2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Lola Barkley
I gasp and instantly make myself dizzy from how fast I sit up.
And if Marina were any closer, we would have smacked our foreheads together. Again.
However, when I see the look of concern on her face, I can’t find it in me to be upset with her forced proximity. She bites her lip for a minute as she searches my face. Most likely trying to find an answer to her question so that it doesn’t need to be asked. Too bad my trauma has conditioned me to keep my emotions in check.
“So… be honest with me, darlin. How bad was it?”
Thankfully, I seem to forget my nightmares as soon as I wake. I have no doubt it’s some sort of coping mechanism for my brain, and it absolutely is nowhere near healthy. After the hell I went through though, I don’t know that I care much about correcting that just yet.
Instead of answering her, I just shake my head and turn my gaze away from hers. I don’t know why I always feel a bit embarrassed.
Marina wipes a tear before answering. “Oh, darlin’, I’m so glad you don’t remember them, but this one was certainly a doozy.”
Her words crack my heart and I force myself to swallow the heavy emotions that begin to bubble up.
Thankful that I have at least gotten to a place where I feel comfortable leaning on her, I reach out and tug my best friend close. She comes easily, crawling into the bed and laying beside me. Knowing that we both need comfort, I tuck the blanket around our bodies. Somehow, I always end up as the little spoon—most likely Marina’s way of protecting me—and again, I can’t complain. I rather like being the little spoon.
Her soft snores fill the room quickly, and the sound lulls me back to a dreamless sleep.
Coffee.
There are few things in the world that smell as glorious as a proper morning brew. And damn, does Marina Doquette know her stuff. She is total shit in the kitchen, but she can do wonders with coffee. And espressos. And lattes. And cappuccinos.
Come to think of it, she is pretty fucking awesome at making cocktails too. Maybe her strength lies in drinks instead of food?
The continuously building scent has my mouth beginning to water as I fling the covers off my body. The cool air hits me with a shock, and I nearly crawl back under them. Until my bladder begins to protest. Aggressively.
Quickly swinging my legs off the bed, I force myself to stand up, only to be hit with a wave of pain in my abdomen and nausea that has heat running up my spine. It only lasts a moment before receding back to hell where it clearly came from. What the fuck was that?
I take a single step toward the bathroom, before the pain comes back. This time it hits like a knife searing straight in my vagina, and dampness floods my underwear.
“Fuckenuselessknobjockey!”
Wasting no time paying attention to the pain, I run to the bathroom as fast as I can. Too bad the blood has already soaked through my underwear and pajama pants. Why can’t Mother Nature give us women a better warning system? I mean, most girls can predict their periods like clockwork with their calendars and apps. I swear Marina knows when hers is about to start, like down to the minute.
While mine have never been predictable throughout my life, for the last year now they have descended into utter chaos. Sometimes it’s twenty-eight days. Sometimes it’s ten. Sometimes, I bleed for nine days straight, with cramps so terrible I wish for death. At least I don’t have the weird hormonal emotions that a lot of other experience. Maybe that’s just another instance of how fucked up I am emotionally?
Once I manage to get myself all cleaned up and properly plugged, I take a minute to just breathe, using the counter for leverage, and closing my eyes. In and out. In and out. Feeling myself calm, I open my eyes again and make quick work of snagging my rinsed-out panties and pajamas, tossing them in the laundry basket, before hoisting it up to lean against my hip. Might as well take care of the bit that’s there while I’m at it.
I move around the bathroom and bedroom, scanning the areas for any laundry that may not have made it to the basket yet, and add it to the mix. Still feeling a little chilled, I set down the basket for a moment and swap my loose tee for one of my oversized sweaters. The oversized fabric leaves me feeling instantly more comfortable. Well, the loose fabric and the lack of a bra, because I am so not in the fucking mood for the booby trap.
Snort.
Booby trap.
Grabbing the basket, I turn and make my way out of the bedroom and down the short hallway. Marina—the Goddess that she is—meets me at the bottom of the stairs with a giant mug. Before I can say a word, she plucks the basket out of my hands and replaces it with the mug.
“Marina, you do not have to do my laundry,” I say, shaking my head. I have given up on that fight for the most part. I tried pushing back after moving in and discovered that my bestie has quite the mother hen personality quirks about her. And I have no doubt at all that she is using the task for comfort, after the scare I gave her last night.
“I know that, sugar. I also heard your period curse, so I know you’re having yourself a bit of a rough morning. So… I will toss our stuff in together and run them through. Then you can snag it out of the dryer later and put it all away?”
Ah, there it is—the one chore Marina hates more than anything: putting clean stuff away. It actually cracks me up how much she tries to avoid it. With how organized and precise everything else is, her dresser drawers and closet are absolute anarchy at the best of times.
“It’s a deal.” I don’t mind putting stuff away. Besides, her washer and dryer are super high-tech and frankly terrify the shit out of me. I’m always afraid I will hit the wrong button because there are so fucking many of them. Seriously, I have no idea what half of them do. But they do an amazing job, so I don’t complain. Much.
Finally taking a sip of the coffee, I let the flavor roll over my tongue before swallowing. It tastes like heaven and I don’t suppress my moan.
