Page 15 of Ride or Die

Cruz snatches the money and tucks into the chest pocket of his shirt, lifting his chin and looking down his nose at me long and hard.

“You ever talk to me like that again—” He points a thick finger in my face, his voice low and steely, but he doesn’t finish his sentence, not that he needs to, his warning loud and clear.

Stepping around me, Cruz pauses to open the door to his old Bronco, hocking back a loogie and spitting it onto the ground. “I work for Rattlesnake, and I answer to Shaw, notyou. Don’t you go forgettin’ that,motherfucker.”

He pulls out of the parking lot, kicking up dirt and gravel as he goes, and I watch him leave before turning and looking at the motel door, the curtain shifting in the window once more.

I tap a knuckle softly against the timber, waiting before finally I hear a click followed by a metal slide, and another click, the door opening a touch and a somewhat familiar pair of blue eyes peering out at me.

“Hey, buddy,” I say softly, resting a hand against the door jam. “It’s just me, now. Cole.”

“Hi…” is all he says.

“Y’all okay?” I lift my chin, trying to see inside the room, but it’s dark.

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your little sister?”

“She… fell asleep.”

The tension in my shoulders eases a sliver, and I bow my head on a breath.

“Where’s your mama?” I ask after stretch of silence.

“She—” He hesitates and I don’t like that one bit.

“It’s okay, bud,” I assure him. “You can tell me.”

“She’s at work.”

I close my eyes then, gritting my teeth to the point my jaw aches because in Summer there’s only two places a woman can work at this time of night, and hell I know for a fact she ain’t working at The Saddlery.

“Alright, well, I ain’t going nowhere, okay?” I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face, glancing to the metal chair Cruz was just sitting in. “I’m gonna sit right out here and wait until she comes back.”

“You can come in… if you w-want.”

I shake my head. “Don’t you go invitin’ strangers inside, little buddy. It ain’t safe.”

“You’re not a stranger.”

“I don’t even know your name, kid.”

“I’m Tommy.” He holds his small hand out through the crack in the door.

I can’t help but chuckle, shaking it. “Well, it’s nice to officially meet you, Tommy. You go on to bed now,” I tell him. “Get some sleep, y’hear?”

And, after a couple of seconds, the door clicks closed followed once more by the sound of metal sliding, and another click.

I wait a few moments before I take my ass on over to the metal chair and sit down, tugging the blister pack of gum out of my pocket and popping a piece into my mouth. Chewing hard, the nicotine does little to quell the anger that festers low in my belly the longer I wait for the woman who left her poor defenseless kids alone at night in a motel frequented by goddamn junkies and hookers. Sure, I felt sorry for her. And I still do. But right now, I’m fuckin’ pissed.

CHAPTER 6

CLARA

Working at a strip club was never part of any plan. But desperate times, and all that. When I walked in here last week, the owner, Bruce, took one look at me, his eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. I told him I was willing to serve drinks and wait tables, but no way in any of the nine concentric circles of hell was I about to stand up on stage and take off my clothes. No offense to the women who do—they’re damn good at it—but it’s just not for me. Nobody wants to see my stretch marks, cellulite, or caesarean scar. I don’t care how drunk they are.

Reluctantly, Bruce agreed, offered me Friday and Saturday nights, handed me the most insulting uniform in existence, and told me I could start right away.