Page 218 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Dollancie:
But I’d love another baking gig! Please, tell your boss yes! And thank you again for last night.
Lucky:
I’m here whenever you need to talk.
Dollancie:
I know.
Lucky:
You okay?
Dollancie:
I’m tired, I guess. Like, I’ve ached so bad today.
I’ll probably get a cold from being out in the rain.
And tomorrow, I’ll ache even more. I spent the whole afternoon clearing some stuff in the house.
I managed to empty a room, though.
The scars on my forehead pull as my eyebrows dip with confusion.
What could she have emptied? The reading room, kitchen, and dining room are all fine. The furniture is either newly replaced or timeless and unaffected by vandalism.
I don’t ask because it would cause suspicion, but I can’t shake the curiosity that rattles around loudly in my head over the noise in this bar.
I don’t even hear the female voice behind me until she leans over and pats my back.
Jumping away from her touch and twisting at the same time, I not only land awkwardly on my leg, but I pull something in my back that I know will cause me pain all night.
Turning, I see Annabelle on the other side of the bar, her twinkling nails match the light above.
“Have you spoken to your sister today?”
There’s that word… sister.
I shrug and mouth the word,earlier.
“Do you know she’s cleaning her room? Like, her bedroom?” Annabelle sighs, and somehow, I hear it over the sound of the music—another song I dislike.
A lady in blue steps up and places a lip-stick-stained glass on the bar, and I reach for it, not forgetting I have a job to do, but forgetting something else. That I’m wearing a T-shirt that’s ripped to shreds… and it has short sleeves.
Annabelle’s eyes become brown globes, widening to scary proportions.
“Oh, fuck.” The curse falls out of her mouth. “You?” she says it before I realize what it means, then says it again with all the surprise in the world. “You!”
The bright orange of her tacky-looking purse comes into view. It matches the flowers on her dress and the lipstick on her lips. I stare at her mouth, waiting for more words to come, because her expression tells me she has plenty more to say.
She slaps a twenty on the bar and blurts out, “I need a drink. Something strong, but not too strong. My little lemon needs to get me home in one piece. Someone is gonna have to be there to pick up your sister’s broken heart because talk about a step too far!”
Pushing her money back to her, I duck to a cooler and pull out a mild alcopop. It’s orange, like her bag, like the lipstick she’ll leave on the rim.
She eyes it like I’ve given her acid to drink. The scowl on her face shows how impressed she is as she reluctantly accepts the drink.
