15. Lola
LOLA
I need this to get through the day. Don’t judge me, momma.
That’s what I tell myself as I stand in the bathroom, hunched over the counter, snorting cocaine. It’s been a coping mechanism since momma died and Brody left me in the dark. I still can’t get the picture of her crushed body out of my head.
“Mom! Oh my god, are you okay?”
The wind whistles. The birds sing. The sun still shines.
But, my mother does not answer. There is blood trickling out of her mouth and head, and her body is positioned at an awkward angle.
One arm is bent backwards, one leg is bent sideways.
Her eyes are staring straight ahead but the light has been swallowed, and there is no reaction.
“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Please don’t leave me alone with him.”
My sobs are loud, it echoes throughout the land. She does not wake up. She does not reach her hand up to caress my face and tell me that it will be okay. She just lays there. Silent and still.
It was supposed to be a fun day. A mother and daughter day trip. Hiking in the mountains. It was supposed to be a distraction.
It became the worst day of my life.
I bend down and close one nostril, then snort the powder up the other nostril. I close my eyes and inhale the burn. There is a tingling sensation that makes me dizzy, then numb. Thankfully, I know how to put on an act. Marcus will not know that his perfect daughter is on drugs.
Lately, I’m on edge from paranoia. It grips me like a hungry predator. Ever since I received those ominous messages, I can’t relax. Someone was out there watching me, it horrified me.
I walk out of the bathroom and smooth my hair down, taking one look at myself in the hallway mirror. The reflection staring back at me is a stranger. Empty eyes. Lost. Gone. I touch my face. The skin is cold, as if I am already dead. Maybe I am, and this is my own personal hell.
Today are the days I dread. Modeling shoots, being so vulnerable and exposed in front of shady men is a risk. But it’s a risk I have to take if I want to survive my own personal hell living with Marcus.
My bruises are fading. I can easily apply makeup and look brand new. Like a pretty doll. That’s what Marcus says. The mirror is cracked, smeared with old fingerprints. I look at myself, eyes too wide, pupils blown. The top is still barely covering me.
I hate this. I hate who I am when I do this. I hate how guilty I feel when I think of my mother’s face and the life she wished for me.
Sorry, mom. You crushed your skull when you fell during our hike. And I am left with the hungry beast. Your husband.
My phone buzzes, a dull little vibration against the counter.
Unknown number.
I swipe it away, heart pounding. For a second, I think of Marcus. Maybe he’s checking in, making sure I’m not about to let the whole thing collapse.
My skin goes cold. I picture his mouth, twisting around the words I can’t make myself forget. “Don’t disappoint me. You know I only punish you to make you better.”
I fight the urge to throw up into the sink. Instead, I fix my lipstick, dab the sweat off my cheeks, and tell myself it’s only forty minutes until I’m done. I take the bag of cocaine out of my bag and snort some up my nose. Just something to get me through the wandering eyes.
A knock on the door, a voice rising: “Let’s go, gorgeous!”
I smile at my own reflection. A fucked up thing.
Back in the warehouse, someone has turned the thermostat even lower. I can feel goosebumps racing up my arms, between my legs, and over my chest. I cross my arms, but that just pushes my boobs together. The men notice.
They always notice.
Gary or Greg or whatever gives me a new prop. A silk scarf, deep blue, like drowning. “You mind tying this around your throat? We want a little more edge for the last set.”
Of course. Always the throat. They want to imagine their hands here, squeezing until my eyes water.
I wrap the scarf slowly, like a snake. My fingers tremble, but I act like it’s sensual. The camera likes that. Someone in the back mutters, “Fuck, that’s hot.”
I hate them. I hate that I’m good at this. Being watched, being consumed.
The rest goes by in a blur. I move where they tell me. I smile, pout, look afraid, look hungry. Sometimes I am hungry. Not for them, for anything but them. For Brody’s mouth on my neck, for Sophie’s gentle touch, for sleep that doesn’t end in screams.
The final shots come quickly. The assistant brings me a water bottle, I drink half of it in one gulp even though it tastes like plastic.
The room empties around me. Most of them are already packing up, talking about dinner, about getting drinks, about what they’d do if they could “have a model for just one night.”
I get paid $400 cash, shoved into a cheap envelope.
The rest goes to Marcus. No one looks me in the eye.
I walk out into the parking lot, the sun is gone, just a bruise of purple and gold at the horizon.
My car sits under a flickering streetlight, all alone, like me.
