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I move again, slamming the wood, and it splinters around the lock.
“BEN!”
One more hit and I’m in.
“Oh my God, Ben! I can’t believe you just—” She wants to continue arguing with me, but now I’m inside, and in three long strides, I’m to her, backing her up into a wall, my hand, tattooed and tanned, splayed against the pale skin of her chest exposed in her tiny tank top.
“You’re safe,” I say, quiet, a different kind of adrenaline flowing through me now that I see her in her sweet pajamas, hair in those fuckin’ braids I just want to tug, eyes wide with shock.
But safe.
She’s safe.
She locked me out because she’s a fuckin’ pain in my ass, not because she was hiding some kind of danger.
Her heart pumps beneath my palm.
Safe.
“Ben, what the—”
“You don’t do that. You don’t play games like that. You want to play games, baby, the good kind we’ll both like, I’ll play.” I feel a shiver under my palm, and it almost brings a smile to my lips. Almost. “But when you’re going through chaos, when just last night I saved you from who the fuck knows what, because you still haven’t opened up to me about that shit, you don’t play games. I want in. I want to see you’re safe.”
She opens her mouth to argue but stops, taking me in. Her eyes scan my face, looking deeper now that her own shock has wavered.
“You’re—”
“I needed to know you were safe, Lola.” My chest is heaving, the feeling of panic that I didn’t acknowledge until just now subsiding.
“I’m fine, honey, see? I’m safe. I’m fine.” Her little hand, nails tipped in that light pink to match her logo, comes up to my face, resting on my cheek.
Her eyes are on mine, bright green and full of . . . not anger. Not anymore. Not panic or frustration.
They’re soft.
Sweet.
Lola.
This is the Lola everyone else gets. The one her sister gets; the one her dad gets, I’m sure.
I’m just starting to realize there are so many Lolas in one person. And I want to meet them all.
“You’re good,” I say then breathe out, resting my forehead on hers.
“I’m good, baby.”
“Don’t fucking do that,” I say, eyes closed.
“What?”
“Any of it. Hiding from me. Thinking you’re a burden to me. Playing fuckin’ games. Being fuckin’ sweet when I want to strangle you.”
“I’m not being sweet.”
“Yeah, you are. All sweet babies and soft hands and syrupy voice. I’m mad at you, woman.”
“You’re mad at me?” Soft Lola is slipping away.
