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I’m hoping she doesn’t hear the slight shake to it, the sound of uncertainty, because seeing her, this strong, petulant, annoying as fuck woman, broken and shaken like this is killing me.
But then it happens.
I’m not sure what I expected with my demand, but it wasn’t this.
It wasn’t her doing just as I asked.
It wasn’t her moving the four steps until she’s right in my arms, where I can wrap them around her, the top of her head nestling right under my chin.
She’s tall.
I knew this, of course, but having her here in my arms without some kind of argument or build-up before is . . . nice.
She fits.
Most women, they hit my chest and I have to bend to hold them, to kiss them.
Not Lola.I breathe in her hair, brown sugar and vanilla, the smell that wafts up to my apartment every fucking morning, the scent that haunts me day in and day out.
“You okay?” I ask into her hair.
As always, she surprises me.
“I’m fine,” she says, despite the shaking. It’s lessened, but her body still moves, wrapped in mine.
It’s not the words that shock me.
It’s the voice.
It’s not fear laced in her words—it’s anger.
Lola ismad.
Why on earth would she be fucking mad?
She got in bed with the Carluccios. Clearly, she had them help her build this place and she bit off more than she could chew.
What did she expect would happen? That they’d be sweet Girl Scouts, calling her on the phone to politely request their payments?
“No, you aren’t,” I say because she’s not. Angry or scared or any other emotion, Lola is not okay.
“What do you know?” That anger is turning to me, directing itself from the situation she’s found herself into the only person in reach to catch the hit.
That’s fine, baby. I’ll be your punching bag.
“I know that you’re shaking and white as a sheet. Look at me, Lola,” I say, moving a hand to her chin and tipping it up. Something about my hands, tattooed and tanned against her fair skin does things to me. Seeing the juxtaposition snaps one of the threads inside; the angry wall I’ve built between us weakening.
Something about the touch must snap something in her, too, shaking her out of her daze.
“Ben, I need you to kiss me.” The words aren’t breathy and sweet, but fierce and demanding.
“What?”
“I need you to kiss me. I need to . . . Shit, I need to forget this,” she says, her hands bunching in the black tee shirt I’m wearing, the same one I always wear for work. Her hand, tipped with light-pink nails, bunches up the old-school white logo.
Another juxtaposition.
Another snap to the tether.
