“And if she uses it right?”
Hot Mama’s smile turns sharp.
“Then it’s power.”
I lower the mirror.
“What are you calling me?”
“Diva.”
I blink. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“See? Already dramatic.”
Despite everything, a laugh slips out of me.
“I’m not a diva.”
“You crossed state lines with a child, a dead woman’s secrets, a biker chasing your dust, and half of Kentucky growling about where you went. You broke men’s plans, woke up women’s debts, and still found time to worry about whether you were being too much.” Hot Mama taps the mirror once. “That ain’t too much, baby. That’s a woman who forgot the world can make room.”
My throat tightens.
“Diva,” she says again, quieter this time. “Not because you’re spoiled. Because you’re done shrinking.”
The name sits between us.
Too much.
Maybe that is why it scares me.
“Does Derby need to know?”
Hot Mama’s mouth curves. “Derby needs to learn lots of things slowly before he hurts himself.”
I almost smile.
Then she leans close, her voice dropping into ritual again.
“We straightened your crown, Diva. Don’t disappoint us. Hot Mama don’t like ugly.”
A chill moves through me. Not because she is threatening me. Because she isn’t only threatening. She is blessing me too. That is the terrifying thing about the Queens.
Their tenderness is jagged.
I lower the mirror.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Hot Mama pats my shoulder. “Don’t thank me too much. Makes my skin itch.”
I laugh through tears.
She starts packing up the kit. “Derby doesn’t need the whole speech tonight.”