29. Lola
LOLA
I am slipping. I can feel it in my bones, a pull towards the deep. The waves are crashing over me, a darkness calling to me from the vicious trenches. Since my mother’s death, nothing is the same.
Marcus is crueler. Brody is more possessive.
I am emptier. I overflow with need and nothing fills me.
I spill out grief and loneliness and want.
It coats everything. The kitchen table, the fake flowers at the corner of my room, the insides of my mouth.
I cry and it does nothing. I sleep too much, but the tiredness is always there, gnawing at the backs of my eyes.
The world goes gray. I walk in circles through the hallway, touching the smudges on the wall where Mom’s hands used to go. I pick up her perfume bottle; there’s barely any left. I dab it under my chin anyway, even though it makes my head spin.
I am only nineteen, and I have no real parents left.
The only thing worse than losing her is watching how fast Marcus fills the empty space. He invites himself into my room. Doesn’t knock. Never did. Never will.
I sit on the end of my bed, knees to my chest. My phone glows in my palm, but nobody texts.
Nobody calls. Marcus leans against the door frame, watching me.
His suit is perfect, not a crease out of place.
He takes off his watch with a careful flick.
That look in his eyes. Hungry, like he found a crack in my armor and he’s going to burrow in deep.
“Why are you hiding in here?” His voice is smooth, almost gentle. It slides under my skin. “Come out and eat with me. There’s no point sulking alone. Family is what you’ve got left, Lola.”
I want to scream. I want to throw my phone at his head. But I’m cold inside. My bones are little shards rattling around, and I can barely keep my teeth from chattering.
“I’m not hungry.” I sound stupid. Small and tired. My pajamas are two days old; my hair is a tangle. He likes me weak. I can see it.
Marcus crosses the room and sits beside me, pressing close.
Heat blooms through the thin cotton of my shirt.
He reaches out, his hand lands heavy on my knee.
Squeezing. “You need to take care of yourself, sweetheart. Your mother failed you in the end, but I won’t.
I’ll never leave you alone. Never.” His thumb circles, and I shiver.
He leans in so close I can smell his aftershave, bitter and cold.
“Cry all you want, Lola. Scream if you need to. But you always come back to me, don’t you? ”
I try to shrink away but his hand clamps harder. My pulse stutters under my skin.
“She left you, but I never will.” His words coil, tight. “You don’t have to hurt, not when I’m here.”
His hand travels from my knee to my thigh. All slow, squeezing, like he’s testing how much space there is to fill, how much damage he can do before I crack. I don’t flinch. I don’t breathe. I just burn quietly under the mask I spent three years learning to wear.
He expects it.
So I let him touch me. I let the ache spread. I let him smother me with the weight of his words, breath thick as syrup in my ear. “You’re mine now, Lola,” Marcus says. “You always will be.”
He keeps his hand there, digging through cotton to mark what’s his. I want to disappear. I pretend I’m air, dust, nothing. The only thing worse than his touch is what happens if I fight it.
My phone buzzes. A tiny, pathetic sound in the dark. I look down at it, desperate for an excuse. Anything to pull me out of his orbit. He snatches the phone from my hand, glances at the screen. I see the name: Sophie. He studies it too long.
“Go on, then,” he says, handing it back. “But I expect you home by curfew. Don’t make me come looking.”
The way he says it is a spike through my spine.
I mumble, “I won’t.”
He stands and watches me rise, eyes tracking the curve of my ass, my trembling legs, my fucked-up everything. “By the way, there’s a party coming up soon. I want you to attend. It’ll be a good way for you to reveal yourself and show off your attributes for future opportunities.”
His voice stops me in my tracks.
“Who is hosting this party?” I ask. I don’t want to go to a party. But, if he demands it, then I have to.
“A friend of mine. Don’t worry about it. You just need to show up for reputation and business control.” Marcus watches me carefully, waiting for any negative emotion to strike down.
But, I don’t give him anything. I want to leave, so I will please him. “Okay, Marcus. Whatever you want. I’ll do it.”
He nods.
I hurry down the hall, his gaze on me, even when I hit the stairs. Even when the front door slams behind me and I’m outside, cold evening air is biting my cheeks.
I walk fast. I run. Wet leaves stick to my sneakers.
His smell, his warning words, still coil around my neck.
I’m sick from it, actually sick, like I might puke from the taste of him in my mouth.
I don’t stop until I reach the house next door.
Brody’s house. Sophie’s. It’s second nature where my feet take me.
It’s always here, when I can’t stand the inside of my own skin.
The porch creaks under me, moaning like a haunted thing. I ring the bell, shaking all over. Maybe they’ll see it. Maybe they’ll pretend they don’t.
