32. Brody
brODY
Sunlight gnaws through the crack in the curtain, slicing my eyelids open. I blink. Sheets twisted from dreams I can’t remember. My pillow still has her scent, but it’s barely there. Vanilla. Some kind of shampoo only she uses. Faint, but enough to punch my chest open with wanting.
Hope. I hate the word. Hate that it can exist even for a second in a place like this. But today it dares. Creeps up my throat so I almost smile. Idiot.
Downstairs, the house is already in motion, everyone making sure not to cross into each other’s orbit. I hear Richard’s voice, slicing through a call. He’s always angry, or irritated, or neutral. Rarely happy.
Sophie’s shoes make no noise on the tile, but she’s there, always watching for the first sign of a storm. She pours herself oatmeal, looks at the spoon, looks at the clock, looks at me. Eyes darting.
Wolfing down a protein bar, I stare out the window.
Lola’s house. Curtains drawn, but I know she’s in there.
Alive. Waiting. I check my phone. No message.
Not yet. I go back upstairs. Every muscle in my body is tight, wired, primed.
I could run ten miles. Or tear a door off its hinges.
My mind just goes to her. Skin, lips, curves. I want her here. I want her now.
I text her. Come to the back door. I will let you inside.
I walk back downstairs to the back door and wait. After a few minutes, I see her. She knocks exactly how I like—two short, fast raps, barely making a noise. Smart, careful. Better than me.
I open the door. There she is, cheeks flushed, hair tangled wild. Blue in her eyes like nothing else. She grins and I want to fucking devour her.
Pulling her in, hard, she laughs, but it’s not soft. It’s hunger. Bambi, my Bambi, all trembling wrists and hips that beg to be bruised.
I slam the door shut behind her and drag her upstairs.
The world is just me, just her, the way it’s supposed to be.
We don’t even talk. Don’t need to. Mouths find each other, hands everywhere.
It’s desperate, every time, because we never know if this is the last one.
I slide my hands under her shirt, obsessed with the way her ribs shudder when I touch her.
She’s laughing into my mouth, clawing at my back, her thighs clamped around me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
I rip her jeans down to her knees, drag my palm up her bare thigh, greedy, rough.
She moans. I want to split her open, pour everything inside her so she can’t ever be empty.
She’s wet for me, always is. I slide two fingers inside, thumb teasing her clit, and her head thumps back against the mattress.
I fucking love it. I could die like this, her body trembling, begging my name. Mine.
We move fast. It’s never enough time. She yanks my sweats down, hand already working my cock. She knows every inch. I roll over, pin her underneath me, my teeth on her collarbone. Her hands in my hair, tugging, gasping. I slam into her, rough, and she cries out.
I cover her mouth so my father doesn’t hear. I want her screams. I want to drown in them. Her legs lock around my waist, nails in my back. I grab her jaw, making her look at me while I fuck her. Eyes wide, lips swollen. She whispers she loves me. Over and over.
She cums hard, clenched around me, shaking. I can’t hold back either. I follow her, spill inside, bite her shoulder until she whimpers. Heaven. Hell. Both.
We stay tangled, sweaty, marked up. For a sliver of time I feel almost normal.
Like this is what people live for. But she’s not relaxed.
I notice too fast. She keeps peeking at the clock on my nightstand, tensing when she hears footsteps on the stairs.
She flinches when I brush her hair off her cheek.
I kiss her again, softer this time, trying to melt the tension off her. She lets me, but her eyes never stay closed for long.
“What’s wrong?” I finally ask, voice low. I brush her hip, circle her with my arm.
She shakes her head, giving me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing. Just—can’t stay long today. Marcus is meeting with the Russians or whatever, but he always checks on me after.”
There’s a shadow in her voice. Something colder. I don’t like it.
“He’s not going to catch you. You’re safe here.” I mean it. I’d kill for it to be true.
She shivers. “You don’t know him. He always knows.” She cuts off. Her gaze goes somewhere far away, past the walls, out into the void.
I try to force my brain into gear. “Hey.” I pull her tighter, force her to look at me. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here, and as long as I’m here, nobody will fucking hurt you. I know you’ve had a lot going on, especially since your mother died, but I’m still here.”
She’s silent, then a long sigh releases. “She’s dead, Brody. She slipped on those rocks and her head… It was fucking everywhere. I can’t get the picture out of my mind.”
