Fucking great. Picnic was gearing up to torture a guy, but London wanted to give me shit.
“What?” I asked, knowing my tone bordered on rude because I’d never liked her. Stick up her ass, and she’d betrayed Pic. I’d never quite forgiven her for that.
“I got a call from Darcy earlier,” she said.
“What’s going on?” Boonie asked. “Everything okay?”
“It’s about Puck’s old lady,” London said. “Darcy didn’t call you guys because she knew you were busy, but something bad happened.”
I waited. “What?”
“She said that Becca went crazy earlier today. She threw a sewing machine out of her apartment into the street, right through a window. Bunch of other stuff, too. Then she took off in her car and hasn’t been answering her cell phone. They’ve got no idea if she’s still in the valley or what happened, but her entire apartment is destroyed. No signs that anyone was in there with her, or that she was attacked—Darcy said she did it by herself.”
Jesus. This shit just got weirder.
“Fuck,” Boonie muttered. I rubbed my forehead. Whatever had happened to send Becca to that strip club, it was extreme.
“One last thing,” London said, digging around in her pocket. “They checked the history on her home phone. Before she left, she got several calls from this number.”
She pulled out a piece of paper and handed it over. Southern California area code. All the pieces fell into place and sudden rage filled me. Christ, I wanted to punch something. So obvious.
“It never fucking stops. It was her mother—that bitch is like a disease.”
“What’s going on?” Boonie asked.
“Cunt’s been after her about money,” I growled. “Just bullshit games, but Becca falls for it every time. If something went down, she probably wouldn’t talk to me, either. We got in a fight over it.”
“Darcy’s worried,” London said. “If you’ve got any idea where Becca is, you should call and tell her. I guess there are other people who want answers, too.”
Fucking great—just what I needed. A committee.
“She’s in the van,” I said, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. I wanted to shout or kick something. God, I hated that bitch. “Will you call Darce and let her know everything is okay?”
London stared me down. “When you have to haul women to the Armory in the back of vans, everything is not okay.”
That caught me short. Fuck.
“Completely different situation than yours was, London,” Boonie said. “Believe me. Keep us posted, Puck.”
“Sure,” I said, turning back to the van. I caught the door and slid it open, climbing in to unlock Becca. Sensing we had more of an audience than we needed, I slid the door shut behind me again.
“What happens now?” she asked, her voice dull. Why did she keep letting her mom do this? I’d hauled her ass out of there five years ago, yet she still danced whenever the woman called. Bullshit.
“You’re going to start by telling me why you destroyed your apartment and threw your sewing machine out the window,” I said, unsnapping the handcuffs. Becca sat up, rubbing her wrist. “Then we’ll move on to the whole stripping thing.”
“I wasn’t trying to cause trouble for the club,” she said, avoiding the first question. “Whatever was going on down there, I wasn’t part of it. I don’t know anything about the Vegas Belles.”
“I know. Just get your ass outside.”
I opened the door and she slid out, still barefoot. London glanced between us, then shook her head.
“You want some clothes for her?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
“Take the room on the second floor,” she said flatly. “I’ll send Mellie up in a little while with something for her to wear.”
“Mellie’s here?” Painter asked.
“Yeah, I’m watching Izzy for her tonight,” London replied.
“Why?”
“None of your business.”
Painter narrowed his eyes. Fuck this. I had enough of my own drama.
“Let’s get out of here,” I snapped at Becca. She followed me silently, ignoring the curious looks from the Reapers and Silver Bastards still milling around the courtyard.
BECCA
“In here,” Puck said. I walked into the room and turned to face him, still feeling numb. I’d had that one burst of energy when he’d been in danger, when everything had gone sharp and clear. Then it faded back into the dull pain of grief and guilt.
Puck shut the door, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the wall. “Okay, tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“My mom is dead,” I said, deciding to lay it all out. “I needed enough money to go to California. Figured I’d work for an afternoon at the club, see if I could make some quick cash.”
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin.
“Sorry about your mom,” he said finally. “I’m assuming that’s why you lost your shit and threw your sewing machine out the window?”
“In my defense, Eva was walking by outside. I was hoping to hit her.”
“This isn’t a joke, Becca.”
“Oh, I think it’s a joke all right,” I replied bitterly. “Do you know what I’ve spent the last five years trying to do?’