He Called Me Lola.

Chapter 1

The floorboards creaked.

Once. twice.

The room was thick with quiet, but the darkness pressed so close she could hear her own shallow breaths. Lola lay frozen beneath the thin blanket, heart pounding like a frantic drum in her chest.

Seconds ago, she’d almost been asleep. Now she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined the noise.

Another creak snapped her attention. She held her breath, body trembling, and turned her head, just in time to see a shadow slip through the doorway. The door clicked shut behind him.

He had never come into her room.

Ever.

But tonight, there he was.

A finger to his lips.

“Shhh..”

The word didn’t soothe her. It sliced through the stillness like broken glass.

She pulled the blanket tighter, gripping her shirt like armor.

His eyes raked over her, fixating where her hands were clenched.

“Why are you in here?” she whispered. Her voice trembled, barely more than air.

He moved faster than she could blink.

One hand pinned her arms, too strong for a child, while the other yanked the blanket down and shoved her shirt up to her neck.

Then it slowed.

Slid under the collar.

Down her chest.

She swallowed bile as his hand dragged lower, tracing lines that didn’t belong.

“This will be our little secret. You know what a secret is, right?”

Tears welled and spilled as she fought to breathe. Panic curled into her spine.

She tried again, louder: “No, sto—!”

His hand released her wrists and slammed over her mouth and nose, silencing her.

Jagged gasps.

She clawed at him, writhing under his grip.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This is a nightmare, not real!

She screamed it inside herself, louder than any sound she could make.

And then,

Darkness.

********

She jolted upright, heart hammering.

For a split second, she didn’t know where she was, until the white noise of the classroom filtered in. Fluorescent lights. Pens scratching.

Caldwell’s voice slicing through her memory.

“Ms. Kane,” Professor Caldwell said, irritation sharp.

“Yes, sir?” she croaked, wiping clammy palms on her thighs.

“If you’d rather be somewhere else, that’s your choice,” he said. “But if you plan to pass this class, I’d suggest staying conscious. Now, can you give an example of why a child might keep secrets from adults?”

Piercing her with his beady little eyes.

Bile rose in her throat.

If only he knew.

Her face burned with humiliation, then rage.

She sat up straighter.

“Kids keep secrets when it’s the only way they feel safe,” she said. “Sometimes adults aren’t as safe as we want them to be.”

A flicker of fire behind her eyes.

The hairs on her arms lifted.

She was being watched.

She turned and met the gaze of a boy she didn’t recognize.

Brown hair. Blue eyes.

Handsome, but not in a butterflies kind of way. His eyes looked like they’d seen the worst of it, and kept going.

He smirked. Eyes softened slightly.

She looked away fast.

No. Not doing mysterious-boy bullshit right now.

She couldn’t even sit through one lecture without mentally combusting.

What the hell was I thinking?

How was she supposed to be a child psychologist when just hearing the word secret made her whole body freeze?

This class was self-harm with extra credit.

The moment class ended, she grabbed her things and darted out. Glanced once over her shoulder, quickly to see the boy was gone.

Good. She didn’t need another person seeing how broken she was.

She stormed out of the building, shoulders hunched, like the fluorescent lights were still pressing down on her. After Caldwell’s final eye-roll, she had muttered, “I- I think I need to drop this course.”

He barely blinked. Just pointed her toward the registrar’s office like it meant nothing.

By the time she reached the quad, her backpack felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Every step echoed with her flashback.

“Damaged goods” felt tattooed across her forehead.

She spotted the university counseling center across the lawn. The sign read:

Professional. Confidential. Free.

She hesitated. Then kept walking.

Ten minutes later, she sat in her advisor’s office, twisting the end of her sleeve as Diane clicked open her file.

“Child Psychology, sophomore year, right? That class was a requirement.”

Lola nodded. “I still.. I don’t know if I want to work with people who’ve been through things. But I know after today… I can’t sit through that lecture again. It’s too much.”

Diane folded her hands. “You’re not the first to feel that way. You can drop the course. But let’s talk about your major. If not Child Psych, what now?”

Lola blinked.

She had thought about it on the walk over. Every time she tried to picture herself as a psychologist, her brain tripped over the memory.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe English. I used to love writing. Escaping into other worlds.”

