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“You don’t control me, Ben. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do.” His words come quick, like he knew what I’d say.
“Last night tells me otherwise.” I blink. Once, twice, three times.
“Excuse me?”
“Last night? You let me control you. Tell you what to do, when to do it, and for how long. You’re mine now, sweet girl.”
“I’m no one’s. We fucked. That’s it.” His eyebrow raises.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, Ben.”
“I’m not buying it.”
“Well, too bad. I do not belong to you. You do not tell me what I can and cannot do.” He’s sitting up now, sheets barely covering his cock, strong arms crossed on his chest like he’s ready for battle.
“What happens when I make you mine, Lola? When you stop playing games and admit you’ve been mine for a while now.” My body fights with currents of hot and cold, both rushing through my anger and frustration and something else I refuse to look at too closely.
“Goodbye, Ben. I’ll see you later,” I say, slipping my feet into shoes as I walk out his bedroom door.
“Do not walk away when I’m talking to you, Lola.”
“Fuck off, Ben.”
And then the front door clicks behind me.
Adrenaline has me running down the stairs that divide our apartments and our businesses.
Thirty-One
-Lola-
When I walkinto my happy place, locking the door behind me, calm takes me over. There’s still anger and irritation rubbing at the edges, but this? This is what I wanted. My own place. It’s what I dreamed of for years, and knowing I made it happen by myself always grounds me.
All I’ve ever wanted was to be my own person.
Not Libby’s daughter, left behind.
Not Lilah’s older sister, the one who has to shelter the innocent daughter.
Not Shane’s daughter, the one who will always clean up the messes.
I’ve always been looked at through the lens of someone else’s life, never as me.
It’s why I didn’t want the fanfare, the ribbon cutting, the extravagant press most every other business would kill for upon opening, because this place ismine. They couldn’t touch this part of me. Turn it sour.
I am not who the world has told me I have to be.
And I’mdefinitelynot Ben Coleman’s.
That thought has me cranking the music, theReputationera fueling me as I take out heavy containers of flour, sugar, and chocolate chips.
Unfortunately, I don’t actually have a ton of doughs or batters to make this morning, as I’ve been pretty good at prepping at night to avoid being too loud, but I need to makesomething. The truth of the matter is, I’m fuming, and when I’m mad, I bake. Some people run. Some people read or draw. Some people start arguments or gamble or go shopping. I mix sugar and butter and flour to create a mood-changing experience.
I’m doing just that, creaming butter and sugar and bringing my eggs to room temperature when I hear it.
Feet on stairs.
