LOLA #2
It doesn’t take long for the panic to build.
The sense that if I stay here another minute, I’ll do something stupid.
Stupider than usual. Maybe trash the house.
Maybe take too many pills. Maybe rip the sheets and hang myself with the tatters just to see if Marcus cares when he comes home to a mess he didn’t make.
When I look out the window, I see the glow in Sophie’s room next door.
Warm yellow. Homey. Almost normal. It’s still early in the evening.
There’s still time to feel alive. Our houses are supposed to be rich-people mansions, but I always thought they looked more like asylums. Big, cold, too much glass.
You can see everything everyone does, every hour of every night.
Marcus liked it that way. Never any secrets.
I slide into a long coat, smooth my skirt, and ignore the pulsing ache in my side. When I slip outside, the air is cold. My heart is thumping, my mouth dry. This is so fucking stupid but I do it anyway.
I ring the doorbell.
It’s Sophie who opens the door. She’s in sweats, her hair in a messy bun, eyes wide with concern.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is a balm I don’t deserve. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “I tripped earlier and hit my face on the table. Clumsiest bitch alive. I haven’t been feeling great.”
She scans my face. She knows I’m lying. She always knows, but she never calls me on it. She just pulls me inside with a gentle hand on my arm, as if I might break.
The house is painfully quiet. Brody is stretched out on the couch, all angles and darkness, scrolling on his phone. He looks up when I come in, his eyes cold, stormy, already picking me apart.
He snorts. “Never knew furniture could punch back.”
I roll my eyes. “Fuck off, Brody.”
“Maybe you should try falling up the stairs next time. Even the head trauma might be an improvement.”
He’s cruel, always has been. But it stings more tonight.
Sophie shoots him a murderous glare. “Brody.”
He shrugs, no apology in it. Setting his phone aside, he watches me, waiting for me to say why I came over here in the middle of the night.
I sink into the armchair, legs crossed, trying to look casual. “I just—needed to get out. The house was giving me cabin fever.”
Sophie softens instantly. “Do you want tea? Or snacks?”
I grin at her, trying to be playful. “No, I want to go out. Get trashed. Maybe even dance.” My chest thrums with anticipation. I need chaos, I want to be reckless.
She lights up. “There’s that new club downtown. Velvet.”
Brody’s eyes narrow. “Velvet.”
“Yeah,” Sophie says. “The one with the neon sign. Supposed to be impossible to get into, but Lola’s face could get us anywhere.”
I smooth my hair, all performative confidence, but the compliment lands flat. I’m so sick of being wanted only for a body that doesn’t even feel like mine.
“Sounds fun,” I say. “Let’s do it. I’m bored out of my skull.”
Brody tilts his head, a predator considering his prey. “Getting drunk and pawed at by losers is your new hobby?”
I cross my arms, challenging him. “You got a problem with it?”
He leans back, arms folded, and his shirt stretches tight across his chest. “No. Do whatever the fuck you want. Doesn’t matter to me.”
Liar. The air between us ripples with hostility, history, more than either of us will say out loud.
Sophie steps between us, voice light, defusing. “Why don’t you come too, Brody? Be our—what’s the word—bodyguard.”
She winks at me and I play along. “Yeah, keep the creeps away.”
He hesitates just half a second. Then: “Fine. But I’m not going to chase after you if you get yourself killed.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to.”
He stands, crosses to the stairs. His movements are liquid violence, all coiled muscle and threat. “Give me five minutes.”
He disappears upstairs. Sophie grabs my hand, leads me to her room. She has always been the best at normal. The best at pretending.
She pulls open her closet, clothes everywhere. “Pick a dress,” she says. “Something slutty.”
I laugh. “You know me.”
We dig through the fabrics, sequins and velvet, and cheap silk. I pick a dress barely long enough to cover my ass, cut low in front. It’s red, of course.
Look at me. Look at me. Hurt me, hate me, want me.
Sophie’s choice is sleeker, darker blue, straps thin. She plops onto her vanity stool and starts curling her hair. She hands me a brush. “You sure you’re okay?”
There it is again. That soft edge, that worry. I hate it. I love it. It makes me want to scream.
I paste on a smile. “I’m fine, Soph. Seriously.”
She doesn’t push.
I pile on more makeup: more concealer, more contour, darker lipstick to hide the shaking in my mouth. My hands are not steady, but I make it work.
We talk about nothing. A guy she’s seeing. A show on TV. I make jokes, crack them too loud. It’s the coke, probably. Everything feels like it’s vibrating. Inside, the loneliness is deafening, but from here you’d never know.
