Chapter 90
“Air freshener,” Lola said, crisp. “Sir Sprinkles just lost a battle with his bladder and the car smells like truck stop urinal and regret. Also, I want a snack.”
Gino blinked. “Sir… Sprinkles.”
“Respect his title,” she deadpanned, already digging for her wallet. “We’re getting six pine trees, something salty, something sweet, and if they have it- silence that lasts four hours.”
At the gas station, she returned with an armful of pine–tree fresheners, jerky, sour gummies, and a lemon–lime soda the size of her forearm. She clipped five trees to the center vent, three to the back vents, and–out of pure spite–one to the trunk latch.
Dom coughed. “It smells like a forest committed tax fraud.”
“Good. Nine hundred seventy–nine. Let him contemplate his choices under the Northern Pine Act.”
Back on the highway, she settled in and started the metronome again.
Round two.
“Nine hundred seventy–two. Here’s what happens when we get home, Sir Sprinkles. I’ll ask what you put in my drink. Who handed it to you. Where you stood while my legs went soft.”
She let the tick run for a count of twenty that wasn’t twenty.
“Nine hundred sixty–five. If you lie, I’ll lie back. I’ll say we’re almost done. We won’t be. I’ll say you’re doing great. You won’t be. I’ll say ‘maybe‘ when you ask what’s next.” She smiled at the dark rear glass. “You won’t like maybe.”
Dom muttered, “We need to start screening the people Enzo brings home.”
Lola ignored him, kept her tone pleasant. “Posture earns mercy. Sighing burns it. Nine hundred fifty–eight. You’ll learn quickly.”
She crinkled the gummy bag on purpose. “This is called a reward. You won’t get one. Not tonight. But you’ll hear the sound anyway. That’s half the lesson.”
Gino’s knuckles went white on the wheel.
Drag it. Make every mile feel like a mile.
“Nine hundred fifty–one,” she said, naming bones–not anatomically precise, just slow and deliberate, like a bedtime story: the long ones that break loud, the small ones that don’t, the joints that talk when you twist them wrong. She never said she’d do any of it. She just let him imagine which words would belong to him.
–
“Nine hundred forty–four,” she said, “hands. Not fingers this time whole hands. Wrapped and sealed in ice so you can feel them go cold before they’re gone.”
Another exit slid by. The metronome kept time. The trunk was quiet except for a wet, controlled breathing that said at least one pine tree had done nothing for his dignity.
“Let’s go again,” she said finally, knocking twice, soft. “From a thousand. When we get home, I stop talking and someone else starts. He’s a man of fewer words. That’s the good news.”
A strangled sound answered her–half sob, half prayer. Dom stared harder at the road like eye contact might summon demons. Gino didn’t speak at all.
Lola took a long pull of soda, let the fizz burn.
I’m fine. I’m furious. And when we get home, he learns the difference.
1/3
Chapter 90
The Vegas skyline rose out of the dark like a mouth full of diamonds, and Lola was mid–slow, surgical promise to Sir Tinkles when Dom finally broke the silence that wasn’t silence.
“ETA ten,” he said to Gino, checking the mirror. “Text Nico we’re rolling in. Enzo’s already at the penthouse.”
Lola’s words clipped off like a record scratch. “I’m sorry–Enzo’s what?”
Gino didn’t look back. “Waiting.”
She blinked at the back of his head. “Waiting… as in… now waiting? Right this second waiting? And nobody thought to share that tiny, microscopic detail while I smell like expo sweat, car wreck, hospital soup, and the Northern Pine Act?”
Dom winced. “We didn’t want you stressing.”
“Newsflash,” she said, deadpan. “I’m stressed. I smell like a crime. He’s going to hug me and get high on ‘eau de trauma.“”
From the trunk came a small, broken noise at the name Enzo. Lola flicked a glance at the rear panel and smiled like a knife.
Good. Be scared of the right things.
care,” she snapped, throwing her hands up. “Do you know what my hair is doing right now? It’s a cautionary tale. I needed–bare minimum–a shower and
inor exorcism.”
om tried, “He just wants to see you breathing.”
“Great,” she said, “he can see me breathing after I don’t smell like I was slow–cooked in a hospital Crock–Pot.”
The Strip signage flashed past, neon washin
He’s here. He got on a plane and
“Can we at least stop for
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