Dirty.
Normal.
The relief that hits me is so sharp it almost feels like pain.
August isn’t the only child here.
He isn’t the only child with fear packed in the trunk.
He isn’t the only child whose mother had to run.
Lottie parks beside the communal building and turns off the engine. “Welcome to Lonerock.”
I don’t move.
Neither does August.
The door of the main building opens, and every woman nearby seems to look at us at once.
Some wear leather cuts withQueens of Anarchy MCacross the back. Some are in leggings and sweatshirts. Some have bruises yellowing under makeup. Some have scars thatdon’t hide. Some are older, broad, and hard-eyed. Some are young enough that my chest aches because young women should not know this kind of place exists.
And then she appears.
Hot Mama.
There is no other name she could possibly have.
She steps onto the porch like the whole property is an animal she already broke and trained to heel. She is older, maybe late fifties or sixties, but age hasn’t softened a single thing about her. It has only made her more dangerous. Her silver-streaked hair is piled high in a messy, deliberate crown. Her lipstick is deep red. Her hips are full, her waist wrapped in black denim, her boots scuffed and sharp-toed, and her leather cut sits over her shoulders like a throne made wearable.
The cut saysQueens of Anarchy MC.
Under it, smaller:Prez.
President.
A woman president.
I knew that from what Lottie told me, but seeing it is something else.
Hot Mama plants both hands on the porch rail and smiles like she has been chewing men into smaller pieces for decades and finds it good for digestion.
“About damn time. Well?” she calls. “You waiting on a formal invitation or a burning bush?”
Lottie rolls down the window. “You got any bushes left after the last retreat?”
Hot Mama’s smile widens. “Sagebrush set one on fire for cleansing. Then charged a fee.”
A woman from the spa porch yells, “It was ceremonial!”
Hot Mama doesn’t look away from us. “It was arson with essential oils.”
The woman lifts both hands. “Healing looks different to closed minds.”
Lottie snorts and opens her door. “That’s Sagebrush.”
“I guessed,” I whisper.
August leans forward. “Is she magic?”