“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. Good. I can handle attitude Lola. I can’t handle sweet, soft Lola. That Lola, I have no fucking clue what to do with. “Fuck yeah, I am.”
