Fucking Lola. My eyes open fully, and my head moves to look at the clock. Five thirty a.m. Five fucking thirty in the Goddamn morning. Is she out of her damn mind? I know she was up late, knocking on my door at midnight and telling me to turn my music down. She has to be tired—that was just five hours ago. Then it hits me. This is retaliation. Sweet Lola’s form of retaliation is giving me a taste of my own medicine, loud medicine, at five on a Saturday.
