37. Lola
LOLA
What the fuck happened?
I come up from nothing, like surfacing under ice, my entire body frozen, and nerves crackling as sensation slams back into me from all sides. Colder than the walk-in at the old club.
I try to huddle deeper, but I can't move; ankles locked, wrists burning. My arms are pulled out along metal, shoulders screaming where they twist against the restraints. Every inch of skin throbs, layered with pain. Dull bruises, cuts, the deep, sick ache of somewhere busted inside.
My clothes stink. My shirt rides up on one side, showing blossoming black-and-blue over my hip. I can see a smudge of blood near my thumb.
The room jerks into focus in strips and starts, like old crime scene photos. Bare concrete. Barred window overhead, dirty glass. The light coming down is sickly white, flickering fluorescent, the kind that gives headaches after five minutes. It’s the only light in here, everything else is shadow.
Metal desk, bolted to the floor. No clock. No sense of time. No sound but my own gasping for air and—
No. That's not right. There's something else.
I go still and listen.
Voices on the far side of the door. Men, talking, low and controlled. Occasionally a static pulse. A radio, maybe. Heavy boots scrape the floor, I feel the vibration through the chair legs, like machinery running somewhere below, a big diesel engine.
I try to move, test the limits. The cuffs dig into the meat of my wrists, bloodless and numb at first, then pins-and-needles. I can flex my toes but nothing else. The chair is cold steel. I shift. The whole thing grates, making a noise that feels way too loud.
Behind me, to the right, is the sound of breathing. Not mine. I don't dare look at first, but I already know.
It’s a guard. Woman, I think, but all I can see is the shape. Wider than the door, arms crossed, gun at one hip, baton at the other, keys clipped and swinging. Her face is blank. Not bored, not angry, not even curious. Just somebody built her to be impossible to move.
“Where am I?”
No answer. I ask again, just air.
She walks forward, inspects my cuffs, gives them a yank. Tightens one, just because she can but says nothing. The gun flashes in my periphery, matte black, heavy, waiting.
My voice slides out again. “Please—”
She steps back. A door slams behind her. I shudder, alone again. No, not alone. Never alone. I can’t tell if she's on the other side or if she left. The radio goes again, words cut off by static.
Somewhere far away, somebody screams. The sound gets under my skin and sets me shaking.
I wait. Time loses meaning. One minute, I’m shivering so hard my bones might crack. Then, I’m numb, floating outside my body, watching the stains on the concrete crawl and shift.
The door opens. Everything inside me tenses, cinched tight.
It’s not the guard this time.
He enters.
Marcus moves through this place like he owns it. Which he does. Suit perfect, shoes shining, and black gloves, tailored to every finger. Nothing is out of place. Not a hair, not a thread.
He stops and looks. Slow head-tilt, lips curling at the corners. That smile, always a smile, like the idea of pain is just funny to him. His eyes go down me, up, then back again, and there’s no warmth. Just calculation.
For a second, I act like I don’t care. I glare at him, try to square my shoulders, but the restraints make it look pathetic. Weak.
“Look at you,” he says, almost soft. He drags the chair out from the other side of the desk and lowers himself, leg cross, hands folded.
“Messy, aren’t we?” He lets the silence hang.
“You do understand the situation now, I hope. I presume it took hard lessons, but some girls only respond to pain.” He studies the bruises, the way my jaw swells left of center, the cut above my eye.
“Disobedience makes for naughty assets, Lola. It’s unfortunate. I trained you better than this.”
He talks like he’s at a fucking board meeting. All courtesy, no soul.
I hate him.
His gaze flicks to my hands, to the cuffs, then to my chest and up to my eyes. “Sit straight. You still represent my interests.”
I don’t move. I couldn’t if I tried.
He waits. I watch the clockless wall, the flickering light. He’s in no hurry. He wants me to squirm.
He leans forward, voice dropping in pitch, a whisper meant only for me. “I’d hoped to avoid this. Truly. If you’d simply listened, we could have avoided a great deal of unpleasantness. But you had to run, Lola. You had to make it a spectacle.”
Cabin. Snow. Blood in the snow, pain, Brody’s voice and the sound of boots on the porch.
I can’t think about it.
“You forced my hand. I don't like mess. And now look.” He gestures vaguely, at the bruises on my arms as if they’re water rings on a boardroom table. “You compelled me to be harsh. You did this. Not me. I act only as circumstances require.”
