LOLA #3
Brody grabs my wrist and yanks me into the shadowed hall.
The guy dissolves, like everyone else always does.
We’re alone. He pins me to the wall, hard enough to make my chest seize.
One hand at my throat, thumb pressed just under my jaw.
He traces my skin down to the cut of the dress, until his finger hooks against the top of my breast.
His eyes are black with disgust and something so much hotter, hungrier. “You think acting like a whore is going to get me to care?” I can’t breathe. Not sure I want to. He leans in, mouth at my ear. “I fucking hate you. I don’t care what you do anymore.”
Bullshit. I push my hips up and grind until I feel him harden under the fabric. “If I’m nothing to you, why is your cock so hard, Brody? Hm?”
His grip tightens. He groans. Pain flashes. “Just because my dick is hard doesn’t mean you’re special to me anymore. I always liked you for your body, Bambi. But your personality became too fucking much.”
I let the words run through me, hot and bitter. I want to hurt him back.
“Guess I’m not the only one who changed, huh?” My voice shakes but I keep it steady. “You’re just like every other guy. At least I’m honest about it.”
He studies me, searching for cracks. “You’re bolder tonight. Sluttier, too.”
“Maybe this is who I really am. The old me is gone.” I say, mimicking the words he uttered to me not too long ago.
He moves closer, so close I could bite him. “I doubt that, Bambi.”
For a second I want him to smash my face in, kiss me, fuck me, any of it.
Instead, he says: “Don’t flatter yourself. I could have anyone here if I wanted. I just lost my taste for leftovers.”
He releases me and my back slams against the wall. I breathe in the pain, let it fill the cracks before storming off, heels stabbing the sticky floor. I’m shaking and wild, dying for another drink, another distraction.
Finding the bar, I slam a few shots straight. Everything’s blurry around the edges, but at least the ache isn’t just physical anymore.
Sophie finds me. Her smile fades when she sees my face. “What happened?”
“Your fucking brother’s an asshole,” I hiss.
She pulls me in, arms gentle, voice low. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just—Brody.”
“He’s worse than before.”
She tries to rock me, soothing. “Let’s just dance, okay? Forget him.”
I break away and scan the crowd for a man. Any man who looks like trouble. It takes seconds. He’s at the bar, a little older, hair buzzed. Smiles like he knows exactly what I’m offering.
We talk. I don’t hear what he says, I just want to feel wanted, even if it’s bullshit.
He offers me a ride and I grab my coat, almost making it out before Brody appears. He shoves between us, grabs my arm so hard I gasp. “She’s not going with you.”
The man tries to argue, but seeing Brody’s eyes, he bails.
I wrench my arm, but Brody just tightens his grip. “Let go of me, fucker!”
He leans in, a snarl under his breath. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lola. I’m doing this because Sophie will have a panic attack if you die tonight.”
The words almost hurt more than the fingers digging into my skin.
He drags me through the parking lot. I kick at him—childish, wasted, desperate—but he never breaks stride.Dumping me in the passenger seat of his car, he slams the door and drives away without a word.
His knuckles are white on the wheel. He’s seething, but he won’t look at me.
When we pull up to my house, my stomach drops. The lights are off. He kills the engine and stares straight ahead.
I yank open the door, trying to make a dramatic exit, but my heels catch on the walk. I go down, hard, onto my back. For a second I just lay there, staring at the sky. Empty, huge, uncaring. The universe doesn’t blink.
Brody gets out. He stalks over, hauls me up by my armpits, none too gentle. “You done?”
I want to hit him. I want to fuck him. I want to claw his eyes out. “Get off me.” He manhandles me to the porch, shoves me toward the door. I’m fumbling for the keys when panic hits. “I can’t—Brody, you can’t come in.”
He freezes. “What?”
“If you come in, Marcus will know. He’ll know I fucked up, that I wasn’t good—”
Brody’s face goes cold, analytic. “What are you talking about?”
I shake my head, wild, stupid. “Just—please, don’t.”
Please don’t push. Not now.
Brody wouldn’t understand. He’d only find some reason to call me a liar. Or dramatic. I want him to save me, but that won’t happen. Not ever again.
He lets me go and steps back. I unlock the door, stumble inside, and slam it behind me. Collapsing against the cool tile of the entry, my breath comes out ragged, my heart splintered.
Alone, again.
All night I tried to lose myself. All night I tried to make it stop. But the pain comes to bed with me, wraps its arms around my ribs, and presses my face to the pillow.
I want to claw myself out of my skin, but instead, I lie there. The emptiness gnaws and gnaws. Brody’s face, it melts in my mind. My mother’s eyes become black holes. Pale skin. Blood curling around her crushed bones.
Brody’s face again. Twisted in pain and anger.
A monster. He is storming away, back when we were nineteen, and telling me that I am dead to him.
My heart falls so far. It sinks and sinks until I wonder if I am a living thing.
I wonder if the light will ever return. Maybe tomorrow I’ll finally break for good.