Always one to accept compliments by sound effect, Marina beams a smile at me over her shoulder. “Vanilla Lavender Latte.”
“Fuck me, Marina. This might be my new favorite.” I take another sip, and once more a moan escapes me. So fucking good. “Yup, definitely my new favorite. Please marry me, Marina. I want to keep you and your amazing caffeine magic all to myself.”
She laughs so hard a snort escapes her. How the hell she can make a snort sound so dainty and cute is beyond me. Although she makes almost anything sound adorable. Even her farts. Maybe it’s that southern charm? I think I laugh like a hyena, and so I try to avoid doing it publicly.
“Oh, sugar, you know I would, but your dick is just far too small for me.” She adds a wink, and we both erupt in a fit of laughter.
When we finally calm down, I give more attention to my delicious coffee while Marina walks off with the dirty laundry. After a few more sips, I make my way to the kitchen to get omelets going, while Marina finishes with the washing machine. Breakfast has never really been my favorite meal, but omelets are one of my comfort foods. And with my shitty morning, I need the comfort.
With the pan on the stove, I go in search of ingredients. Eggs are the first to go in, but they look lonely, so I dive back into the fridge to find them some friends. My stomach grumbles as I snatch out the plump mushrooms and give them a good wash before adding them to the mix. After tossing in some spinach and mozzarella, I give it all a nice fold in the pan. Marina hates tomatoes, but I love them, so I slice a few cherry tomatoes and put them on my plate before adding my half of the fat little omelet. I hand Marina her plate, and we enjoy our breakfast together in silence.
Ok, so definitely not silent. We are both noisy eaters and end up moaning over every other bite. What can I say? Foodies gotta stick together.
Besides, seeing others enjoy my cooking without even having to tell me is far more complimentary. Hmm… I suppose that is how Marina feels about her drink concoctions too.
After everything I’ve been through, words and platitudes don’t really go far with me anyway. Moan away, but don’t tell me it’s amazing. That’s when I get twitchy and uncomfortable.
“Earth to Lola. Hello?”
Marina’s words and the fork she’s waving around draw my attention. She must have been talking, and I missed the thread of conversation. It's definitely not the first time. My brain tends to wander a lot.
“Sorry. What were you saying?” I ask while stuffing the last bite of the omelet in my mouth.
“I was just asking what you were getting up to today. I have no clients, so I was thinking about texting Steve to see if he wanted to go see a movie.”
Which is her code for ‘you had a rough night, are you ok to be left alone?’
“Oh, that sounds fun. Wait, is Steve the one with the yacht?” I’ve never been one for boats, but I might be interested in trying to play stow away to soak up some sunshine and fresh air.
“No, that was Chad. Sadly, that ship has sailed.” She pauses to snicker, and it takes me a minute to catch her pun.
“Har-har. So what was wrong with Chad? And who is Steve again?” Marina always dates a bunch as she continues her hunt for the one , but lately, she has been on a bit of a streak. I’m starting to have a hard time keeping up.
“Oh, I’m sure I told you about Steve. He’s a musician. I met him at that piano bar.”
“Oh! Is he the guy that was playing last week when you took me there?” This was just one of her many ‘force Lola out of the house’ excursions. Although that guy was a little bit older than Marina usually goes for. And a lot more bald if I remember correctly.
“Oh lord, woman!” She pauses to laugh before continuing to illuminate me. “That was Tony, and he’s in his seventies! No, Steve is the celloist. Remember, sugar?”
I nod, but I have no clue who she is talking about. As if I should know the celloist from the piano bar I only ever went to like… once.
“Oh right… Steve…” I try to make my tone convincing, but judging by the look on her face, I’m pretty sure I miss the mark by a mile.
“You have not a damn clue who I’m talking about, do you?” She gives me a pointed look, and I smile sheepishly at her. Can’t hide anything from my sister from another mister. Ok, I'm glad I said that one in my head instead of out loud because that was just embarrassing. And we don’t just have different fathers, so it doesn’t even make sense.
“Not a one,” I finally admit as I polish off the last of my delicious coffee. Vanilla lavender latte... I will have to remember that.
Marina sighs heavily, but she knows how bad I am with names.
Trying to distract her from my horrible friend faux pax of not knowing who she is currently dating, I try to fill in my gaps of knowledge. “So then, what happened with Chad?”
“Chad was all about the yacht life. Not as a hobby, mind you. But, like, sold his house and was moving into the boat full-time.” She made a yuck face and I bit back my laughter.
Ah, yeah, that would be a big issue for her. “Never did get your sea legs, did you?”
She pulls a face, and I chuckle.
“If I was meant to live on the water, then my Mama would have given me fins instead of feet. Besides, you can’t have babies on a boat.” She ducks her head a little and drinks her coffee. There it is, folks. The one thing that Marina wants most in this life—a baby.
Me, on the other hand?
I don’t want kids.
My body has been through enough trauma.
Besides, I have already proven my inability to keep myself safe, I don’t want to be responsible for the safety of someone who relies on me like that. Even though that whole scenario would require a man at some point
Shit, I definitely don’t want a man.
Or woman.
Fuck all that.