already do that.”
I stared at him.
He realized what he’d said.
A laugh escaped me. “Wow.”
“You know what I meant.”
“Do I?”
“Lola.”
“No, please. Keep going. This is getting good.”
He rubbed his jaw. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet.”
“Yeah, yeah. I keep coming around.”
“You said it.”
He looked at me for a second.
“Maybe I’m stupid.”
“Definitely.”
“That wasn’t an invitation.”
“Still true.”
He moved closer, not enough to touch me.
“Why were you flirting with him?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“That’s it?”
“And because you were watching.”
He swore under his breath.
I smiled. “There it is.”
“You’re a fucking menace.”
“You’ve known that for years.”
“Yeah.”
His voice had lost some of the bite.
That pissed me off because mine hadn’t.
“You want to know what’s funny?”
“Probably not.”
“You get like this every time some guy comes near me, but the second I say anything about it, you act like I’m imagining shit.”
“I don’t act like that.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I’m standing right here telling you I didn’t like it.”
“Tonight.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means tonight you’re saying it because I pushed you hard enough.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“That’s the problem.”
He looked away.
I laughed, but there wasn’t anything funny about it. “Exactly.”
“Can you stop doing that?”
“Doing what now?”
“Answering for me.”
“Then answer yourself.”
He looked back at me.
I waited.
Nothing.
I nodded. “There we go.”
“Jesus Christ, Lola.”
“No, seriously. This is what you do. You fuck me, you get jealous, you act like an asshole when another man looks at me, and then I ask what the hell you want and suddenly you’ve forgotten how to speak.”
His jaw tightened. “You think that’s all this is?”
“I don’t know. You’ve never told me.”
“You never fucking asked.”
I stared at him.
“Are you serious?”
“You heard me.”
“I have been asking you for years.”
“No, you haven’t. You make some smartass comment, I say something back, we fight, then we end up in bed.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“Both of ours.”
That shut me up.
He gave me a tired look. “Yeah. Both.”
I folded my arms tighter. “Fine. I’m asking now.”
He watched me.
I hated how exposed I felt standing there in rhinestones and heels.
“What do you want?”
He shook his head once.
“No. Don’t do that.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re already trying to get out of it.”
“I’m trying not to say the wrong fucking thing.”
“You’ve never cared about that before.”
“Maybe I care now.”
I looked at him.
He glanced down the hallway, then back.
“I don’t like you with other men.”
“No shit.”
“Can you let me finish?”
“Depends how long this takes.”
“Lola.”
“Fine.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t like it.”
“You said that.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I laughed despite myself. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
Then his expression went serious again.
“I hate when you leave.”
That wiped the smile off my face.
He kept his eyes on mine.
“When?”
“You know when.”
“Say it.”
“After.”
I swallowed.
He continued before I could make a joke.
“You get dressed like the fucking house is on fire. Half the time I wake up and you’re already gone.”
“You’ve never asked me to stay.”
“You’ve never looked like you wanted me to.”
“You’re blaming me?”
“No. Fuck. I’m saying—”
He stopped and rubbed his face.
I waited.
He dropped his hand. “I don’t know how the fuck we got here.”
I almost laughed.
Instead I said, “Years of bad decisions?”
“Mostly yours.”
“There he is.”
His mouth twitched.
Then he looked at me again.
“I don’t want Jeff.”
“Good news. Pretty sure Jeff doesn’t want you either.”
“Lola.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
He sighed. “I don’t want some other guy getting what I have with you.”
I stared at him.
“What exactly do you have with me?”
He didn’t answer.
There it was again.
I shook my head and pushed away from the wall.
“Never mind.”
He stepped in front of me. “Don’t.”
“I’m done.”
“You’re the one who wanted me to talk.”
“And you almost did. Gold star.”
“Fuck you.”
“You already used that one.”
I went to step around him.
He moved with me.
“Move.”
“No.”
“Emilio.”
“Just—fuck, give me a second.”
“For what?”
“To figure out how to say this without you tearing it apart before I finish.”
I stared at him.
“Then stop trying to make it sound good.”
His eyes met mine.
I lowered my voice.
“Just say it.”
His jaw tightened.
“I don’t know what the fuck you are to me.”
I laughed once, sharp enough that it hurt. “Wow. Great start.”
“No, shut up.”
My eyebrows went up.
“I mean it. Shut up for one second.”
I did, mostly because I wanted to hear how much worse he could make it.
He dragged a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know what to call it. I know when you’re pissed before you open your mouth. I know when you’re lying about being okay. I know you hate coffee unless it tastes like dessert, you steal my shirts and pretend you don’t, and you leave your earrings all over my fucking house.”
“I do not.”
“I found one in my shower.”
“Okay, that might’ve been mine.”
“No shit.”
I tried not to smile.
He didn’t.
“And when Octavio grabbed you yesterday, I wanted to break his fucking neck.”
The smile disappeared.
“I know you can handle yourself. That isn’t why I hit him.”
“Then why?”
“Because he touched you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
I stared at him.
He looked frustrated now, but not with me.
Maybe a little with me.
Probably mostly with himself.
I shook my head. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“I fucking know, Lola.”
“You act like I’m yours when somebody pisses you off, then tomorrow we’ll go right back to pretending none of this happened.”
“I don’t want to.”
I stopped.
He looked at me.
I didn’t know what to do with that, so I got angry instead.
“You’ve had years.”
“I know.”
“Years, Emilio.”
“I fucking know.”
“You could’ve said something anytime.”
“So could you.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“You disappear every time this gets too close to anything real.”
“So do you.”
“I’m still fucking standing here.”
“So am I.”
We stared at each other.
The bass from the club shook through the wall.
I swallowed and looked away first.
“I’m not yours.”
He was quiet long enough that I finally looked back at him.
His eyes stayed on mine.
“No,” he said. “You’re not.”
Something in my chest twisted, and I hated myself for even noticing.
I started to turn away.
Then he added, quieter this time,
“Maybe that’s the fucking problem.”
