Lola #2
The cold pack squeezes deeper into my armpit.
Another one lands on my forehead, stinging.
I try to squirm but his hands dig into my hips, pinning me to his lap.
I twist but it doesn’t fucking matter. He crushes the ice pack closer to my skin.
It burns, but I barely feel it. My whole body is lit up and empty at the same time. Every cell aches.
Brody wants control. He wants me desperate and docile, even now, while I’m sagging against him. The heat of his chest. The bones of his claws through my ribs, his chin digging into my hair.
He makes me drink again. “Open. Swallow.”
My lips are numb, but I do it even though my brain is full of fog and fire, and things I never want to say out loud. The world slips off its rails. The room is a smear; his voice, the only thing that cuts through.
I shudder so hard the couch rocks beneath us. I almost fall, but he bears down, locking my body to his. The habit is possession. He never lets go. Not even when he hates what I am.
He shakes me again. My eyes roll back but I force them to stay open.
“I never wanted Marcus. Not ever. I wanted you. That night…” My voice splinters.
The world tilts sideways. Words bleed out and scatter.
That night. I can still see it. The memory floats. Slippery, bright, burning like a coal in water. I see myself at the edge of the dance floor. Stupid. Hopeful. Wanting to call him. Wanting to run. My phone is cold in my hand, my chest hollow.
But he wasn’t there. Brody. My boy. Gone.
I want to tell him. I want to tell you everything.
The trap, the lies, the way the drugs made my hands float, made my dress slip, made the room throb brighter than my own thoughts. The hands of multiple boys at that house party. None of them were you.
I want to say you were right. I want to say you left me, but I never let go, not really. I needed you.
My body vibrates in his lap, shivers so hard he has to anchor me tighter. My head tips back, and I feel the shape of him, the arms, the hands, hot and furious under the skin. I want to melt into that. I want to fade.
He shakes me. Hard, like I’m a doll that might fall to pieces if he doesn’t catch every scrap.
“Lola. Which night?” His breath is rough in my hair, right up against the fever leaking out of me. “Talk.”
But I can’t. My tongue is on fire. My cheeks are wet and my ribs are empty cages. I huddle in close, hiding my face, but there is nowhere to hide. Not from him, not from the truth, not from the shame that beats against my chest like a bird trying to die.
That night. The night everything split. The night Marcus made sure I’d never be free again.
I don’t give him the words. My mouth won’t form them. The memory slides in sideways, and I choke down the bile rising to my lips. My hands clutch at his shirt.
Brody rocks me back and forth, more like he’s fighting to keep me alive with pure force of will. I can feel the pulse in his jaw, the panic hiding under the anger. His hands dig into me, not careful, not soft. Just stubborn.
He calls my name. Once. Twice. Each time rougher. “Lola. What happened? Tell me.”
“Wasn’t supposed to be like that. I was good. I tried to be good. He said, he said…”
My eyelids scrape down. I see stars. I see nothing. I see Marcus’s face, the flicker of disgust when I hesitate, the way the world went still.
Brody squeezes me. “Don’t you fucking leave me. You stay here.”
I laugh, or maybe I sob. It’s the same thing. “Doesn’t matter. He owns me. He always did.”
The room slides away from me. Spinning sickly. I’m weightless.
I float there, half in the dark, half crushed into Brody’s chest. My head spins, the fever screaming, every thought a loose thread tangling around the next. I can’t hold onto reality. I can’t hold onto him. I can’t hold onto anything.
He’s shaking me now, voice clawing through the fog. “Lola. Goddamn it, Lola—look at me. Stay here. Don’t you fucking pass out.”
I want to dissolve into the couch, into his hands, disappear into the black where nothing hurts and nobody owns me. I twitch, a gasp shuddering out of me.
My body is jelly, draped over him, sweat and spit and tears soaking his shirt. I stare at the ceiling, eyes barely open, just enough to see the light smear and fracture.
He curses under his breath, words blurred. “You’re not dying. Not here. Not now.”
Part of me wants to laugh. Another part wants to bite him. Mostly, I want to sleep.
He lifts me again, rough, desperate, cradling me against his chest like I’m something breakable he’s determined not to drop. I hear the panic scraping the edges of his voice. He’s lost, as wrecked as I am.
“Stay awake,” he growls again, hauling me up. “You don’t get to check out. You don’t get to fucking leave me.”
I try to speak, but all that comes out is a cough, wet and ragged.
Brody pulls the blanket tighter around me. His palm finds my forehead again, cold and relentless. “You hear me, Lola? You’re not allowed to die on me. You’re not allowed to make this easy.”
“Wish I could,” I murmur. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “No. Not for you. Not for me.”
The world pulses, black at the edges. I want to fall, let the ache swallow me, let the fever burn out whatever is left. But his hands are iron, locking me in place. He takes a breath, and I feel it in my own lungs. Like maybe if he breathes hard enough, I’ll remember how.
“Tell me what he did,” Brody demands. “Tell me, Lola. Don’t go back under.”
My lips barely work. “He… he took everything. He made me say I was his. Made me forget my name. Made me forget you.”
It’s not enough for him. It never is. He squeezes me tight, like he can wring the secrets out, like he can keep me from floating away. Rage and panic boil off him. He wants the truth, he wants control, but all he gets is the sick, shuddering mess in his arms.
“Don’t let go,” I whisper, not sure if I mean him or myself.
He doesn’t answer, just holds on tighter. His cheek presses to my hair, breath hot and desperate.
The fever drags me under again, heavy and wet, but his arms are there, a cage and an anchor, holding me to the world. I drift, half-dead, half-breathing, aching for something I can’t name.
I hear my mother in the dark. Come to me sweetheart, I’m here.
When I wake again, it’s night. The fever’s broken, but the ache is still there. Brody is gone, or maybe just a shadow at the edge of the room.
I don’t call for him. I just lie there, shaking, empty, and alive.
The house is quiet. I realize I survived. Nothing is fixed. Nothing is forgiven. But I’m still here.