Chapter Text
Lola didn't start out as Lola. Lola started out as a nobody, as Kate Fields, sixteen and finally with enough money to start a life of her own; three hundred bucks and a backpack full of granola bars. Except it doesn't work out like she hopes - it never does - and she shows up to the group home with bruises on her face and arm, and a large burn on her back, voice hoarse from screaming until her neighbours finally called the cops. She doesn't have her money, her food, or her bag, not after that night. The night she doesn't talk about.
She meets Frankie at the group home, Frankie who's seventeen, a year from getting out, with a scar on his arm that he won't talk about, who stays out past curfew, who turns up his music when the orderlies tell him to turn it down. He smiles sharp, comes back late at nights smelling like booze and cigarette smoke, but not in the way that makes her recoil.
"Where'd you go?" She's the only one still awake, still can't get to sleep easily so she doesn't even try, sitting on a sofa in the common room, reading beneath the lamp light. Frank, who's swaggering into the room like his balance isn't quite right, flops beside her on the sofa, wraps an arm around her shoulders. A hiss escapes her, his arm resting against the healing burns on her back.
"Can't say," he taps his ear knowingly, "can't let the ladies here know where I go, you know?" He snickered, and she grimaces as she moves out of his grip.
"Classy," she rolled her eyes, standing, adjusting the neck of her shirt so the fabric sat off the burn. He hums thoughtfully, head tipping to the side as he watches her stand a little uncomfortably, as if deciding whether she should bite the bullet and head to bed.
"You haven't been here long, have you, Katie?"
"Gross, don't call me Katie." She snaps reflexively, to which he nods sagely. "Or Kate, I'm sick of hearing that fucking name; all the ladies here remind me of her when they say it. You know what, it doesn't even matter, call me whatever, 'hey you' does fine." She's off on her own little tangent, scowling at the last memory of her mother she keeps; the name that bitch left her. Thank god she looks more like her father or she knows she'd cut off her own nose to spite her face.
"I don't think you can go by 'hey you'," Frank grins, and her eyes flick up to meet his. He's making himself more comfortable, pulling the knitted rug off the back of sofa to cover himself, despite the fact that he's got his own bunk in the next room.
"I can go by whatever I want." She huffs, turning her nose up at him, turning on her heel and heading to bed. She still can't get to sleep, laying on her back to avoid her burns, turning his words over in her mind, over and over like a mantra until she's got a name in mind and she's finally drifted off.
When she's woken the next morning, it's to the ladies calling her 'Katie', as usual, but the name still grates on her mind, and Frank is awake, scowling, holding a glass of water, a blanket wrapped around him as breakfast takes place in another room close by.
"Lola." She stands in front of him, and he glares up at her, nose wrinkling a little.
"What?"
"You said I couldn't go by 'hey you', so Lola." She says it with an air of finality, and his face scrunches up even more.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, and Lola's a stripper name," he yawns and proceeds to take a long drink of water, finishing off the cup. It's Lola's turn to frown.
"Do you know any strippers named Lola?" She asks, and they glare at each other for a very long moment, but he doesn't answer. "Will you tell me where you went last night?"
"No. Fuck off." He goes to take another sip, but seems to remember it's empty. Lola kicks him in the shin.
"Happy hangover, asshole!" She shouts, much to his loud groan of pain, curling back up onto the sofa as she storms away to get breakfast.
"Bitch!" He calls back.
So it comes as a surprise when he's halfway out the bathroom window the following Friday night, and she's standing there, as if waiting, arms crossed.
"The fuck do you want?" He asks, frowning, one foot still on the counter by the sink.
"I want to go with you." It doesn't sound like she's asking. "I can't fucking stand it here; the constant pity, the worry," she takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, "you're seeing a band right, last week, you smell like you've seen a band, or stepped foot in a pub at least; I want that. Your taste in music isn't shit. I want that." Frank frowns, climbs slowly out of the window to join her by the side of the building, and he looks her over.
"Not looking like that," and she wanted to protest at that, but he rolled his eyes, "I have a friend who can get you something that makes you look less like a kid." And with that, they set off, Frank a little beleaguered, and Lola, for the first time since getting to the group home almost a month ago now, is a little bit excited.
"You're not that much older than me," she complains anyways, and Frank smirks at her. The smug look worked upsettingly well on him. Lola doesn't dwell on it.
"Lola," it's the first time anyone's actually used her new name, and it sends a shiver down her spine; she can't help but grin, "you look twelve; you're not dressed for a concert, trust me." And okay, maybe he had a point, maybe all she had thought to go out in was a blue puffer jacket over a pair of jeans and plain shirt, both a bit too big for her, but all she really had in the group home. She wasn't afforded a lot of choices nowadays.
The 'friend' is a woman in her mid-twenties who opens the door with a cigarette in hand, who kisses Frank on both cheeks and pets Lola on the head when she's introduced. Her name's Nadine, she doesn't ask questions, and she offers her closet to Lola without hesitation.
"This your first concert, honey?" Nadine asks, rifling through her closet for clothes that would fit and suit the teenager. Before Lola can even answer, Nadine's throwing ripped jeans onto the bed and turning around with a sweet smile, "where're my manners; you want a beer? Something to drink?"
Lola is quiet for a very long moment, brow creased in thought before she meets Nadine's gaze, testing her luck.
"Vodka?"
Nadine laughs, loud and bright, and takes another drag of her cigarette. "Sure, sweetheart, I think I've got some in the cupboard; let's get you dressed first though." She's nice, much nicer than Lola knows she deserves, and when the teen asks why, shimmying into a pair of black, ripped jeans that are fitting surprisingly well, Nadine's answer comes out softer than expected on the other side of the bathroom door. "Frank and my little brother were in a band together, and since Joe's moved away, I help out Frank where I can."