The other cars are gone. Even the van from the studio peeled out already.
I hustle across the lot, keys tight in my fist, purse clamped against my side. I don’t look over my shoulder, not until I’m in the car. My hands shake as I unlock it and slide into the driver’s seat, slam the door, lock it. I shove the key into the ignition, twist.
Nothing. Just a weak cough from the engine, then a pathetic grinding sound. I try again. Harder. Even though I know it’s pointless. The same. A sick little whine.
Out of habit, I check my phone. Sophie’s name is at the top of my recent calls. I hit it. It rings, and rings, and rings. No answer. She’s probably out with friends. Or maybe she’s just sick of being my emergency contact.
I text her anyway:
Car’s dead @ studio, can you call me? xoxo
I wait a minute. Nothing.
Looking up, I scan the parking lot again. There’s a weird emptiness now, a flatness. Something crawls along the skin at the back of my neck. The kind of feeling you get when a man is about to do something awful, and you know nobody will help you if you scream.
I know that feeling all too well.
I scroll my contacts. There’s only one number I know will pick up, even if it’s just to tell me I’m a fuckup. My thumb hovers over Brody’s name. Last time I saw him, he barely looked at me. But people like Brody, they don’t just vanish.
I dial.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Bambi.” His voice is ice and velvet, even through the phone. The old nickname fogs the inside of my head.
“I need a ride, I’m having car trouble,” I say. I sound tired, even to myself.
He doesn’t ask why. “Where?”
I tell him the address. There is a pause, like he’s already there but wants to make me sweat. “I’ll be there soon.” He ends the call. No goodbye.
I sit in the car and stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror, at the makeup smudged under my eyes, at my chest straining the fabric of my shirt. He’ll see it, too. He always did.
I try Sophie again. She still doesn’t answer. Minutes pass. I can’t stop tapping my foot, chewing the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.
A black car glides into the lot. Shiny, expensive. Brody’s taste, always high-end. It stops right next to me and the window slides down. His eyes are the first thing I see. Blue-gray, hungry. They pin me in place.
I get out, slam the door of my dead car, and walk over. He’s already out of his seat, walking toward me with measured steps like a predator in a suit.
I try to act casual. “Thanks,” I mumble. “Car’s fucked, obviously.”
He ignores me, pops my hood, leans over, and runs his hands over the engine like he’s going to rip it open with his bare hands. I watch the way the muscles move under his shirt, like he’s barely keeping it together. He glances over his shoulder. His eyes don’t let go of me, not even for a second.
He straightens, wipes his hand on his thigh. “You need a tow.” There’s a flicker of something in his voice. Amusement? Disdain? He pulls his phone out and makes a call. His voice goes low. “Need a tow at the address I gave you. Now.” He hangs up, turning back to me. “NorthLine is sending someone.”
I nod, like I know what that means. He studies me for a moment, eyes sinking down to my chest, lingering.
“Nice shirt,” he murmurs, like it’s a mockery, not a compliment.
There’s nowhere to stand that doesn’t feel exposed. I cross my arms tight over my tits, but he just smirks. We get in his car and wait. It smells like him. I remember pressing my face into his neck back when we were teenagers, inhaling that smell.
Brody sits close, so close I can feel the heat coming off him. My bare leg almost touches his thigh. I try not to shake. He stretches one arm behind me, his hand gripping the headrest. There’s a tension in him. It’s a coiled menace.
“NorthLine. You ever heard of them before?” He says it casual, but nothing about Brody is casual.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
He watches my face. I feel him searching for something under my skin, like he could see right through me if he tried hard enough.
He leans in a little, his breath warm in my ear. “They work a lot of shady jobs for rich assholes. You should stay away from guys like that.”
His voice drags across my nerves. I stare ahead, jaw tight. “I don’t pick my mechanics based on their morals, Brody.”
He laughs. “You never did.” His hand shifts closer, grazing my thigh. I feel his pulse through the fabric, hard and relentless. He glances at me sideways. “You should be more careful where you park. Not everyone’s safe at night, Lola.”
His words don’t feel like a comfort. In fact, they feel like a threat. Like he is taunting me.
I whip my head around. “This isn’t my fault.”
He smiles, too cold, too hungry. “It never is, right?”
Heat flares between us. I turn away, fist clenching on my purse. “I can take care of myself.”
He snorts. “Sure. That’s why you’re here, dressed like that, begging me for a ride.”
I look down at myself. The top, the way my boobs look obscene under the dim car light. I want to disappear.