34. Lola
LOLA
Tonight, I’m supposed to be impressive.
Marcus picks the dress. Tight in the hips, high in the hem. He stands in my doorway as I model it for him, his face blank.
“Don’t embarrass me,” he says. “You’re representing the best. My best.”
He adjusts the neckline with two fingers, pressing the fabric down until I feel exposed. The look on his face says, ‘Remember you’re property, not a person.’ I nod, eyes on his shoes.
I shave my legs twice and put on the lipstick shade he likes: deep red, makes me “pop.” My hair stays loose around my face because Marcus said “it softens you.” I hate how obedient I am.
I hate that I barely recognize myself in the mirror, except for the eyes.
Eyes too blue, too easy to read. Weakness.
He gives me the address. I drive myself, following unfamiliar streets; the city shifts once the sun bleeds out. Streetlights flicker. Everything hums with menace. Houses here crowd together, bricks crumbling, the ground littered with broken glass and crushed cigarette butts.
I park out front, but no one meets me. They told me there’d be a handler from the agency. He’s supposed to smooth things over. Get me inside, get me out. But the only faces waiting are shadows behind the curtains, judging.
I step onto the sidewalk, hugging my purse like a shield. Two men loiter by the door, smoking, watching. Their eyes scrape over me. One nudges the other. “Fresh meat,” I hear. My cheeks burn. Stomach clenches. I want to vomit already.
Just a party. Networking. I can still hear Marcus’s words. You want to work in this town, you go. You play the game.
The front door swings open. Warm light, music, a pop song that’s already too loud. Someone’s shoes are abandoned on the mat. I walk in and try not to exist.
Inside, every surface is sticky. The couch sags in the middle, empty bottles lie everywhere, glowing like trophies.
A girl with smeared mascara leans against the fridge, laughing way too loud.
The men here are all middle-aged with expensive watches and hands that never stop moving. They look at me like I’m dinner.
Something is off. Worse than usual. There’s a crackling in my gut, warning on repeat: Leave. Leave. Fucking run.
Too late. My handler is already gone. Disappeared into the crowd. Probably pocketing his fee and bailing. I’m on my own.
A man shoves a drink into my hand before I can say anything. “Industry standard,” he tells me, a smile stretching his lips. I glance down. The cup is filled with clear liquid and melting ice. Something citrus. It smells like Sprite, but too sweet. “Drink up, honey. You look tense.”
I barely have a grip on it. The living room spins with people, their eyes dead. You can tell by how they lean away from the guys, how they flinch at casual touches. A blonde girl sits on a man’s lap, staring right through the wall. No one smiles except the men.
I look for exits. The kitchen window is bolted. The back door is marked “private.” I keep my purse tight under my arm. Every time I edge toward the hallway, a new face blocks me. They herd me back to the main room, like sheepdogs. I don’t know anyone. I don’t want to know anyone.
Another guy slaps me on the ass as I pass. “You’re not even gonna mingle?” His voice slides over me, greasy. “Don’t be shy. Models need friends.” He’s close enough to smell his aftershave. My heart hammers. I try to put the cup down but he picks it up and presses it to my lips. “Drink. Loosen up.”
I take a sip; it tastes like lemon cleaner with a burn in my throat. My stomach flips. I want to spit it back at him, but I swallow.
Someone else grabs my elbow, steering me. “Let me introduce you. This is how you get jobs, babe,” he stage-whispers. His friends laugh. All of them looking me up and down, not at my face.
I keep walking. My shoes stick to the floor while I keep scanning for a way out. I could fake a call, but there’s no signal in here; the windows are covered. The music gets louder. Is that the same song looping? It’s pounding in my skull. Some chorus about feeling alive.
The drink goes fast. They always refill it. The ice melts in my mouth. I lose track of how many times they top it off, or if I ever let the glass go. I don’t even want it. But my throat is so dry, and they keep pushing.
“Relax,” someone says before voices blend together, circling, hands in my hair, on my hip, always too close. It’s not a conversation. It’s a hunt.. “It’s just a party.” “You came here to play, didn’t you?” “You’re famous on Insta, right? Show us your moves.”
I try to say no. I try to step sideways, but my legs are full of water. Numb, heavy. My tongue feels thick, words sticky. I can’t coordinate my jaw. The music keeps getting louder. The lights flicker. My skin gets hot, then cold.
I make for the door, but the knob won’t turn. “Locked for safety,” a man winks. “You don’t want creeps coming in, right?” He stands directly in front of me, his arm blocking the doorway. I stumble back into the mess of bodies.