"He was in a band?"
"Most definitely, now how is that outfit looking?" She asks, and Lola pulls the Queen crop top over her head, looking at herself in the grimy mirror. There's a new confidence in clothes so different from the ones she'd been wearing for almost a month now; she looks good, and as much as she hates to admit it, older.
"We're gonna miss the opening act, Lola!" Frank calls from where Lola assumes is the living room, and she bursts from the bathroom with a grin.
"You'll be fine," Nadine assures, pleased when she looks over Lola and her outfit, but when Lola gives a twirl, her expression darkens; "what happened there?" And she's reaching to Lola's hip, her fingers brushing against the mostly healed burn scar that was visible on her lower back, but in fact covered her whole back.
"Nothing." Lola snaps, and Nadine's hand retracts like she's the one who's been burned, smile tight for a moment. "Vodka?" Lola's voice softens a little, reflexively apologetic for snapping, and Nadine smiles again.
"I think we could all use some."
Frank's sitting on the sofa, his beer held tight between his knees while he fixes his eyeliner in the reflection of a little hand mirror, which he closes when Nadine reenters the room with Lola in tow. When he catches sight of her, for the barest moment, he's speechless.
"Vodka, Frank?" Nadine asks, and he nods automatically, taking his beer and having another sip.
"You need to rough your hair up a bit more," is his only comment on Lola's outfit, and it's her turn to smirk, despite her confusion. "If you can't do the Farrah Fawcett thing, you gotta mess it up." He explains. Lola obligingly tips her head upside down and runs her hands through her long, brown hair messily, flipping back up when Nadine calls them both over.
She chokes on the shot, and Frank laughs, and she takes another shot and chokes less, and Nadine looks a little proud, and the world is already turning a little hazy at the edges by the time they leave Nadine's.
The bar lets them in without carding them; the guy at the door nods at Frank like he knows him, and Frank tells her the bar doesn't card. Lola's a little hesitant; it's not like she's buying any drinks, she's got no money, didn't even think she'd get this far. But then Frank's leaving to talk to the band who's setting up, and Lola feels like she's been thrown in the deep end, but doesn't want to be a bother, and heads to look around.
The courtyard is cool enough, both in atmosphere and literal temperature, and a cute boy with curly, blonde hair offers her a cigarette, which she takes. She's smoked a few times before, but has been clean since coming to the group home, and the moment the nicotine hits her lungs it feels like a hug, a welcome home. It must read on her face, because the boy laughs, not unkindly, and asks her how long it's been. He's older than her, but only by a few years she's guessing.
He buys her a drink when they head back inside because the band's started playing, and Frank finally finds her again, he even looks a little worried. Something about that makes Lola smile, a little catty, but mostly pleased. The boy from the courtyard has his arm around her, but he's talking to the bartender.
"Don't worry, Frank, you got me here, I can handle myself."
And maybe he looks a little proud at her assuredness, tells her that he'll let her know when he's heading off but she doesn't need to join him if she doesn't want to, and Lola grins back, nodding, leaning into the other guy when he turns back with her drink.
In retrospect, Lola will be equal parts proud and absolutely disgusted to give her first blowjob at sixteen to a stranger in the filthy bathroom of a bar that doesn't card, and despite the fact that she doesn't tell Frank what happened when they walk back to the group home together, he's grinning like he knows.
"Stop looking at me like that." She's been bright red since they'd left, even though the act happened much earlier in the night. The moment the other guy had come, he'd zipped up his pants, kissed her on the cheek, and apologised that he'd had to leave since he had an early start the next morning.
"Like what?" Frank's grinning like the fucking Cheshire Cat, still reasonably drunk, Lola just turns redder, if possible.
"Shut up."
He grins wider.
"I'm glad you came along for the ride," he admits, and at that, Lola lets herself smile a little.
"I did have fun," she half laughs, quietly, and Frank wraps an arm around her, giving a squeeze.
"Yeah you did." After a beat, he's quiet, and Lola looks up at his through narrowed eyes; Frank licks his lips, expression amused, "you weren't in there long." Lola shoves him hard, and he stumbles away from her, laughing his fucking head off. "I'm just saying, either that's his fault, or maybe you have something to be proud of."
"Yeah, wouldn't you like to know," Lola snipes back, nose in the air, arms crossed, and Frank snorts.
"The night is young, Lola, babe, if you're offering, of course," he concedes, eyes shining with mirth in the moonlight, and Lola splutters for an answer. Then, as her frown deepens and she comes to a halt, looking at Frank like she's analysing him, like she finds something she likes, her eyebrow quirks.
"Can you get me smokes inside the home?" She asks, and Frank's eyebrows shoot up; she's actually considering it, giving it a price.
"Seriously?"
"I mean, I'm free to make my own dumbass decisions out here, aren't I? And I didn't hate it the first time," she's fixed him with an amused smile, arms crossed and hip cocked, and something about her proposal, her in those clothes, the alcohol in his veins, he's tempted. Very tempted.
"You're drunk," he frowns, and Lola takes a step towards him, confidence radiating off of her.
"You're drunker and you're turning down a blowjob; how stingy are you about your smokes?" Her gaze, like her words, was sharp, and Frank didn't back down, stepping up to meet her; she's a good deal shorter than him, though most people are, but she doesn't back down. There's a single moment in time where he knows so clearly that he could just take her by the shoulders and lead her back to the home, forget this ever happened and refuse to take her out again. But he's already made his decision, and she seems to know this. The alcohol makes her confident, she loops a finger through one of his belt loops and gives him a challenging smile; it was surprisingly hot. He didn't know she had it in her. He didn't know she had any of this in her. Not that he's complaining.
"Find us an alley and I'll get you a pack by Sunday."