Page 3 of Resist
“Please? Even for an hour, just to get out of this apartment.” She gestures around. “Which looks like shit by the way. Hire a cleaner, and do some fucking laundry.” She wafts in front of her nose before guiding me toward the bedroom. She’s not wrong, the place is a mess, but I just can’t find it in me to care. I know I should, but...
“Would it kill you to spritz some air freshener around here? Or even on yourself? Are you not bathing? Jeez. Take a quick shower.”
I dig my heels in like a cartoon character, but she’s strong as fuck. And when I open my mouth to argue, the words fizzle out on my tongue.
“And before you say you don’t have anything to wear, don’t bother. I brought shit with me. Shhhh. Just let it happen.” She snorts.
I can only imagine what fashion faux pas she’s brought for me to squeeze my plus-sized ass into. “What happened to consent?”
“Rule number three happened to consent.” She doesn’t stop her quest to shove me into my bedroom as she answers with a smugness that makes me roll my eyes. Taking the ‘know when to push them out of their comfort zone and when to let them hide under a blanket fort’ literally as she pushes me into my room.
It sounded like a fun idea to learn our Girl Code rules by heart so we could have our own little boss-bitch gang. But when the rules are used against me, I regret partaking in the whole committing-them-to-memory-part-of-the-process thing. Knowing them by heart means I can’t feign ignorance when my friends throw around rule numbers.
When I get to the bathroom, she levels me with a smirk. “You need help getting out of that hoodie?” She digs into her trench coat pocket and pulls out a pair of scissors. “I came prepared.”
“You’re not cutting my favorite hoodie.” I hold my hands up in surrender.
“They’re all your favorites.”
I nod to confirm. “They’re so comfy.”
She snaps the scissors open and closed a couple of times in rapid succession. “Then take it off, wash yourself, and I’ll meet you in your bedroom ready to pluck those brows and get your ass out the door.”
Resignation accompanies me into the shower and hangs over my head while I shave my legs.
We’ve been friends for long enough that I know there’s no arguing with the rules. Even if I want to. They’re there for a reason, something we all accepted when we created the damn things.
I huff out a sigh. I guess I’m going back to Protocol.
CHAPTER 2
Cora
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
I forgot this place doesn’t serve alcohol. I get it and all, butwhyyyyyyyy?
It’s been a while since I’ve been through the doors of Club Protocol. More than a while, in fact. Fine, closer to... fuck, a year and a half? It can’t have been that long, can it?
Wow. I think it really might have been eighteen months since I was last here. I’ve been slammed with work, which, if I’m brutally honest with myself, is an excuse. I’ve withdrawn from more than just my favorite sex club.
My therapist tells me it’s definitely depression, even if I don’t like that word, or the connotations that come along with it. She says that this apathy I’m feeling with... well, everything, actually has a name, a cause. She put me on Zoloft a couple months ago which seems to be helping. I’m starting to come out from the fog and feel like my old self.
It’s good to be back, or on my way back anyway. I’m hopeful the old me is still tucked in a corner somewhere, and it’s just a matter of coaxing her back out.
As for Protocol, it hasn’t changed much at all. It still saysluxury, even though it’s not an exclusive or expensive club. The floor can’t be real marble, can it? Either way, it looks clean enough to eat off.
Ha. I also wouldn’t be surprised if someone has tried over the years.
The black and gold decor has changed, or at least been updated. There’s a vague scent of fresh paint in the air that suggests a recent refurb.
Why am I even here? Why did I let her drag me out?
I know. Pick your battles. But the longer I’m here, the more I wonder if this is a battle I should have picked.
A sigh slithers through my nostrils on a long, slow breath as I stab at my frozen mocktail with my quickly deteriorating paper straw. I need to dig my thong out from between my ass cheeks, but that’s not something I want to do surrounded by all these people. Someone might offer to help, or get the wrong idea about my relationship status, despite my red armband.
I can’t flee, either. This outfit fucking squeaks like a rusty wheel on a bike that needs a good oiling. It would certainly draw attention if I took off on these way-too-high heels because I’m likely to roll an ankle, or go flat on my ass and make a scene.