Page 60 of Wall

Everything about her screams wasted, but her gray eyes are stone cold sober. I can see why the old ladies find her intimidating. There’s also the fact she’s a lawyer, and despite being a woman, she’s involved in the club business. Deb, Pig Iron’s wife, is involved, too. She’s a bookkeeper or something. But Deb has a mom-vibe. Harper Ruth has a killer-clown-from-the-sewers vibe.

I want to go find John—I think—but she’s latched on tight, and she’s leading me to an overstuffed leather sofa in a far corner of the common room.

“Skeedaddle.” She flicks her hand at the women who are squeezed bare thigh-to-thigh, five-wide on the sofa. Several blondes. None old enough to be Stephanie.

They cast us nasty looks as they tug down their skintight skirts and saunter off.

“It’s good to be queen.” Harper flashes me a frighteningly fake smile. “So.” She flops down, dragging me with her. “Mona Wall. Are you a good witch or are you a bad witch?” She raises her perfectly sculpted eyebrows expectantly.

I don’t have time for this.

But then again, am I in a hurry to find John in a back room with some woman? Maybe Harper’s been sent to distract me while he sneaks a woman out the back. She isverydistracting.

The smell of rum wafts past from a biker’s glass. My stomach roils. I hate rum. First liquor I got drunk on. I clutch my stomach, and I flop forward, head between my knees, sucking down deep breaths and praying.

“Whoa! Prospect! Get a bucket!” Harper pulls my hair out of my face and scoots her fancy shoes as far away as she can.

“Where’s the buckets?”

“Get a bucket substitute. You know what, dumbass. Give me that hat.”

“I love this hat.”

“I will kill and eat you.”

And then there’s a Pyle Tin Bangers baseball hat under my face. I heave. Not much but spit and stomach acid. I feel better, though.

The hat disappears.

“What I do with this?”

“That you’ll have to figure out for yourself. I’d recommend not putting it back on your head.”

I lean back, recline my head on the back of the sofa, and I focus on breathing. Through my mouth. Not my nose.

Harper leans back beside me, turns her face to me, and downs almost a full glass of wine in one swallow. Her face is amazing. No visible makeup, but she has ruby red lips, and her eyelashes are super thick and long. Like a cartoon princess.

“I asked the wrong question. I should have asked if you’d like some water. Or crackers? What do pregnant ladies want?”

“Mercy,” I moan.

She cackles. “And that’s reason one thousand why I’m never having children. I’ve got Hobs. He’s enough.”

There’s no way that boy is her biological child. She must see my confusion.

“My mom died when he was a baby. Breast cancer. I was thirteen. I raised him until I left for law school.”

I hadn’t heard this story.

“He’s a cute kid.”

“Thanks. I’d do anything for him.”

I get that. The words agitate the terror pooling just under the surface of my skin. What if I’m losing this baby? How do I do this again?

Harper thwaps a hand on my thigh.

“What’s that look for, Mrs. Wall?” Her face is inches from mine, her wine breath hot in my face. Weirdly, it doesn’t make me want to puke.

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