“I left there when I was little,” I say.
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because your mama came through us before she ran.”
I look at Lottie.
She says nothing.
Hot Mama continues. “Listen close, because I don’t repeat myself unless I’m naked or angry, and neither one’s happening for you today. There’s a place out here. Women’s shelter. Campground. Some call it rehab. Some call it spa. Some come for bruises. Some come for withdrawals. Some come because the man they married turned their house into a coffin with curtains. Kids come too. We keep them fed, safe, and mean enough to survive.”
My fingers tighten around the phone.
“A shelter?”
“Something like that.”
“Run by who?”
A smile moves through her voice.
“Queens of Anarchy MC.”
I stare at the wall.
“Queens,” I repeat.
Lottie watches me like she has been waiting for that word to land.
Hot Mama says, “Men had their shot. Some did fine. Most got distracted by pecker politics. We patched the women who stayed and made better rules.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to yet. All you need to know is this. Your husband can’t reach you here. Men don’t walk through our gates unless they’re invited, and we don’t invite ugly. Lawmen who look the wrong way learn we can look wrong right back.”
My heart pounds.
“No Jeremy?”
“No Jeremy.”
“No Pearly Gates?”
“Not unless they want their hymnals shoved sideways.”
A laugh breaks out of me.
It sounds half like a sob.
Hot Mama’s voice softens by one hard inch. “Bring your boy. He won’t be the only kid. We got bunkhouses, food, schoolwork, dirt, dogs, women who know how to hold a crying child without asking stupid questions, and enough guns to make the Lord reconsider judgment day.”
I can’t answer.
I look toward the hallway where August sleeps.
My baby.