Made

He got a call from Jen a few days later, begging him to watch over Laila for the afternoon. He agreed too easily again, knowing that he didn't have anything else to be doing, and that Jen was counting on him. Nick had gone out of town for something, and she was needed for some interviews, and didn't want Laila to be alone. He couldn't shake the words "rehab" and "stopped eating" from his mind.

She was fully clothed and sitting in the bathtub when he got to the apartment, her short blue dress getting wet from the drippings of the shower head. Smoke clouded the bathroom, but there weren't any cigarettes in sight.

"Earthquake," she'd responded when he asked. There hadn't been an earthquake.

He hauled her to her feet and led her into the living room, where she promptly fell onto the couch. The television was already on, and she idly watched a reality show.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

She shook her head.

He looked at his phone, while taking a seat at the dining room table. Jen had sent him a text telling him that she needed to eat. He hated having that responsibility.

"When did you last eat?"

She shrugged.

"What, did they let you out of rehab early or something?" he was pushing it, but wanted to get some sort of reaction out of her.

"Wasn't in rehab," she replied.

"Nick said you were."

"He's lying."

"Where were you then?" he asked, sighing.

"Prison."

His eyes must have done something, but he couldn't tell. He'd stopped breathing, and she cackled at his expression from the couch.
"You should see your fucking face."

"Prison?" he echoed.

Her laughter died down into a slight, crooked smile. "Something like that."

He still sat dumbfounded in the dining room. "Who asked you to watch me today?" she asked, starting the first conversation since he'd met her a few days before.

"Uh, Jen." She made a little tsking noise with her mouth, and resumed watching the television. "Is this what you're gonna do all day?" he asked, irritated. There was something about this girl, and combined with the summer heat, he just wanted to go somewhere else and get drunk.

"No. Got work at six." That was in three hours.

"Work?" It was like he couldn't stop repeating words.

"Bartender," she said. That was when he first heard an accent. He hadn't heard it before, but she hadn't said as much before.

"Where are you from?" he asked, perplexed after trying to place it.

"Whitley Bay, Newcastle upon Tyne."

"Huh," he responded.

"Lived there four years," she said. "Guess I picked up an accent." She shot him a wry smile.

He decided to push his luck even further. She was being talkative, and if he was gonna have to spend the day with her, he might as well get something out of it.

"How do you know Jen?"

"I don't."

He furrowed his brow at her, before it dawned on him. "Nick, then?"

"We went to high school together. He's a few years older."

She laughed at something on the television, but he couldn't see what it was.

"You're good friends, then?"

Her expression immediately turned cold. "Something like that."

"What, then?" But she was done answering questions, and ignored him. They sat in silence for over an hour, her watching television, and him playing around on his phone, before she finally turned off the television and stood up.
The short dress had ridden up while she was lying down, and he could see most of her thighs, which were covered in scars. He knew what they were, obviously, but she didn't mention it, and he didn't ask. She sauntered past him and into the kitchen, where she pulled out a bottle of vodka from the refrigerator.

"Drink?" she asked, sliding into the chair opposite him.

"Haven't you got to go to work?" he asked, grabbing the bottle from her. It was cold, and he compared his hand to the imprint of hers on the bottle. She had small hands, and short fingers, almost like a child.

"I've found that work's more fun when I'm drunk," she said.

He took a swig, almost choking on the combination of bitter and sweet. He looked at the bottle again. Peach. She reached out to take the bottle from him, and he took another swig just for good measure. He didn't really like vodka.

"Hang on," he said, holding the bottle just out of reach. "You're not old enough to drink in the United States."

"I'm 21," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Nice try, but I don't look that young."

"You don't look 21," he said, bringing the open bottle back to his lips. "Prove it."

She scoffed at him, and reached out again for the bottle, leaning over the table. He held his arm away from her, keeping the bottle out of reach.

"Prove it," he said again, and she huffed.

He laughed, taking another swig.

"I don't think I like you when you're drunk," she said, getting out of her chair.

"Oh, so you like me?" he joked.

She blushed, reaching again for the bottle. "Shut up."

He laughed again, standing up to keep it out of her reach. The idea came to him quickly, and he was shocked he didn't think of it before.

"I'll give you the bottle if you eat something," he said, walking into the kitchen. She followed, sighing.

"Fine, but I'm not eating anymore fucking Shepard's Pie."

He laughed, making his way to the refrigerator. Jen was bound to have leftovers of something. While he was distracted, she snatched the bottle out of his hand, and took a swig.

"That's cheating," he said. She smirked from behind the lips of the bottle. "You still have to eat."

She made a face, taking a sip of the vodka.

He finally got her to eat some spaghetti bolognese, about half of a plate full. It felt like a victory.

