2. Lola
LOLA
THE PRESENT
When I tell men that I’m a model, they always ask if I meant to say ‘stripper.’ I don’t have a thin physique like a model. I have a stripper body. I know that.
They look at my curvy hips and my round ass. They admire my plump tits and my flat stomach. And they have the audacity to degrade my beauty by putting me in the stripper category.
They lick their lips and ask me if they can get a private show. I always tell them no, but they always persist. I am nothing but a body to them. A shell to lust after. It’s all I am, and I am afraid it’s all I will ever be. My father made sure of that.
It’s a trap. I know it. Every time, every single time, a man tucks that sly little smile under his voice and says, “A model? You’re kidding, right?” all he’s really asking is how much it would cost to own me, even if just for a night.
They see only what’s on the surface.
I refuse to flinch when their gaze roves over me, dissecting and hungry, because my father taught me early: never let them see you cower.
They want weakness; I want war. I smile, matching their crude ogling with a cold, glassy stare.
They back down eventually, or they double down, desperate to conquer something wild in me.
There is always a catch. Always a line they hope I'll cross.
But nobody wants to acknowledge the soul within the shell. They’d rather imagine their hands around my throat or my knees on the carpet.
I am many things, but I am not for sale. Not to them. Not to anyone.
Beneath the bright veneer, the everyday prettiness, there’s something dark that seethes under my skin.
A memory of my step-father watching me in the mirrors of our house, inspecting his handiwork.
Making sure the bruises never bloomed where a man might claim me less valuable.
He only wants me perfect on the outside, sculpted and immaculate, but inside?
He turned me to stone.
Trauma has stripped me of my identity until I am emptiness embodied. The girl I once was is gone.
Men like him control everything. The money. The words. The rules. Our family dinners were silent competitions for his approval, his mocking “love” curling like smoke between the dishes. I used to think if I could be beautiful enough, bright enough, good enough, I’d finally be free.
All I ever became was a cage of someone else’s making.
Marcus doesn’t just hurt me; he runs girls.
That’s what he does. He hides it behind businesses and “events” and the kind of money that makes people stop asking questions.
He calls it a network. He calls it protection, but it’s trafficking.
Girls get moved around like packages, introduced as “models,” booked for “gigs,” and handed off to men who pay for silence.
I know because I’ve seen them. New faces in the house for a week, a month.
Girls who don’t make eye contact. Girls who disappear. Girls who come back looking empty.
If they come back at all.
That’s why he makes me do the modeling and the sex work jobs.
It isn’t because he needs the cash. Marcus had money.
Old money. Dirty money. He came from a rich family, and he used it to his advantage in a terrible way.
Money taught him that power is everything.
He loves to own things, and people. Like me.
It keeps me trained and it keeps me scared.
He likes putting me in situations where I can’t say no and can’t fight back without paying for it later.
He likes reminding me that my body is something he can sell, trade, threaten, and use to control me.
He likes knowing I’m not the only one, because it proves to him he’s untouchable.
I step out of my car and begin to walk. My phone vibrates; I don’t need to look to know who it is, but I do anyway.
The Monster
My stomach tightens. I answer on the third ring after debating if I should let it go to voicemail or not. I know what happens when I don’t come when he calls. I cringe at each memory burned into my brain. My father is a poison that is embedded into my veins, and I will never be rid of him.
“Hi,” I say. I keep my voice emotionless, but obedient. The voice I perfected from a young age, ever since my dad died. Ever since Marcus barreled into our lives.
“Where are you?”
I keep my eyes focused on the horizon in front of me, my hands tight on the phone. “I’m in town. On my way to a job.”
I can almost see his cruel smile on the other end of the line. As long as I stay compliant and sweet, no harm will come to me. My mother’s words ring through my ears.
Stand tall, sweetheart. Don’t let them see any weakness.
My heart drops at the thought of my mother. Gone too soon. She brought the monster into my life after the death of my father, then left me with him.
I look towards the sky.
Look at me now, momma. Look at what he turned me into.
“Good. Do not disappoint me. This is a well-respected client, and I expect you to perform your best. Just the way I taught you.”
