“No, you don’t. Not all the way. He got close enough to Derby’s porch. Close enough to August. Close enough to make Derby stupid and Legend dangerous and every man in this county start sniffing around like bloodhounds with leather cuts.”
“Derby was trying to protect us.”
“Of course he was. Men love protection. Makes them feel useful while they’re digging graves with both hands.”
My stomach twists.
“Lottie.”
“I’m not saying they don’t mean it. Some of them do. Derby does. Legend does. Oaks does when he ain’t pretending he’s allergic to feelings and basic sense. But a man’s protection still keeps the man in the middle. Sometimes a woman needs a place men don’t get to enter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
She picks up her phone from the counter.
It has a cracked purple case and a sticker on the back that says I brake for bourbon and bad decisions.
She taps the screen a few times, then holds it out to me.
The caller ID reads:
Hot Mama
I stare at it.
“No.”
Lottie’s brow lifts. “You don’t even know what I’m offering.”
“I’m not taking a call from someone named Hot Mama while Derby is in jail and my life is already this weird.”
“Honey, your panties nearly killed a biker on a Kentucky back road. Weird has been driving the bus for a while.”
The phone rings.
Once.
Twice.
My pulse picks up like something in my body knows this isn’t a normal call. Not gossip. Not comfort. Not someone checking whether I need casseroles and prayers.
A woman answers.
Her voice is rough. Low. Older. Smoke and gravel and honey left too close to a flame.
“Lottie.”
The way she says the name makes Lottie stand straighter.
Not scared.
Respectful.
“Got Caroline’s girl,” Lottie says.
My breath stops.