Brody knocks once on the door but doesn’t wait for permission before walking in. He’s changed into a black button-up, the sleeves rolled, and dark pants. He looks expensive, controlled, and dangerous. He could break me in half without blinking.
He surveys us, eyes lingering on the top of my tits, then my face. I pretend not to notice, but heat pools under my skin. I remember what it’s like when he touched me. He fucked like a wild animal, especially when he was angry. Sometimes I think that was the only time I was ever alive.
He grunts. “You ready?”
Sophie laughs. “Almost. What’s the rush?”
He scans me again. Judging. Always fucking judging.
I smirk at him. “You going to be able to keep up, or do you want to stay home and knit?”
He steps closer, stands too close. The room shrinks. “Try me, Bambi.”
The nickname is a punch in the gut. He used to say it when he was sweet to me. Now it’s an insult.
You’re so pretty, Bambi. My pretty girl.
We could lay here forever, Bambi. You make me feel so complete.
Come close Bambi, you know you want to.
Do you think we’ll find each other again in the stars, Bambi? After we die? I don’t want to be apart from you. Not ever.
I lift my chin, refusing to shrink. “Don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say.”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “God, you two are hopeless.”
I watch him as he turns away. My body is reacting, even if my mind is chaotic. My nipples are tight, my thighs ache. I want him to pin me to the wall and say how much he hates me. I want him to break me open so I can finally feel something that isn’t this.
Sophie pulls on a coat and checks herself in the mirror. “You look amazing, Lo.”
I don’t, but maybe she believes it. Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll be true.
Brody waits in the hall, arms folded, the way cops do before raiding a house. I head out first, brushing past him. He catches my arm for a second, his grip bruising me, but lets go just as fast.
He leans in, voice low for my ear only. “You don’t have to try so hard, you know. Everyone already knows what you are.”
I should slap him. Instead, I laugh. “Yeah? What’s that?”
He just shakes his head. “Forget it.”
I hop into Sophie’s car, she drives, music loud. Brody drives his car. I stare out the window, watch the city lights flicker past, count every second until I can get my hands on a drink, a stranger, a reason to lose control.
My heart is pounding. Somewhere in my head, my mother is whispering: This isn’t you. But it is. Or maybe it’s all I have left.
When we pull up to the club, there’s a line six blocks long. But the bouncer takes one look at me and we’re inside in seconds. I toss my coat. I am all skin and hunger. No one can tell I’m shattered underneath. Shattered in the black of the night.
Sophie grabs my hand and pulls me toward the bar. Brody hovers, never too far. The lights strobe blue, red, violet. For once, I don’t care who sees me. I order shots. I want to feel invincible. Or maybe just numb.
Sophie is laughing and dancing. I join her, hips rolling, girls watching, men circling. I want them to see. I want them to touch. I want Brody to watch and hate me for it.
He does. I can feel it, like a chain around my throat.
I let the music vibrate through my bones. I let the eyes on me fill the emptiness a little. It almost works. Almost. I lose count of the drinks. I lose count of the hands, but I don’t lose count of Brody. He’s always there. Watching. Waiting for me to fuck up so he can punish me.
Men circle, close in, touch my hips, my ass, brush their thumb across my lower back. I let them. I let their fingers dig in, let lips skim my throat.
If this hurts Marcus, good. If this hurts me, even better.
Sophie is a few feet away, lit up with giddy joy. She shouts, “You bitch, you’re going to get us kicked out!” and I laugh, almost alive.
I feel eyes on me. I turn, and there’s Brody, leaning against the wall. Arms crossed, eyes molten. I make myself a spectacle. It’s the only power I have left.
The guy I’m with gets bold, he slides his hand up my thigh until he hits skin, and I flash him a look: Go on, see what happens.
He pushes it, and now he’s pressed up behind me in the dark, hands everywhere. His breath is sour in my ear. “Let’s take this somewhere quieter.”
I laugh, head tipped back. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”
That’s when Brody’s voice slices through the bass.
“Be careful with this one,” he says to the guy, tone dead. “She’s a slut with no heart.”
The guy stiffens and pulls his hands back. “Fuck, man, we’re just—”
Brody steps between us. “Ask around. She’ll chew you up and spit you out.”
He’s not even looking at the guy. Just me.
I snap, instantly. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
He laughs. “I’d know. I fucked you before anyone else did, Bambi.”
My cheeks sting, but I refuse to break. “Is that all you care about? Being first?”