Sophie answers. Her face is all wild hair and concern, purple polish chipped at the nails. She sees my eyes and doesn’t say a word, just pulls me in and wraps me in a hug that’s too tight, too much, almost enough to keep me from unraveling right there on the welcome mat.
I want to cry but nothing comes out.
Brody’s at the top of the stairs, hands fisted in his pockets. He’s in sweats, no shoes. He tries to scoff, but his eyes go black and furious when he looks at me.
“What’s wrong?” His voice shouldn’t matter, but it does. It makes me want to lie down at his feet and sleep for a thousand years.
Sophie drags me onto the couch, tucking my bare knees up.
I shrug. “I just needed to get away from Marcus. He can be suffocating.”
Brody comes over to me in an instant. “Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head. “No, just harmless words.”
How can I tell Brody that Marcus raped me the night of my mother’s funeral? The guilt is all-consuming. It’s not like I consensually cheated. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want Marcus. But, that does not matter to Marcus. He takes what he wants.
Brody’s jaw clenches but he does not push me on the subject. I stare down at my hands. The skin is pale, child-like. Not mine at all. My heart beats in odd little bursts, like it might quit any second.
He sits next to me. Not just next to me; he wedges himself in until our knees touch, until his thigh pins my leg to the couch. There’s no space even for breath. He doesn’t look at me, but I feel his heat, furious and wild.
Sophie perches on the armrest. Purple chipped fingernails wrap around a ceramic mug. Steam coils out, sweet and herbal, and the smell reminds me of weekends that never belonged to me.
She bumps my shoulder with hers.
“You’re freezing.”
I hadn’t noticed. She tugs the throw blanket over my lap. Her kindness feels like a paper cut, easy to ignore until it isn’t.
“I’m okay,” I mumble. A lie, but easy enough to swallow.
Brody’s hand lands on my knee. Anchoring. Like he’s afraid I’ll float off or slip between the cracks in the cushions.
“You sure Marcus isn’t being a dick?” Sophie gives me her big-sister look. Concern that’s too much, all sugar, no edge. “You can stay here as long as you want.”
I shake my head. “He’s just… intense. Not dangerous. I’m fine.” My voice is stupid soft, like maybe I believe it.
Brody snorts. He digs his fingers into my knee, not enough to bruise, but enough to say, liar. Sophie doesn’t buy it, either, but she lets me have my secrets.
“Want tea?” she asks. “We have, like, seven kinds. Chamomile. Mint. Something with actual dried flowers in it. Fancy.”
I almost smile. I’m starved for comfort. “Chamomile is good.”
Sophie lights up like she’s won something. She slides off the armrest and disappears into the kitchen. I can hear her hum. She always does that; I used to think it was for me, but now I know it’s for her. So she doesn’t go crazy.
Silence. Just the sound of Brody’s breathing and the ancient clock ticking on the wall. I focus on the sound, steady and fake-safe.
Brody doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he slides his hand up under the blanket, palm heavy on my thigh. He squeezes. “You can tell me if he hurts you. I’ll fuck him up.”
“I know,” I whisper. The ache inside me is so big it spills over. “But it’s better if I just listen. If I do what he wants.”
His thumb rubs tiny circles under the blanket. I almost flinch, but I’m too tired. Too empty for fear. Let him touch me. I don’t care.
Brody stares at the TV, volume muted. Some dumb commercial plays; a happy family eating spaghetti, a lady with bright white teeth. So fake it makes me sick. My mom used to talk and laugh like that, just for show.
Sophie comes back and hands me a mug. “Careful, it’s hot!” I take it and sip slowly, enjoying the burn that it gives me. Sophie kicks my foot gently. “Hey, I heard you got accepted into that art contest. The one with the gallery in the city. Is that true?”
My stomach twists. “Yeah. I guess.”
Brody smirks. “She didn’t tell you? She got second place, Soph.”
Sophie lights up. “Lola, that’s amazing!” She leans in, her hair a wild halo. “You have to let us come see it. Seriously. All those snobby art people, and we’ll just embarrass you.”
“You won’t embarrass me,” I murmur. My voice is too small, but the smile on Sophie’s face is real.
Brody leans closer. He grabs a pretzel, eats it in one bite, all brute efficiency. “What did you paint?”
I shrug. “Just a landscape. Abstract.” I don’t want to talk about it—the edges of color, the way the brush shook in my hand, the twitch in my chest. But they wait, staring. “It was blue,” I say. “Blue and black. Like a storm.”
Brody grins. “Figures.”
Sophie kicks his foot. “Don’t be mean. It sounds beautiful.”