Don’t show him fear. Don’t fucking give him that pleasure.
He shifts, hands gloved and still. “Do you want to know what’s become of your little hero?
” he asks. “Your Brody.” My stomach lurches.
I don’t let it show. “He’s here. Down the hall.
Alive, barely. Maybe less so, if you continue these antics.
” Marcus drinks in my reaction like wine.
“I hear it took four men to contain him. He fights like a beast when provoked. There’s something in him.
It’s not strength. It’s stupidity. I blame you for that, too.
All that potential, wasted on obsession over a girl who doesn’t know her place. ”
He lets that hang. Lets it sink in.
Marcus leans in. “Would you like to hear how hard he bled for you?” I want to look away.
I force myself not to. “He screamed for you, you know. All the way out into the snowy dark. Calling your name, begging us to stop. It doesn’t take much to break a creature like that.
Just the right lever. And you, Lola—you are the lever. ”
He waits for a reaction; watches every microscopic twitch in my face.
“He’s alive?” I say, feigning blankness. I try to sound bored, above it. “If you’re going for guilt, you’ll have to do better.”
Marcus grins, amused. “Deflection. Oldest trick in the book. You always were clever. That’s why I had hopes for you.
” He sits back, surveying his work. “Listen. Here’s how it’s going to proceed.
I have no plans to waste further resources on your rebellion.
If you don’t comply, Brody pays. If you do, perhaps he doesn’t die in agony. Simple.”
He says it like he’s reading a spreadsheet.
“If I sense even one hint of defiance, I’ll bring him in here and make you watch. I’ll break him in front of you. Or maybe, if you’re useful enough, I’ll let you see him, after. Just enough to remind you what you cost him.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. The iron taste calms me.
He leans in again, eyes almost kind, but there’s nothing human in them. “You’re not a person to me, Lola. Not anymore. You’re a weapon. A tool to break my real problem. You’ll help me destroy Brody, whether you want to or not. Even if all you do is scream.”
I want to spit in his face. I want to tell him he’ll burn for this. But all I do is stare, dead-eyed.
“I want to see Sophie,” I say, voice flat. Anything to draw him off script. Anything to disrupt.
His face doesn’t move. “The little charity case? She’s safe. For now. But that can change at my discretion.” His smile says, ‘Try again.’
I push. “I’ll do what you want,” I say, lying so hard I almost believe myself. “Just don’t hurt them. Not Brody, not Sophie. You win.”
“You never learn. There’s only ever been one winner, sweetheart.
” He signals and the guard enters. She doesn’t look at me.
Just slaps the cuffs tighter, enough to cut off circulation.
My hands go numb, tingle, burn as she pushes a wad of something rough into my mouth.
Cloth, maybe. Tied cruelly at the back of my teeth.
Marcus stands, fixes the buttons on his coat. He looks down at me like I’m a broken vase in need of gluing. “I’ll be back soon. You’ll have plenty of time to reflect on your choices.”
He leaves. The door slams and darkness and poisonous air fills the room. I sit, chair freezing under me, legs shaking, wrists pulsing. My mind spins
Stay still and quiet. Never cry. Don’t give them what they want. Don’t break. Don’t break.
From somewhere above, another scream. Shredded, hopeless. I clench my jaw and swallow blood. The light sizzles overhead, strobing my terror.
All I want is to see Brody again. To touch his hair. To know he’s still alive, because of me or in spite of me, I can’t tell. My body shakes with it.
I know I shouldn’t want him, not after he kidnapped me. Not after he put me through hell. But that doesn’t change anything, he’s still the boy who took my heart.
I keep my mind in tight circles. Mantras Mom whispered when the bruises were new. Stay strong, Lola. Don’t show them weakness.
Where are you now, momma? Why couldn’t you have stayed a little longer?
The warehouse rattles. Screams echo. The woman stands sentinel.
And me? I sit, silent, refusing to break, staring into cold white light until all I can see is his face.
The Monster.
This is what I am now. A loaded gun pointed at the only boy who ever tried to save me, and all I can do is hope my finger never pulls the trigger.
Please, someone, save him, save me, save us.
But I know better. Nobody’s coming. Just the cold. Just the blood. Just the awaiting dark.