Crushed Ice by Eric Pete Page A

all night looking at it when it wasn’t buried between Sophia’s legs. As she planted false Hollywood kisses on the cheeks of partygoers, she was working her way in our direction.
    â€œNatalia’s here. We have to go. Now,” I whispered, grasping Sophia by the arm.
    â€œWhy the rush? I can have a couple of bottles of Veuve Clicquot sent over.”
    â€œMaybe another time,” I offered dismissively as I spirited Sophia away before Jason could sink his fangs in her, or Natalia could see us.
    We wormed our way through the crowd, intent on getting out as soon as possible. Fate was on our side, for we’d just exited PURE through one door when Penny Antnee and his boys rolled up to enter the club. That included Loup Garou, who only saw the back of my head as Sophia and I headed in the opposite direction.
    Instead of sharing my relief, Sophia chose to pepper me with question after question during the cab ride to the airport. I had no respite.
    â€œTruth,” she called out. “That’s really your name?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWow. Like, ‘the truth will set you free,’ or truth or dare?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œAnd Jason North from On-Phire Records is your . . . uncle?”
    â€œYeah,” I answered wearily as I stared at my reflection in the cab window, a reflection that shared more than a passing resemblance to Jason. I was thinking about the final contemptuous gaze I’d shared with him in PURE. The one Sophia didn’t see. “We’re family.”

Chapter 18
    Way Back . . .
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    â€œWho is the boy’s father?” he asked. “Or do you even know?”
    She slapped him. Straight up pasted her hand to his face. “How dare you,” my mother spat. I was astounded by her rage, but kept my head down. Grown folks’ business. I remember staring at the hardwood floor to his office and thinking how pristine it was.
    The place looked more like a house, with its inviting porch and black wrought iron fence outside, than a law office. Although my mother had told me of the city often enough, that didn’t prepare me. New Orleans was different—equal parts magic and madness, triumph and tragedy. More fairy tale than Hollywood even.
    What lessons had driven my mother from here?
    â€œA man can’t ask a simple question?” my mother’s brother asked as he rubbed his reddened cheek. “I haven’t seen you since you ran off. Now you show up with this boy. I only discovered you were on the soaps because somebody out here recognized you. Can’t say what you were doing before that when you were in New Mexico. Wait. I take that back. I know some of what you were doing in New Mexico . . . which brings me back to my original question.”
    â€œHe’s my son. I was pregnant with him before I got to New Mexico. And that’s all that should matter,” she said steadfastly, her hand on my shoulder as she resisted slapping him again. He looked at me curiously, then back at my mother.
    â€œHow old are you, son?” he asked me as he came closer. He made me nervous. When I answered, he stared at me longer. Made me wish we’d stayed in California and never took the Greyhound here, despite how bad things had become.
    â€œWe were living out of the car. Then it got impounded. I couldn’t think of anyone else. We . . . I need help,” she said, her voice trailing off. I listened to how she skipped over some of the darker aspects of our ordeal. They’d begun to take a toll on her mind. She saw things that weren’t there, and rarely slept. Over the years, I would come to comprehend them more thoroughly.
    â€œYou should have been called me, Leila. I’m doing things now.”
    â€œThe legal business suits you, huh?”
    â€œNot this. It keeps the bills paid, but if you’re not knee deep in the politics or ambulance chasing of this place, you can only progress so