Page 68 of Knockout (Whiskey Dolls 2)

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I wasn’t sure there was a table in the entire restaurant that could be consideredgood, given that these people really were as bad as Jude and Sybil had claimed, but the one we were forced to sit at had to have been the absolute worst.

It was Jude and me, Sybil, Jude’s parents, and Chandler and Leah. I’d managed to get through the first two courses of what appeared to be a five-course meal, but that was mainly because, so far, I’d been ignored by everyone but Jude and his grandmother. When they weren’t busy kissing Sybil’s ass, the rest of them were taking pot shots at each other and at Jude like it was second nature. My skin was thicker than the average person’s but seeing them go after him was starting to grate on me in a very serious way, and I could see it was wearing on Sybil as well.

The only reason I hadn’t ripped into the lot of them was because every time I started to, Jude would place his hand on my thigh beneath the table to keep me in my seat.

“It’s not worth it,” he’d leaned over to whisper during the salad course. “It’ll be over soon. Just enjoy your meal.”

But that had been impossible. With each passing minute, Jude seemed to sink deeper and deeper into himself until, more and more, I started to see the cold, callous man I’d gone to battle with all those months ago. Now I truly understood why he was the way he was. I prayed I could pull him out of the dark place his family was trying to drag him into and show him the light again.

“So, Layla,” Raymond said halfway through the main course. It was the first time any of these people had acknowledged my presence, and it gave me a jolt of surprise for a moment. “I’m not familiar with any other Fox’s around here. Does your family come from money?”

Jude’s hand moved back to my knee, giving it a squeeze as I took a bite of my chicken scarpariello, chewing slowly before finally swallowing in order to answer.

“I wouldn’t know, Raymond. I never knew who my father was, and my mother abandoned me outside a hospital when I was three. I grew up in the foster system.”

Sandra’s face dropped in horror. “You were a foster kid?” she asked in the same way I imagined someone might ask “you killed eleven people?”

“I was, yes,” I confirmed casually. Just like Marcus, I’d encountered more than my fair share of closed-minded, ignorant people in my life. I’d been judged for not having a family, viewed as a misfit for being in the system. I’d taught myself a long time ago to brush it off. “And now I volunteer every week at the group home in Hope Valley.”

“Well at least you do charity work,” Sandra said, like that made up for the fact I was a discard. “I myself am on the board of several worthy charities.”

I pinched my brows together and tilted my head to the side. “I’m curious. What exactly do you consider to be aworthycharity?”

“Oh, you know. All the big ones. Breast cancer, human trafficking, kids.”

“Kids,” I repeated, like saying the word would shine some clarity on it. “Just...kids? Or something more specific?”

She didn’t answer, just looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“What is it you do, Layla?” Chandler asked next. “Knowing what a . . . thrifty man my cousin is”—he paused to share a conspiratorial look with his wife, like the two of them were in on some sort of secret—“I can only assume you have a job?”

“I work at Whiskey Dolls.”

“You’re a cocktail waitress?” Leah asked with a pinched face.

“No, you ignorant lump of silicone,” Sybil cut in. “She’s a performer.”

That face didn’t look any less sour as she said, “So, like, a stripper? Did you have to go into that line of work because you were a foster kid and couldn’t afford an education?”

“Is that how you and Jude met?” Chandler chortled. “He pay you for a lap dance?”

“Listen you little shithead—” Jude started, but I cut him off with a hand to his shoulder. I could see all over Chandler’s face that he was looking to get a rise out of him, and Jude was giving him exactly what he wanted. I’d be damned if I let that happen. I could handle whatever they dished out. I didn’t want him worrying about me.

“I actually went to college, and no, I’m not a stripper. I’m a burlesque performer.”

“Isn’t it basically the same thing?” Sandra continued, not ready to let go of the whole stripper thing.

“No, it’s not the same thing,” Sybil spat. “You should know this, considering you took your clothes off for money under the name of Sandy Storm five nights a week until you poked holes in the condom and got yourself knocked up by my son.”

Oh damn.

“That was a long time ago,” Sandra defended on a hiss.

“And how easily we forget our roots,” Sybil chided. “Layla here is a trainedperformerat the premiere burlesque club in the whole state. She and the rest of the dancers she works with are local celebrities. You’d be wise to remember that.”

“What about you, Leah?” I asked, turning the conversation around. It was my turn to get in a few digs. “Do you do anything useful for a living, or do you tack your name to whatever charity is fashionable at the moment like Sandra?”

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