Shannon took a deep breath and nodded, then waved to the scene unfolding in front of her in the empty club. “You’re right. Everything looks amazing.”

“I will text you and keep you updated. I can even send you pictures and video,” Christine said, as she continued to shoo her away.

“Yes, please do,” she said, and then walked out of the club.

Along the way, she spotted James, Brent’s key investor and advisor. “Hi James,” she said with a quick wave.

“Hey, Shay. How’s everything going? The dancers look great, don’t they?”

She gave him a double thumbs up. “Thank you. So glad you feel that way. And thank you for your time earlier in the week.”

“It was nothing. Brent’s great. Glad to help out, even if it means my mug is on camera.”

She race-walked past the shops of the Luxe and threaded her way through the slot machines and card tables on her way to the exit. She handed the ticket to the valet, and tapped her foot as she waited for her car. She lowered her shades, and grabbed her phone from her purse. She had several missed calls from Brent.

Shit.

She hadn’t heard her phone when she was inside Edge and the music was playing.

Quickly, so she could get out of Dodge in a jiffy, she called up the GPS app on her phone, plugging in the address of the Stella McLaren Federal Women’s Correctional Center in Hawthorne, Nevada. Four hours and thirty minutes away, the app predicted. That was doable. Very doable. She plugged in her headset and dialed Brent.

“You looking for me?”

She stared at the screen. The voice didn’t seem to be coming from the phone. It was coming from... she looked up and saw the valet shutting a town car door, then her husband walking over to her.

She parted her lips to speak, but he went first as another valet pulled up with her little red car.

“I’ll take it from here,” he said. “I’ll drive.”

“But...” she said, sputtering.

“No ifs, ands, or buts about it. No wife of mine is driving five hours in the desert, then five hours back to catch a flight to be by my side. I’m going to be by her side,” he said, his eyes fixed on her, his gaze so strong, as he opened the passenger door for her. She slid into the car, the surprise of seeing him still working its way through her.

He walked behind the vehicle, tipping the valet, then got in on the driver’s side. After adjusting the seat and the mirrors, he pulled out of the Luxe’s portico.

“Did you just literally walk off the plane?” she asked, still trying to compute that he was there, and not flying across the country to New York. “Stand up and leave? Like in the movies or something?”

He nodded as he flipped on the blinker to turn right. “I did.”

“So we’ll take the red-eye together?”

He shook his head. He was grinning wickedly.

She scrunched her brow. “I don’t get it.”

He dropped a hand to her thigh and squeezed. “The red-eye was booked. No room on it. Turns out my wife got the last seat, and I’m having none of that. I missed the chance to be there for you in the past. This is important. You’re not going alone. I’m going with you. Every step of the way. I called Tanner and said I wouldn’t be able to make it.”

She brought her hand to her chest, overwhelmed by what he’d done. How he’d chosen her. How he’d walked away from work to stand by her. “What did he say? Was he angry?”

“He wasn’t too happy about it. I said I had to be here for you. Case closed.”

“But you’ll lose New York if you don’t go to the picnic tomorrow.”

He flashed her a million-dollar smile. “Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. And sometimes you decide there are more important things than a business deal. Like you. Always you.” He pointed to the radio. “Now, let’s crank up some tunes. You got a desert driving playlist? We need something to rock out to.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Would ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ be too ironic?”

“Irony is my middle name.”

She turned on Johnny Cash and held her husband’s hand the whole way through the desert as the sun rose high in the sky, blazing through the windshield, the road unfurling before them in a slate ribbon, her heart fuller than it had ever been.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The air conditioning hummed, blasting out sheets of cool air in the stark visiting room. Shannon rubbed her bare arms, wishing she’d brought a sweater. She didn’t remember it having been so chilly the last time she was there. Perched on the edge of a hard plastic chair at a table inside a small room, she waited.

She tried to conjure up an image of her mother, tried to remember how Dora had looked at Christmas, but the images that paraded before her eyes were older ones, so much older. Sewing Shannon’s leotard, the corner of her lips screwed up in concentration as she threaded. Placing a Band-Aid on Shannon’s knee when she’d skidded on her bike. Holding her hand as she walked her to school. So young, so vibrant, so blond. Just like Shannon. She’d had the same bright blond hair. Absently, Shannon raised her hand to her now-brown hair.

Someone opened the door.

Shannon rose. Nerves skittered across her flesh. The corrections officer appeared first, a tall, sturdy woman with dark hair in a braid. Holding the door open, the guard nodded and grunted a curt hello.

“Hello,” Shannon said, the word feeling strange on her tongue. Even after all these years, it still never felt normal to be conversing with a corrections officer.

Her mother entered, and Shannon did her best impression of a sealed-up box. Otherwise she’d fall to pieces. Keeping her chin up, her muscles steady, she managed a simple, “Hi, Mom.”

Her mother was a shadow of the woman she’d once been. Her bright blond hair was the color of dishwater, her cheeks were sunken, and her green eyes were a shade of sallow. Even so, she smiled. Her lips, with their cracked red lipstick, quivered as she held out her arms for a hug.

“My baby,” said the woman in orange.

Shannon walked into her arms, embarrassment and shame smacking her from all directions. She wasn’t ashamed this woman was her mother. She was ashamed for Dora, for what she’d become, for the choices she’d made that led her to this. Thin arms wrapped around Shannon, arms that had once been strong and maternal. Her mother clutched her.

“Oh, baby. My baby. It is so good to see you again,” Dora said, her mouth closer to Shannon’s neck than she would have liked.

“It’s good to see you, too, Mom,” Shannon said, lying, but knowing it was only a white lie. It wouldn’t hurt anyone for her to say that.

“I’m so happy you’re here.” Another firm grip, then she felt the first drop from her mom’s eyes. A tear had fallen on Shannon’s bare shoulder as Dora embraced harder and tighter, as if she could graft her body onto Shannon’s and escape as a growth on her kid.

“All right, Prince. That’s enough,” the CO said, her command clear.

Shannon’s mom pulled away, and shot the woman a contrite look. “Sorry. I just missed my baby girl so much. She’s a dancer. Isn’t she lovely?” Her mom held out her arms to Shannon as if she were presenting her on Wheel of Fortune.

“Mom, stop,” Shannon said, embarrassed now for a whole new reason. She glanced at the woman. “We’re fine. We’ll sit down now.”

“Behave, Prince,” the woman warned as she shut the door, leaving Shannon alone with her mother. They sat at the gray plastic table, like the kind in a cafeteria.

“Baloney,” her mom said.

“Baloney?”

“That’s what they fed me the other day. Baloney on white bread. Can you believe it? Baloney.” Her mom brought her hand to her eyes, covering them, as if the memory of the cold cuts was too much to bear. “I hate baloney.”

“Tell them you hate it.”