My skin goes cold, then there’s the emptiness that follows. Flashes of his hands, his cold and possessive eyes, his slimy dominance popping into my mind. Since my mother went away, I do not remember what it is like to feel safe. Warm. Loved purely.
All I know is him. The monster. My doom. My imprisonment.
“I understand. I will perform exactly to their standard.” I keep my voice professional and robotic, exactly like I practiced.
“Good girl. I don’t want to have to give you a punishment if you act up. Come home right after, and you’ll get a reward.”
The line goes dead. I can still remember the last punishment he gave me. It was after he left. The boy I thought could save me.
Marcus found out that I hired a PI to look for him.
Marcus did not like that. That night he hit me.
My face turned a nasty shade of color and stayed swollen for over a week.
He forbade me from going anywhere, so I was trapped in the house with the monster, nursing a swollen and beaten face.
He told me that I am his, and I am not allowed to look for the boy.
Or think about him.
To make sure of it, he tied me down and fucked me. Then made me repeat his name over and over. I can still hear it in my nightmares; the screams,.my tears leaking down my face. I can feel the sting of his hand every time I resisted his name.
Marcus. Marcus. Marcus.
Please, I can’t take it anymore. Please stop.
Marcus. Marcus. Marcus.
That’s when I knew: I cannot fight him. I have to be obedient. Until death takes his breath away. That is who I am now.
The cruelest thing about trauma does, though, is make you homesick for a version of yourself you can never return to. Where is that fiery girl with spark? The one who didn’t back down, the one who was carefree, the one who could stand up to anyone. Where did she go?
Now, I don’t know who I am without fear telling me what to do. Back down. Stay quiet. Stay still. Do what they want. Smile for the camera. Be a good girl.
I keep walking, I don’t drag my feet; I keep the same pace I’ve kept for years. Steady and quiet.
The building sits in the shadows of the street. I’ve only been here once before but it takes no time for me to recognize it. The tall structure, its black brick exterior, and the alleyway that cuts along the side. People come here to do shady and raunchy business.
On paper, this place was rented under one of Marcus’s event companies. Girls were sent here and photographed, used, and moved along before anyone could ask questions.
Today, I am here for the same reason.
The entrance isn’t obvious; no big glass doors, no reception desk behind a well-decorated counter. Just a metal door with peeling black paint and a keypad that’s been scratched up. There’s a camera above it, angled down to watch the street and the alley. It watches me.
I almost want to hide. Almost. Then, I remember my life revolves around being watched. I have to get used to it.
I punch in the code given to me; the lock clicks, and the door opens before I even touch the handle. A man wearing a dark hoodie stands on the other side. Not a security guard. No name tag. Just a stern face and empty eyes.
Just like me.
He looks me up and down and I remember what my father tells me.
Don’t be a prude, Lola. With a body like that, they should be allowed to look. But don’t let them touch you. Never let them touch unless I say so.
He steps aside without a word. The hallway is narrow, the lights are dim and yellowed, like they’ve been on for years and no one has bothered to change the bulbs.
The walls are brick black, just like the exterior.
There’s music somewhere deeper in the building, the bass low.
Not club music, more like background noise. Something to cover sounds.
Like the sound of a scream.
I walk into the designated room and the door shuts behind me. There is one small window on the far wall, and cameras in the corners. I feel that heavy feeling on my lungs whenever I’m alone in a room with a man. The iron grip on the lungs. The sensation of drowning and choking.
Stand tall, sweetheart. Stand tall. sweetheart.
Her words pass through me, and I do exactly that.
Another man appears near the end of the hall. He wears an earpiece, and doesn’t look at me like a person. He looks at me like I am a product being delivered.
“Lola?” I nod. He doesn’t smile or shake my hand. He holds his hand out expectantly. “I need your phone. Security reasons.”
I nod again and give it to him. That’s what I do. I give men what they want. That’s all I know now.
He pats me and my bag down, and I let him. My body stays still. My stomach doesn’t. He glances at something on his own phone, then nods once. “Wardrobe is through there.”