16. Lola
LOLA
I am buried deep in darkness. It consumes me, and I do not want to wake up. I could lie here in the dark for hours. I could let the day slide through my fingers until Marcus barges in and drags me out himself. That would be worse. That always goes worse.
But, the day always calls for me, and I cannot keep Marcus waiting for long. The house is cold when I step out into the hallway. Downstairs, Marcus is sitting at the table. I say nothing when I enter, keeping my head bowed, lips zipped, eyes on the floor.
He lifts his coffee, studying me. “Well, well,” Marcus purrs. “Didn’t expect you up this early in the morning. I thought maybe a ghost would make it down first.”
My stomach sinks. I know better than to answer. He’s in that mood again. Hungry for weakness. He scans my makeup, the way my fingers tremble on the mug. His eyes dig right under the powder, seeing straight through every trick. I stiffen. Don’t let him catch a flinch. Don’t let him know it hurts.
He spreads a napkin on his lap, careful, precise. “You have errands today. Stop at the bank, the jeweler, my tailor. Ask for Mark. Don’t waste time, don’t lose receipts.” Every word is cold. “If you fuck around, I’ll hear about it. I always do.”
My mouth goes dry. “Yes, Marcus.”
He leans in. Slow. Coldness shining in his eyes. “And you will be home by six.”
I nod. There’s no right answer. He’s already made up his mind. A little god at the head of a dead breakfast table.
I stand and move. Don’t let him see you flinch. I gather my purse along with the little list he shoved into my palm. Bank. Jeweler. Tailor. Simple, right? But nothing is ever simple. Every door out of this house leads right back to him.
The air burns cold when I step outside. My knees almost buckle, but I keep moving. I always do.
I get in the car and lock the doors. My hands shake on the wheel, too weak to grip. When I check the rearview, I see a face I don’t even recognize. Blue-black makeup settling in a bruise beneath one eye, foundation barely covering it. Dead-girl lips. A fucked up doll.
Drive. Try not to look back, but I always check the mirror. Always. There’s that same black car from earlier. Parked on the wrong side of the street. Engine running. Probably nothing. Probably just my brain unraveling with fear.
I pull out. The car waits two beats then follows. Slow. Obvious.
Fuck.
First stop is the bank. I don’t make eye contact with the teller, just slide the slip under the glass and wait for the cash. She looks at my ID and then at my face. I smile the way I’m supposed to. Sweet and blank.
She hands me the envelope. Thick, heavy.
It’s not my money, not my name. I tuck it in my purse like a bomb.
When I glance out the glass, the black car is there.
Creeping through the drive-thru, one lane over.
I see a flash of white. A man’s arm, sleeve rolled up.
Then a baseball cap. The window’s up, but I can feel his eyes.
I bail as fast as I can, nearly tripping on the curb.
Groceries next. I don’t wander. I stick to the list. Eggs, cheese, coffee. Milk for him. Soup for me, just in case he lets me eat. Everywhere I move, I feel watched. Eyes move down my back, linger on my chest. The men in the aisles see only the parts of me they want to own.
I catch a man in a hat by the self-checkout.
He pretends to look at gum, but it’s me he’s watching.
I clutch my bag and run for the exit, heart hammering.
I try to text Sophie. Just a string of letters.
Help me. I’m scared. But my thumb deletes it before I can hit send.
Marcus checks my phone. He always knows. He always finds out.
I want to cry, but there’s nothing left.
Outside, the black car is across the street. Waiting. Always waiting. Next is the dry cleaner. In and out. Nobody speaks. At the crosswalk, I freeze, because there, leaning against a streetlight, is Brody.
He sees me instantly. No smile, no hello.
Just those wolf eyes, pinning me open, picking me apart from forty feet away.
I want to look away but I can’t. It’s like gravity.
Brody’s eyes, cold and endless. I feel it all up and down my spine.
That deep, sick thrill of being seen by the one man who doesn’t blink.
I cross the street anyway, keeping my chin up, shoulders back, ass tight, like he’s not the only predator watching. Black car is idling three spaces up. I can hear the low drone of the engine. I walk fast, the world spins around me.
Finally, I pull into the drive. The house is exactly the same, except now it’s full of him. Marcus. I feel his shadow in the bricks before I step inside. When I do, the stench of aftershave hits first. Then coffee. It’s a mask. Everything here is a mask.
Marcus sits in the living room with two men. All suits, all hungry. I don’t know their names, and I don’t want to.
