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“The back door, baby. Is it locked?”
She bites her lip.
I know the answer. My hand goes to her chin as she tries to look away from me, holding it tight and without any regard for her comfort.
“You. Lock. The. Fucking. Door. Lola. Every time. The back door stays locked no matter what. The front door is locked as soon as you close, and you don’t open it until you open up the next day. I’ll fix that lock in the morning.”
She’s silent.
“You done in here?”
“What?” God. Cute. Cute and infuriating, and right now, with her still shaken, scary.
“Are you done in here? Or do you have other things to do?” She looks around, trying to remember where we are. Again, if we were anywhere else, in any other situation, the fact that my lips have her lost like this would make me smile.
“No. I’m done. I was just . . . cleaning up. Extra stuff.” I don’t answer. Instead, I pick her up. Her legs wrap around my hips, and fuck, I like it. A lot.
She fits.
I knew she would.
I walk us, my hands under her ass to support her as she lays her head in the crook of my neck, to her back door, flipping the shitty, flimsy lock before leaving it behind us. I pull out my own keys to unlock the back door to Coleman’s.
Hattie’s sitting at the back table, and when her eyes go to Lola in my arms, her face flushes with confusion.
“Cancel my appointments,” I say, tipping my chin to my best friend and coworker.
I expect her to argue. Tell me I can’t just cancel appointments. Tell me that she’s not my bitch.
Typical Hattie shit.
But her eyes move to Lola in my arms.
“Got it. Call me . . . soon?” she says, not even demanding.
And right there. That’s the reason Hattie Jones is my best friend. The only person on the earth who would see this, know I have it handled, know when to argue, and let me go.
She’s a real one.
“Cancel your appointments, too. We’re locking up, and then I’ll walk you out.”
She stares at me, her face losing color as she realizes this isn’t some small issue.
But she just nods, grabs her bag, and starts turning off the lights.
A real one.
Twenty-Eight
-Lola-
Ben’s livingroom couch is shockingly comfortable.
I was only in his apartment for those short minutes, unable to take anything in. I’m not sure what I expected when he carried me up here, but it wasn’t dark wood and framed art. It sure wasn’t cozy and cool and welcoming.
I guess I would have expected a frat house vibe, pull-out couches for beds and dirty socks strewn about. Instead, I got dark, broken-in leather couches, antique writing desks, and walls of art.
It’s been at least an hour since the Johnny situation, and my body has finally stopped shaking. My mind is starting to work on words and feelings and an understanding of what just happened and where I am now.
