Page 9 of The Souls We Claim
Lola laughs when she sees me, like I just played the long game on peek-a-boo.
“Yeah, laugh, Lollipop. Sometimes I wonder if it’s better you won’t remember any of this.”
Quickly, I comb out my long hair, throw on some deodorant and cologne, brush my teeth, and then carry Lola into my room.
The cereal goes everywhere as she swipes her arm over the surface, which means vacuuming when I get back. Quickly, I’m dressed.
Using a cloth, I do the best clean-up job I can on Lola before putting her into a simple cotton sundress. The black one she wore yesterday ended up covered in pizza.
Lola places her hand to my cheek as I sit her into the car seat in my truck. Funerals aren’t my thing, even though I paid for Mercy’s. Not even sure why I did that. Beyond the poor bitch having hung around the club so long, my dad seemed to have some affection for her, and she’s Lola’s mother.
None of the other brothers are coming. I didn’t tell ‘em about it, although given the way the club girls were chitter-chattering about it, they probably know. When we arrive, I carry Lola and hustle up the steps into the small building and see some club girls I recognize.
Penny and a couple of the others are sitting in the front row, and they quickly move so Lola and I can take a seat. As soon as I do, I realize I left the bag with diapers and toys and snacks in the truck.
Fuck, if I need it, I’ll send one of the girls out to get it. As I look around and see girls from the club, past and present, I realize I slept with about forty-two percent of ‘em. Good numbers, but they make me feel…cheap…while I’m holding Lola.
I close my eyes and let the drone of the dude at the front, telling us sparse details of Mercy’s life, wash over me. There isn’t much to say because little was known about Mercy’s life before she joined the club. So the stories tend to lean to Mercy as an adult. How she had a big laugh and loved murder podcasts. Then it’s done, and we’re invited to say our last goodbyes.
I wait for everyone to leave, and then I take Lola up to the coffin. “Sorry life has given you such a shit start, Lollipop.” I place her hand on the cheap wood. “Say goodbye to your momma.”
I take a macabre selfie of the two of us in front of the coffin. Someday in the future, I want to show Lola she was there.
Lola jabbers at me. There are occasional words I recognize.Ball, her current favorite.No, followed by a head shake. But she’s smiling, totally at odds with the somber moment.
The sound of a pair of heels coming toward me makes me turn. And for a guy who clearly got laid multiple times last night, I’m surprised when my hungover body takes an interest. Lean tan calves in heels. A short and slender frame tucked into a black dress. Perky tits that make me think Christmas has come in August. Thick strawberry-blonde hair drops in waves around her face.
A face that, despite the stoic attempts at makeup, is clearly beaten.
“You need to leave whoever did that to you,” I say when she stops in front of me.
“Who are you two to Mercy?” Her eyes go to Lola, and I place a protective hand on Lola’s back.
“Who’s asking?”
Tears glitter in her swollen eyes, but they don’t fall. She swallows deeply, clearly struggling to hold them back. “I’m Mercy’s sister, Arianne. I’m hoping you can tell me more about what happened to her. We hadn’t spoken in…a while.”
A sister? I sort of see it. Same high cheekbones, gray eyes. But while there was a dull film over Mercy after years of living this life, Arianne still has sparkle, despite the bruising and swelling blooming over the left side of her face. Which makes me doubly furious at the person who decided to do that to her.
“I’m Halo. Your sister was in a…relationship…with my dad. This is their daughter, Lola.”
“I’m an aunt?” she asks. Her whole face softens as she tentatively reaches out to smooth the hem of Lola’s dress.
“Yeah.”
“Were they married?”
“You familiar with club life, Arianne?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not. I’m not even sure what you mean when you say ‘club.’”
Can’t decide if I buy that or not. Mercy, for all she was just described here as a wonderful human being, was a mercenary gold digger out for a quick buck. My father always said he thought she tricked him into knocking her up, not taking her pill or some shit. Although for a grown-ass man, he should have been wrapping his junk up and taking responsibility for it himself.
For all I know, Arianne could be the same. The bruises and swelling are too real to be part of an act, and you don’t end up with a face like that without being around something bad.
She hasn’t spoken to her sister for a long time if she didn’t know any of this shit…but suddenly shows up for the funeral like a financial vampire sniffing green dollar bills. My bullshit barometer reads high, but I’ll humor her for a minute.
“Wrinkle, my dad, Anthony, was part of the Iron Outlaws Motorcycle Club. Same as me. Mercy was a club girl. A sweet butt.”
