Chapter 121
Lola
:
The massage had left her boneless.
Two hours of deep tissue kneading had worked through every knot, every bruise Enzo had painted across her body the night before. The masseuse had said something about “detoxifying pressure points” and “flush of circulation,” but all Lola remembered was her own muffled groan into the pillow and the faint crackle of joints realigning.
When she finally rolled off the table and slid her clothes back on, her muscles felt like melted wax. Her limbs heavy but pliant. The soreness was still there–throb in her thighs, ache along her ribs where the table had given out, faint bruises marking her throat–but it was muted, softened, no longer sharp.
Enzo had been right. Of course he had. Damn him.
She tugged her hood up as she padded out into the hallway, massage haze clinging, and spotted the entrance to the gym just a few steps away. Curiosity tugged.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of rubber mats and citrus cleaner. Music pulsed low under the hum of treadmills. Lola trailed past racks of weights, glanced at rows of mirrored walls, and paused at the corkboard covered in flyers. Kickboxing classes. HIIT circuits. Core training.
Her fingers plucked one down without thinking. She smirked at the tagline: Outlast. Outpower. Outplay.
Exactly what she needed. Because if Enzo kept fucking her through furniture, this body was going to need reinforcement. A little more endurance. A little more grit.
She folded the schedule, slid it into her hoodie pocket, and whispered to herself, “Alright, baby. Let’s make a weapon out of you.”
The salon sat at the far end of the same floor. She pushed through the glass doors, and the world shifted all over again.
Bright, polished, sharp. The scent of hairspray and heat styling irons. Blow dryers hummed. Nails clicked against counters. Rows of chairs sat like thrones before mirrors, each catching fragments of late–afternoon light.
Stylists moved with quick hands and quicker tongues, gossip flying soft and fast between curls of steam and sprays of product.
Lola slowed, soaking it all in. The salon wasn’t just a salon–it was a hive. A place where secrets got whispered between layers of foil and mascara wands. Perfect.
Her gaze snagged on one woman.
Early thirties, sleek black bob, eyeliner winged like a blade. She leaned against her station like she’d been born there, arms crossed, a subtle smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. Sharp. Observant. Watching.
Lola felt the flicker of recognition before they even spoke. That gut whisper that said this one’s worth keeping an eye on.
Their eyes caught, and Lola’s lips curved slow, practiced.
Perfect.
10:58 Wed, Oct 8 M
The redhead wasn’t the usual kind of client. Most women stumbled in late afternoon half–drunk on mimosas or stiff with hangovers from the night before, desperate for glam before hitting the Strip again. This one–Lola, she introduced herself–looked sharp despite the hood, like she’d just woken up from a fight instead of a nap.
Interesting.
Verify captcha to read the content
Comments
The readers' comments on the novel: Accidentally Yours (Merffy Kizzmet)