"I haven't got an eating disorder," she said, as she noticed him looking at her.

"Why don't you eat, then?"

"I'm just not hungry is all." He looked at her stonily, and she sighed. "Cigarettes. Curb the appetite."

He remembered. "I don't believe you," he said instead.

"That's not my fault," she answered.

They passed the bottle between them for the next hour. At 5:30, she finally passed on the alcohol.

"I've got work," she said.

"I suppose I've got to drive you," he said.

She smiled, a crooked grin that oozed mischief.

He sighed and stood up. He couldn't tell if he was too drunk to drive or not.

Luckily, he didn't have to think on it too long, because the door opened, and Nick strode in.

"I see you've got a babysitter," he said, throwing his key down on the small table by the door. Laila frowned.

"Hey," Michael said, trying to broach the odd silence. "I thought you were out of town."

"Came back early. Laila, why don't you go do something."

It wasn't a suggestion, though it was phrased like one.

"I've not got time for this," she said. "I've got work."

"I took care of it," Nick said jovially. Laila's eyes narrowed, and Michael could see that it was a struggle for her to not clench her fists. "I told you to go do something."

Laila stood her ground, and Nick slapped her, a straight backhand across her left cheek. Michael stood there in shock as Laila hit the dining room table, bracing herself with her hands. Her jaw clenched, and she opened and closed her mouth as though holding back what she wanted to say.

"You've gotten rowdy," Nick said.

He finally found his voice. "What the fuck?!" he cried, and Nick just looked at him.

"You're usually much better behaved, aren't you Laila?"

"Fuck you," she spat, still leaning against the table. Nick slapped her again, sending her stumbling into a chair and onto the ground.

"Nick, stop it," he said, trying to find some sort of foothold in the situation. But he was ignored.

"I'm not going to tell you again," he said to the girl, who was still down on the tiled floor. When she didn't respond, he yanked her up by the hair. Michael grabbed his arm, unsure of what to do if the situation escalated any further. Laila didn't cry out, but she was visibly in pain.

Nick looked down at Michael's hand on his arm and chuckled. He pushed Laila away, and she stumbled into the kitchen.

"Laila," Nick said, and it was a clear warning. She swallowed thickly and left the room. After a minute, he heard the bathroom door shut.

"Sorry about that, she's very well behaved, I promise."

"What the fuck was that?" Michael spat. He felt a combination of hot and cold all over, and the giddiness he'd had just a moment ago from the alcohol had worn off.

But Nick ignored him. "You know, you've been very nice to pick her up from the airport and to watch her today. You should get something out of this."

"Nick," he said, though he knew that he wasn't in control of this and would never be, no matter how many times he attempted to gain some control.

Again, he was ignored. "I've thought about this for a while, that's why I suggested that Jen ask you to pick her up." Nick paused for affect. "I think that you should have her."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It's not really a question," Nick said, talking over him. "I've already signed the papers over to you. I just thought you should meet her beforehand, get familiar with her."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

Nick looked at him, confused. "Owning her," he said. "I told you, I've got all the papers, you just have to take her home. She's already yours."

"Nick, you can't own people," he said.

But the younger man just laughed. "You've got a great sense of humour," he said. "I know why Jen likes you, even if I don't agree."

"Nick," he said again, but he was ignored.

"Laila," he called, and she came out from the bathroom. He could see the redness in her nose and the hastily dried tear marks down her face.

"Please don't do this," she whispered, looking at Nick. He ran his fingers through her hair tenderly with one hand, and cupped her cheek with the other.

"You know I've outgrown you," he murmured, placing a kiss on her cheek. He disentangled himself from her hair and pushed her towards Michael, who barely caught her. She was crying, but not making any noise.

Nick moved into the living room, where he picked up her duffle bag, handing it to Michael. "Now, her papers are in there, so you're good to go."

"Nick," Michael started, again, but the younger man was already pushing the two of them towards the door.

"Oh, and, don't mention this to Jen," he said, pushing them into the hallway. The door closed behind them, and the last thing he saw was a cold smirk on Nick's face.

He took Laila quickly to the elevator, having to hold onto her waist to steady her. He was tempted to pick her up, she could barely walk she was crying so hard, but thought better of it. He led her to his car, and dumped her into the passenger seat. He didn't know what Nick was talking about, owning her?, but didn't and couldn't leave her there. The ease with which he had hit her said that it wasn't the first time. 'Something like that' echoed in his mind.

He pulled out of the parking garage quickly, wanting to leave Jen's as soon as possible. Laila didn't say anything, just crouched in her seat and stared out the window.

"I'm gonna take you home," he said, more to himself than her. "And we're gonna figure this out. Okay? Just. I'm gonna take you home." She didn't answer, and he sped through downtown LA.