Lottie parks near the main building.
She turns off the engine.
For a second, none of us moves.
Then she looks at me.
“Well,” she says. “You didn’t run into safety, honey.”
I stare at the women, the bikes, the kids, the sign, the crown carved into wood above the code nailed beside the office door.
My heart is still breaking in Kentucky.
My body is here.
My son is staring at other children like he has found oxygen.
“What did I run into?” I ask.
Lottie smiles, but it isn’t gentle.
“A different kind of outlaw world.”
The driver’s side door opens before I can answer.
A woman’s voice rolls through the dusk, rough and warm and dangerous as a match struck in a church.
“About damn time.”
I turn.
An older woman stands on the porch of the main building in a Queens of Anarchy cut, silver-streaked hair piled high, red lipstick sharp, curves wrapped in black denim and attitude, boots planted like the ground owes her rent.
Hot Mama.
I know it before Lottie says a word.
Her eyes land on me.
Then August.
Then back to me.
“Caroline’s girl,” she says.
My throat closes.
Hot Mama smiles.
Not sweet.
Never sweet.
“Come on, baby. Let’s see if we can find where your mama left your crown.”
Chapter Nineteen
Derby