Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) by C.M. Stunich Page B

me to keep 'em out of the cane fields. Hand her over.”
    “Cane fields?” Turner asks, wrinkling his handsome face up. “The hell is that?”
    “Sugar, numb nuts,” Ronnie says, borrowing the unlit cigarette from my mouth.
    “Yup,” I say as I take Lydia against my chest and smile as she immediately catches on one of my tattoos, poking her hand into my jacket and stabbing her finger against the ink. Holding her like this makes me sick to my stomach. Tears spring to my eyes and it takes every ounce of self-control and fuck-the-world-bitch I have inside of me to keep them back. “I was a cane cocky's daughter.”
    “Kitty,” Lydia says, petting the leopard print tattoo I have on my shoulder. “I like kitties.”
    “A sugar farmer's daughter,” Ronnie whispers into Turner's ear. Turner scowls and shoves his friend away, straightening his neon pink shirt and pulling his belt off to the side, so it hangs crooked. I always thought the point was to put it through the loops, but fuck me running, guess I don't know shit about fashion. Besides, it's not like the asswad needs anything to hold up his pants. They're so tight, they might as well be painted on.
    “I know that, fuckface. And don't breathe on me. I'd rather not catch a disease.” Turner steals the still unlit cig from Ronnie and slaps his cheek. “Full disclosure, remember? Warn your date next time.” He moves away to stand next to Treyjan and lights up. He's pretending not to listen, but I can tell otherwise. Idiot in disguise, huh? I wonder as I smile at Lydia.
    “I like kitties, too,” I tell her, too. “I had a whole bunch growing up, to keep away the mice.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her, and she smiles wider. Just behind the glint in her eyes is a terrible memory, darkening what should be an innocent face. Here is the vicim of this tragedy, held tight in my arms, a girl who will never know her mother. I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to push back another set of tears. Not all mothers are gifts from God, remember? She might've been like yours, like that crack whore junkie bitch from hell. But she might not have been. That's the part that makes me sick to my stomach. “Birds, too.” I shrug my jacket off and let it slide down my arm, noticing as I do that Ronnie's watching me very, very closely. He runs his tongue across his lips and adjusts his stance, reaching down to pull up his baggy jeans.
    My rainbow lorikeet tattoo smiles up at us, a sea of bright colors curling down my bicep, making me nostalgic for home. I hope my dad is managing the birds alright. Might have to kick his ass if I find out he isn't. He always had a head for plants, but animals … and daughters, not so much.
    “My mother used to breed them when I was a kid.” Lydia rubs her hand down my arm and pats the ink gently.
    “Nice birdie,” she says, eyes still cloudy but with a hint of sunshine in there somewhere. Ronnie's smile gets wider too, a bit more curled at the edges. I study Lydia's baggy shirt and the tiny boxer shorts she's wearing. Not the most appropriate clothes for an ankle-biter.
    “You need any help shopping?” I ask him, and he laughs, throwing his head back to the sky and putting his hands together in a prayer position.
    “I would fucking love you for it,” he says, tilting his head back down and smiling at me. He's just got the most perfect face. I can't seem to resist it. Thought I'd have no problem going in and taking care of what had to be done, but now that I'm getting to know the guy, I can't imagine hurting him. Or his kid. I guess striking a blind target is a hell of a lot easier than spitting in someone's face. My eyes trail over his lips, down to his neck where brightly colored snakes twine with vines and roses, making the sickest freaking neck piece I have ever seen. “Really, I'd owe you one.” I raise my brows at him and pop out my hip, making sure Lydia's sitting nice and comfy. It's the least I can do. That, and get her out of these nasty