The air tastes wrong; not enough oxygen. All I feel are hands. Touching, dragging, squeezing. Someone’s palm covers my ass again, another hand snakes under my dress, fingers prodding. My laugh comes out slurred, but I didn’t mean to laugh. I meant to scream.
“There she is,” a voice says. “What’d I tell you? Wild girl.” There’s a flash. Someone takes a photo. My vision blurs bright, then black.
I want to run. I want to vomit. My knees won’t work. I reach for my phone but it’s not in my purse anymore. Someone took it. Or maybe I never brought it. My thoughts scatter and twist.
I tell myself: Don’t pass out. Don’t give them anything.
They don’t care. They press closer, hunger thinning their smiles. “Let’s find somewhere quieter,” one hisses in my ear.
They carry me, my feet barely touching the ground. Laughter everywhere, echoing off the empty walls. A door opens. There’s a bedroom. I see a window, but it’s above the bed, out of reach. Shadows slide across the wall.
The men drop me onto the mattress, my dress riding up.
Cold sheets, strange arms. I try to fight, but my limbs flop uselessly.
Fuck, I am so slow. My wrists are pinned above my head.
Someone holds my thigh, fingers digging in.
My head slams back against the pillow. Pain. Stars. A wet mouth on my neck.
The rest are snapshots. I try to clutch them, but they slide apart. I can’t see straight. I can’t focus on anything. The world is a thousand little pictures, slipping out of my fingers, running down the drain.
A hand grabs my arm. Another hand lifts my chin. Hot breath crawling down my neck. I want to scream. My mouth won’t work. Tongue thick, lips sliding. A laugh. It comes out of me, but it’s not my laugh. Too loud. Too lost. I don’t feel real.
There’s a blinding flash. My dress is up. My thighs are spread. I’m not doing it. I’m not. I can barely move at all. A big hand on my flesh. Fingers bruising up my leg. My panties slide down. My hips don’t fight. I think I want to run, but nothing in my body listens to me.
Something heavy pins my wrist above my head. My eyes roll back. I see the ceiling. Stains. Black marks, water damage eating the corners.
Laughter. All around me. Like hyenas. Like monsters chasing meat.
It’s cold in the room. No, it burns. My skin sweats, sticks to the sheets. I can feel my nipples poke through the dress, hard and sore. A mouth seals over one. Sucks and bites. I whimper, but it’s not loud enough. Not even close.
A bottle clinks down. The glass sweats, just like me. Someone’s knuckle shoves into my cheek. I gag, half-choking, liquid running down my throat. Vodka? Lemon. Something chemical. It burns inside my chest.
There’s a hand around my throat. A thumb on my lips. Fingers dig so deep into my face.
My skirt is at my waist, and I know I should close my legs, but I can’t. My knees won’t even pretend. Hands force them wider. I’m open. It’s a show.
A man shoves his cock between my thighs. I feel the slap of it, hot and wet and so wrong I feel my brain try to peel away from my skull. It hurts. Cold air, then heat, then all at once his hips snap forward and I split.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I try to say the word. All that comes out is a sick noise, wet in my throat.
He’s inside me, all the way. More than one. Hands everywhere. Grabbing, pinching, shoving. I want to vomit. I want to die. My body thrashes, but it’s not mine. I’m a puppet in someone else’s game.
He fucks me rough. Hands squeeze my tits. Nails rip my skin. My face is pressed into the mattress and it stinks of someone else, months of sweat and cigarettes and strangers. Another man jams his fingers in my hair, yanks my head up. My jaw is pried apart.
He makes me suck him. My lips don’t close, they just slide open and he’s in my mouth, salty and sour. I gag. He fucks my face anyway.
Everything is blurry. Lights strobe.
Hands in my hair. Hands on my throat. Cheeks stretched, mouth split wide.
My jaw aches. I can’t breathe. The man at my mouth pushes deeper, grabs my head and makes me gag again. My tongue goes numb. I try to cough but there’s nowhere for air to go. I think I might black out.
Laughter. It buzzes behind my eyes. More hands. Rough, hard, greedy.
My body twitches. Numb. I can’t pull away. I can’t do anything.
The men move me, they bend me over. My face still locked down, wet and choking, spit running out. Someone else is behind me now. His cock shoves in. Dry. I go hollow. My ribs close around nothing.
A moan, not mine. I feel the weight of him, the way he pounds in. Pain. My body stretches, my thighs shake. I try to flinch but he holds my hips still, bruising grip, hands chewing into the flesh.
Something is wrong with the light. It stutters. Faces blur together, melt into mouths and eyes. They switch places. The hand at my neck pulls me up for air.
Slap. My cheek burns. The world jumps. I don’t even know who does it.