My stomach clenches. I remember the funeral. The mess Marcus made of it. The glassy look in Lola’s eyes ever since. Everything changed after that day.
I stare at the ceiling. “You don’t have to talk about her.”
She nods, but she’s already pulling her clothes on. Hurrying. Zipping her hoodie, tucking her hair behind her ears over and over like if she makes it perfect, none of this happened. I want her to stay. I clench my jaw; if I say the wrong thing she might run. If I say nothing, maybe she already is.
She pecks my cheek, squeezes my hand.
“Text me?” I say, even though it’s stupid, even though I hate how needy I sound.
She flashes a quick, sad smile. “Always.”
I watch her vanish out the window, light as wind. Maybe this is normal for other people. For us, it never is.
It’s fucking quiet after. I shower, scrub the sweat and her perfume off my skin, but it never leaves. I leave the water running hot until it scalds, but I can’t shake the image of her crying, the way her body went rigid when I touched just right.
I text her. Nothing. I text again. An hour passes. There’s a hollow grinding panic in my chest, twisting my guts tight.
Ten more times. No answer. I call but it goes straight to voicemail. Dead.
Something’s wrong. I know it. The old obsession comes back. I pace my room, nearly break my phone when I slam it onto the desk. Sophie asks if I’m okay through the door. I don’t answer.
It’s late when the message comes. An unknown number. Plain, no bullshit.
Go to this address. Look at what your girl is up to when you’re not around. You can’t trust her.
I read it three times. Part of me wants to believe it’s a prank. The rest knows it isn’t. I punch the address into my phone. I know the street. Trash everywhere. Burnt-out streetlights, houses stacked too close, boarded-up windows.
Fury. Cold, clean. My hands don’t shake as I take my keys, get in the car, and drive without thinking. I park two streets down, killing the engine. I walk the rest of the way, scanning for any sign of trouble. Predators know predators.
The house stinks of piss and wet cigarettes. Laughing echoes inside, men’s voices. Shadows flicker through stained curtains. I find the side window, off the alley. Grimy but see-through.
And there. There she is.
Lola.
My fucking Bambi.
She’s on her knees, lips parted, eyes glazed but open. There are hands on her, one gripping her hair, another squeezing her breast. She’s fucking moaning. She doesn’t fight it. She leans in. She wants it.
The men—three of them, all older—surround her, crowd in, taking turns using her mouth, her cunt. Her dress is pulled down, tits out. She takes a cock in her mouth and another in her pussy. She rides them, bucking like she can’t get enough.
She’s awake.
She’s smiling.
Sick. Filthy. My heart claws at my ribs, desperate to tear itself out. This can’t be real. I watch for proof but there’s nothing. She wants them. Not me.
I taste bile. I nearly break the glass. Someone says her name—Lola, baby, just like that. She laughs, leans in harder, sucks him deeper.
I want to die.
Pulling away from the window, I nearly trip. My body is on fire with rage and revulsion. I want to kill them. I want to kill myself. I want to drag her out and make her explain. But I can’t move. My legs are rubber, draining out all the blood I ever had.
I run—sideways, backwards, blind. Get to my car, slam the door, drive until the world blurs past, unsure of where I’m going.
I end up at a liquor store. Neon light burns my eyes. I use a fake ID and buy the strongest bottle I see. The cashier doesn’t even blink. He knows broken men when he sees them.
I park by the river, kill the lights. I rip the seal, drink straight from the bottle. Burns all the way down but doesn’t numb anything. I keep seeing it, over and over. Her mouth, those hands, the way she looked at them. Happy. Gone. Like I was already erased.
A scream twists up my throat. I smash my fist into the dash, split my knuckles, but don’t feel it. I drink until everything goes gray at the edges. I want to forget. I want to drive into the water, or crush the bottle against my skull, or just sink into dirt and rot.
Hope is dead. Love was a fucking joke. I was a joke.
But the urge to see her again is still there. Even now. Even when everything inside is ruined.
I stare at my trembling hands. If I could rip my heart out, I would. If I could forget her face, I would. But she’s still there, burned into my brain like a brand.
I drink until I can’t see straight, and when I finally close my eyes, her voice is all that’s left.
Lola. Lola. Lola.
What the fuck did you do?