Diane smiled. “Creative Writing could be a good fit. You could still minor in Psychology. Study trauma, just not so close to the fire.”

Lola closed her eyes, imagined herself in a writing workshop.

Character arcs. Not reliving her own.

It sounded… survivable.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do that.”

That afternoon, Lola walked into the Honeycock Tavern, the only place that made sense anymore. She’d worked there since summer. Barback. Hostess. Fake-smile expert.

“Late start today?” Marisol called from the other end of the bar. Pixie cut. Deadpan sass.

“Something like that,” Lola said. “I switched majors.”

“From Psych? Damn. What now?”

“Creative Writing.. maybe. Or English. I kind of panicked when she asked.”

Marisol gave her a knowing nod. “Good choice. If anyone asks why, just say you needed something different. No one needs to know the private stuff.”

Lola managed a smile.

Some things were definitely better left unsaid.

The Friday night crowd rolled in:

College students clinging to pitchers, locals sipping whiskey, that one guy tapping to a beat only he could hear.

Tips were decent. Her feet ached.

She was mid-whiskey sour when she saw him.

Black shirt. Book in hand. Sitting at the bar like he belonged there.

“You planning on giving that to anyone?” he asked.

She blinked. Realized she was still holding the drink.

“Yes. Can I get you anything?”

“Vodka soda, beautiful.” He turned back to his book like nothing had happened.

She handed off the whiskey, made his drink, and slid it in front of him.

He downed it in two gulps, pulled out a $50 bill, and said, “Refreshing. Keep the change.”

Then he left.

Saturday, she slept in. Her body felt like lead.

She scrolled through texts, major change confirmed, roommate studying, nothing special, until she saw the time. She was supposed to meet Maya for lunch.

She spotted her on the patio of the Italian place. Big hoops. Bigger sunglasses. Hair in waves Lola could never pull off.

“Hurry up, bitch, I already ordered you a margarita!” Maya yelled.

Lola laughed, walked up to the table just as the waiter dropped off a sugar-rimmed strawberry margarita. Just the way she liked it.

They’d met freshman year when Maya spilled a smoothie on her jeans. She’d screamed, apologized a thousand times, and handed her a pair of pink leopard-print leggings. They’d been weirdly inseparable ever since.

“I’m starving,” Maya said. “Practice ran late and I forgot my purse snacks.”

Lola laughed. “You definitely need to fix that. Nobody wants to meet Hangry Maya.”

The waitress took their orders. Maya lifted her sunglasses.

“Okay, tell me why your texts sound like you’re spiraling.”

“I dropped my major.”

Maya blinked. “Girl, I dropped my toast this morning and gave it more drama than that. Spill.”

“I thought I could handle Child Psych. But every class felt like peeling my own skin off.”

Maya softened. “Maybe it’s better to figure that out now. So, what now?”

“Creative Writing. Or English. I panicked when the counselor asked me to choose, but it felt… right. Writing always gave me a way out.”

Maya nodded like it made perfect sense. “Honestly? That fits. You’ve got that quiet-intense, tortured-artist vibe. Like if Sylvia Plath and Taylor Swift had a baby who drinks sad coffee and cries in prose.”

Lola snorted. “Thanks?”

“It’s a compliment. You feel things deeply and turn them into words people actually want to read. That’s a gift. Not a failure.”

Their food arrived. Chicken Parmesan and salad.

“Oh,” Maya added, mouth full. “Marisol texted me last night. Some hot guy was at the bar looking for you. Said he knew you from class?”

Lola blinked. “Who?”

Maya’s eyes lit up. “Ohhhh don’t play coy. It’s about time.”

Lola genuinely had no idea who she was talking about.

The next morning, a text from Marisol:

“Hey, some guy was asking about you last night. Said he’s in your class.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Maybe Sam? He’s always asking for notes.”

Another message popped up:

“Left a $10 tip on a $5 tab. Said, ‘Hope this gets me on your radar.’”

Lola’s breath caught.

Radar?

A knot formed in her gut. Weird.

That wasn’t Sam.

“At least you got a good tip out of my charm ;)” she texted back.

********

Want to read Chapter 2? Drop a comment or ❤️ if you’re hooked.