Made

He found the necklace about a week later, strewn senselessly on the bottom of his laundry basket.

Laila had avoided him, going into work at all hours and only slipping back in to take showers and occasionally eat. She never said more than three words to him the whole week, and he had to resort to trapping her as she got dressed.

"Nick told me to give this to you," he said. He was standing in the doorway of her room, watching as she laced up her black and purple corset. She gave him a wan smile.

"No bruises," she said. "I've got to look pretty."

He looked at her, confused.

"It was a joke."

He must have had a blank look on his face, because she rolled her eyes, and took the necklace from his outstretched hand. Laila threw the necklace on the bed.

"There's an inscription," he said.

"I've not got time for it," she replied.

He vaguely remembered her saying those words before, and got an intense feeling of deja vu.

"Don't you want to know what it says?"

She sighed loudly, then picked up the necklace to read it. She threw it back onto the bed.

"Happy?"

He merely threw his hands up and walked away.

Laila slipped out of the house somewhere between his first and second beer. He didn't even realize she had gone until she came back, hair damp with rain as she burst into the living room, disrupting his Hollyoaks marathon. He quickly turned it off in shame, but she wasn't paying any attention to it at all.

He could see in the light of the television that she was bloody, and there were cuts on her lips and forehead. But she ignored that, paying no heed to what must be a sharp, stinging feeling, and threw herself across the couch, burying her head in his stomach. He's happy he wore black, because he'd never get the blood out of a white t-shirt.

"It's from 'Anna Karenina'," she mumbled. "The movie, not the book."

He could feel her breath through the fabric of his t-shirt, and he focused on that so much that he barely heard her next words.

"My mom gave me that ring," she said.

"What?" he replied. She looked up at him incredulously. "I just didn't realize you had parents," he said sheepishly.

She pushed her face back into his stomach. "I used to be a normal person," she said.

He laughed. "You're still normal."

She scowled up at him, and he cupped her chin with his hand. "What happened to your face?"

Laila squirmed beneath him, but he held firm. "I got into a fight," she finally said.

He furrowed his brow. "Over what?" She sighed and tried to wrench herself out of his grip. "Laila," he warned.

"It was nothing," she said. "It was stupid."

He gave her face a once over, and saw the same cuts he had noticed earlier, and the beginnings of bruises. Laila looked away from him, studying the painting on the wall behind his head.

"You're lying." Laila still refused to look at him.

"Hang on," he said, letting her face go, but holding on to her arm to keep her close. "Did someone hurt you?"

She shook her head, but he just looked at her.

"It was just a few punches, is all," she said.

"What?" He felt his cheeks get pink with anger and all of the alcohol he had consumed. How could someone do this to her? What asshole had put his hands on her? "What happened?"

"It was nothing," she repeated, attempting again to squirm out of his grasp. He let go of her arm, but grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into his lap for a better look at her injuries. She was still unhappy, looking everywhere but at him.

"Laila," he said, shaking her slightly. She sighed. "Who did this to you?"

"It's fine, Fass," she said, trying to move off of his lap.

"No it's not fucking fine," he said, glaring at her. "I want to know what happened."

She pouted, but he held her stare.

"It was just work," she said. He raised his eyebrows at her, wanting her to hurry the story along. "Some jackass came in, wanted me to go home with him." She looked down at him, her pout finally softening. "It wasn't bad," she said. "Nothing happened, he just touched me and then I hit him and then he hit me back. It wasn't anything."

"Where?"

"It doesn't matter-"

"Where did he touch you?"

She pointed to her thigh, and he looked down at the her stocking leg to see if he saw anything. Groaning in frustration, he reached over to turn on the lamp beside the couch, and looked again. He couldn't see a bruise or anything, but wanted to be sure.

"Take these off," he said.

"What? No."

He ignored her, reaching up to take off the stockings himself, and found the garter belt she wore beneath her skirt. He was flooded with an onslaught of thoughts. She had merely said she was a bartender, but didn't mention where she worked. What if he had unknowingly sent her out to a strip club or a brothel? He saw red as he thought about other people touching her, demanding to see her body, forcing her to do things for money. She'd have to quit, then. He could find her another job. Something. She didn't even need to work.

He finished undoing the clasps and looked down, seeing a vaguely hand shaped bruise on the center of her thigh. He traced his fingers over the marks, and felt Laila shiver beneath his touch.
She put her hand over his to stop his movements, and he leaned forward, resting his forehead on her shoulder.

"I'll kill him," he murmured.

He kissed her shoulder, smirking as he felt her shiver again. His hands wrapped themselves around her waist as he slowly kissed his way to her neck.

"I'll kill him," he repeated. Laila sighed, gently running her hand through his hair.

"I didn't go that far," she said. He grinned up at her, bringing her head down to capture her in a kiss.

They had sex on the couch.

He woke up the next afternoon on the floor, cold, half naked, and aching. It took him a few minutes to realize that the noise of the door closing had woken him up. Laila was looking down at him, an amused look on her face.

"Do you want lunch?" she asked. He shook his head.

Laila held her hand out to him and helped pull him up. He could remember most of the previous night, but not how he ended up on the floor. Laila led him to the kitchen, where she handed him a giant glass of water and a painkiller. She had shed her corset and skirt from the knight before, and was now decked out in a revealing t-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants.

"I thought you had work," he said. He winced at how gravelly his voice was, but Laila didn't seem to notice.

"My boss died," she said. "Arrangements are being made now, so the club is closed."

"Jesus," he replied. There were a million questions running through his head, and he couldn't decide which ones to start with, so he took a seat at the kitchen island. "What happened?"

Laila shrugged. "Drug overdose, I think. Don't really know."

"Jesus," he repeated, taking a sip of the water. It was cold, which only made him feel colder. "D'ya want tea?"

Laila shook her head. "I hate tea."

He chuckled. "I think you've come to the wrong place," he said.

Laila smiled.

"Where do you work?" he asked. It had been burning in his mind for part of the night.

"It's just a club. Like a night club."

"What's it called?"

"Five."

He just looked at her. "Are you lying?"

Laila laughed. "What's wrong with the name?"

"It's stupid."

"It's literary."

"Bullshit."

"No, really. It's from '1984'. There's a bit where someone tries to convince the main character that 2 plus 2 is 5. The underlying message is that you should do what you're told, not what is right or true."

"What the fuck does that have to do with a nightclub?"

Laila leaned forward, causing her shirt to slip down to reveal the top of her black and red laced bra. He tried to maintain eye contact. "I'm not telling," she taunted. She straightened up, grinning and turned to face the refrigerator.

"Now, I've just gone shopping. What do you want to eat?"