He gestures at me with something that isn’t quite a smile. “Come in, Lola. I was just telling our guests about your little job today.”
I keep my eyes on the floor as I walk slowly, knees nauseous, and make sure my skirt doesn’t ride up too high. He likes to punish me for that, if there’s an audience.
Marcus snaps his fingers. “Coffee for the table, sweetheart.”
I fetch it and pour, steadying the cup on the tray even when my hands want to shake. When I lean over to set the cup on the glass table, one of the men stares straight at my tits. Not even subtle.
Marcus sees. Of course he does. His hand finds my arm, right above the wrist, and squeezes.
His smile never falters. “She’s my pride and joy,” he jokes. “Always so eager to do what she’s told. Aren’t you, Lola?”
He twists my wrist and I nearly drop the coffee. My voice shakes, but I keep it steady. “Yes. Always.”
The men laugh. It’s not human. Just noise.
They talk about money, expansion, the usual Marcus crap.
Sometimes they reference me by name, but never for anything real.
Just the shape I make. Their greed augments.
And underneath it, another feeling. Hunger.
Like I’m meat, and they’re just waiting for the signal to bite.
The men talk numbers, then logistics. I stop listening. I slip out of myself, float up to the ceiling. They don’t need me here. Not really. Only Marcus does. He watches the men. Watches me. His gaze licks along my skin, cold and bored, pretending I’m nothing at all.
Then it’s over. Chairs scrape, hands shake, goodbyes barked rough. The men drift out, fumble sloppy with the door, coughing and laughing, back to whatever rut in the city they crawled from.
Finally. Silence. For one moment, I choke on relief.
Marcus sits, back rigid, waiting for the echoes to die. I stand in the doorway and wait for the next order. He cocks his head, not looking. “Clear this up,” he barks like I’m a robot or a pet.
I do it. Stack the plates, wipe crumbs. I don’t even taste what’s in the bowls. I could eat the soap instead. When the table is clean enough he gestures. Time for dinner. We sit together at the big, cold slab of a table. Just us. The worst part.
Lights are too bright overhead. My skin prickles under his stare. I pick at a baked potato, push shredded meat around my plate while my stomach squirms.
Marcus cuts his steak into perfect, even cubes; each motion is exact. I force myself to swallow a forkful. My gut protests. My ribs pulse under the turtleneck. He watches me chew, watches my throat work. Every swallow is a performance. Halfway through, I give up. My stomach’s collapsing inward.
“You have to eat more than that,” Marcus says, voice flat. “People notice if you lose too much weight. It doesn’t photograph.”
I nod, pick up the fork again and shove a cold lump of potato in my mouth, trying not to gag.
He finishes first, as always.He stands, chair leg squealing against the floor as he wipes his mouth. “I’ll be in the office. Don’t bother me.”
His footsteps vanish down the hall. The door closes shut. I don’t move for a long time. Eventually, I make my way to my bedroom. A bathroom is connected to it, one of the many bathrooms we have. I wonder why we live in such a big house. It feels unnecessary to have all these rooms.
Especially since it is just me and the monster.
I peel my clothes off and step into the shower. The heat of the water burns at first, making my bruises swell and scream. Then it subsides, and I am numb in the heat. The water cascades, and I wish I could float here forever.
Staring at the wall, I think of Brody. How good he made me feel. How being with him felt like this shower. Warm, safe, secure.
Now I am just a cold body drifting away.
Once the heat of the water runs out, I step out and redress myself in pajama pants and a loose t-shirt. It’s cold in my room. I can’t stop the shaking in my hands. It won’t go away. I try to breathe. I can’t.
The house is too quiet. The wrong kind of quiet. The kind that prickles the back of your neck and makes you want to dig a hole and hide. I drift from the bathroom to the door, checking the lock three times, even though I never used to bother. Not until him.
Down the hallway, darkness pools around every corner. I keep my feet light on the cheap wood floor. I listen. There’s a low rumble outside. Not thunder, more like an engine idling. Then it cuts off. Doors thud. Heavy boots clack on the driveway.
Fuck.
My heart lurches into my neck. I duck to the window and peel up one corner of the blind. I see nothing but the drag of headlights across the curb. But they’re here. Someone’s here. More than one.
I back away, stomach flipping over itself.
I run to check the locks. Front door, checked.
Then the kitchen. Twist the deadbolt until my wrist aches.
My ribs spasm with every move. My phone is in my hand and I text Sophie.
“Just checking in,” I type, thumbs clumsy and numb.
Nothing comes back; the bubble never moves.