10. Lola
LOLA
I can still feel the phantom touch of his hands on me. I still have the marks on my throat, and the soreness between my legs. Having him touch me like that, it’s nothing like how I remember.
Brody was never a gentle lover, but he always kept boundaries. He always made sure I felt safe. He always blended his rough dominance with possessive, sweet love.
That version of Brody feels like an ancient relic.
Marcus is coming home today and I need to cover the marks. I need to put myself back together for him. But I am still shaking from my encounter with Brody in my room last night. The anger in his eyes. The hunger. The cold hatefulness. What did I do to deserve that?
He interrogated me about something crazy with a psychotic look in his eyes. Something that strikes fear in my blood, turning my skin to ice.
But there is also a fire burning, a fire that is still burning.
The house is completely still, silence cascades in every room. I like it when there’s no chaos or noise. Just stillness, and the lightweight feeling of serenity. I can pretend I am free.
In time, the lock rattles. My neck goes cold and I sit up straight, smoothing my hair, and pretend that my hands aren’t shaking. I smile sweetly like a good girl. Like there’s nothing wrong at all.
The door flies open and Marcus steps inside, too wide for the frame, face flushed and bright with city-burn.
His suit is rumpled, jacket hanging open, big hands gripping a bottle by the neck.
That smile. He flashes it at me. There’s no warmth, only the cruel expression of violence disguised as love.
“Hi, sweetheart.” He slams the door behind him, sets the bottle down hard enough to make the table jump.
“Hey,” I say. “You’re home early.”
He watches me, eyes narrow, lips curving. For a second, I think maybe he’s in a good mood. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad. I pretend to relax and shift so he can sit by me. My bare feet are tucked under the blanket, an attempt to hide from him.
He shrugs out of his coat and throws it over a chair.
He pours a drink, neat, barely blinking, then drains it.
A vein twitches in his neck. It was a rough night for him.
I can see it written all over him, even before he starts talking.
He drops onto the couch next to me, too close.
His hand lands on my knee and he squeezes with his fingers.
“How’s my girl?” He says it soft, almost loving. His thumb rubs circles, right where my bones are closest to the skin.
“I’m good,” I say, forcing a giggle. “Just tired.” My voice sounds fake. I hate it. I sound fake, fake, fake.
He leans closer. “Miss me, baby?”
I nod. I always nod. Don’t give him a reason to get angry. Don’t give him anything.
He strokes higher. Under the blanket, his palm slides to my thigh. He kneads it, greedy, like he’s testing fruit at a market. He’s always hungry.
“Been thinking about you,” he says, voice dropping. “All fucking night.”
I swallow. The TV blinks shapes behind his head but I can’t focus, not with his fingers inching up. His eyes shine; it looks like I’m not a daughter tonight. I’m a lover.
He wants me. He always wants me, but tonight, there’s an edge. He’s vibrating. The city’s gotten inside his skin and he needs to tear it out. I can sense it, smell it, taste it.
I wish I could disappear.
He drags the blanket away, exposing my legs. I flinch. He grins.
“God, look at you,” he mutters. “You’re perfect. Fucking perfect.” He palms my thigh, slides his fingers under my shorts.
I stiffen. “Marcus—,” I whisper in a pleading tone. I don’t even know what I’m asking for.
“What, you shy now?” He squeezes harder. I can feel bruises blooming under his grip.
I reach for his hand, trying to peel it off. Weak and pathetic. He doesn’t budge. His other hand knots in my hair and he yanks my head back. I gasp, pain shivering down my spine.
“Don’t play games with me, Lola.” He’s not smiling now. His voice drops, a warning. “You know how this works.”
I know. God, I know.
His mouth finds my neck, biting, sucking. He likes to mark me. He likes to see his shadows on my skin in the morning. My body goes electric, terror veined through every muscle. I try to shift away but he clamps down. His hand cups my jaw, squeezing, forcing my lips open. He kisses me.
His hand skims up my shirt and finds my breast. He pinches. I can’t breathe. I twist, try to break free. For a second, his grip loosens. I push up and scramble off the couch.
I only make it in three steps.
He snatches my wrist, wrenching me back, spinning me so fast my vision blanks out. “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is like a growl.
He shoves me down, face-first on the carpet. The fibers burn my cheek. His weight crashes onto my hips, pinning me. Unmovable. Predator and prey.
I buck, panic screaming through my limbs. I claw at the floor.
He grabs my wrists, yanks them behind my back. Traps them in his fist. He grinds against me, rough denim bruising my ass. Hot breath on my neck.
“You’re mine, Lola,” he snarls. “Fucking act like it.” He tears at my shorts, ripping them down my thighs. My skin warps with goosebumps. I sob, but he laughs again. “God, listen to you,” he whispers. “That’s my good girl. Cry for me.”
He shoves into me. No warning. The pain splits me, white-hot.
He fucks me hard, dragging me up by the hair to force my head back.
I scream once, ragged. He stuffs his fingers in my mouth to shut me up, leaving me helpless to the rhythm.
Brody moves faster, ramming into me. He comes with a snarl, body shuddering.
He holds me there, crushed under him, until I stop struggling.
He pulls out, shoves me face-down, lets me crumple on the floor.
I hear him zip up. He staggers away to pour himself another drink without looking at me. He always does this. The violence. The forgetting.
I lay there, shaking. Wet between my thighs. His come, sweat, maybe blood, I don’t know. My shorts are ripped. My knees are cut. I can’t move. My arms are numb.
I hear him in the kitchen, muttering on the phone. Voice calm, collected. No trace of the animal that ripped me apart.
After a while, the door slams again. He leaves. Of course he leaves.
I stay on the floor. I’m not sure how long I stay there. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. I roll onto my side and curl up tight, sobbing into the carpet, the fibers sticking to my face.
My body pulses with pain. My wrists are ringed red where he held me. My thighs burn. I want to peel my skin off.
Crawling to the bathroom, my knees drag streaks across the floor.
I flick the light on and the room explodes.
I stare at my reflection. Hair wild, face smeared, eyes so wide the whites show all the way around.
I strip and step into the shower. Hot needles carve up my skin.
I scrub hard, harder. Still, I can’t get the smell off.
I sit on the floor of the tub, arms wrapped around knees, water pounding my head. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.
Getting out, I drop the towel and shuffle to my bed, collapsing facedown. The sheets are cool against my skin as I curl up, trying not to remember. Trying not to feel the ache between my legs. Trying not to feel anything.
But the memories cycle.
His hands. His voice. His weight.
Reaching for my phone, I scroll past Sophie.
She can’t help. She’d just be scared. My finger hovers over Brody’s contact.
For a second, I can feel how safe it used to be, curled in his arms, listening to his heartbeat.
Tears burn down my cheeks. I tap the screen.
The call starts to ring. My heart slams against my ribs.
But as soon as I hear the first buzz—his voice, maybe, his voice answering, ruined and hard now—I panic. I can’t let him hear me like this.
I hang up and throw the phone across the room. It clatters as it falls and I bury my face in the pillow.
Sobs claw out of me. I bite down so hard I taste blood again. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know how to survive it any more.
One day, I have my mom. She’s alive and smiling. I have Brody. He’s hugging me from behind. We stare at the sun as it falls into the horizon. We whisper promises of eternity to each other.
Then, there’s my mother. Eyes open and staring into nothing. Skin pale like winter. There’s Brody. A face in the fog. Nothing left except the ashes of everything I’ve lost.
I dig my nails into my arm and count the lines on the ceiling. Nothing helps. Nothing fixes it. I want to scream, but nothing comes out. I wait for the sun. I wait for something to change. It doesn’t.