Though none of the weekends that follow are quite as exciting as her first night of freedom, Lola grows excited for each and every one, and Frank doesn't seem to be growing tired of her company, so she takes it as a win. In fact, they grow close, much to the exasperation and slight terror of the women running the group home.
"Get out of my bed," Nikki comes back from the shower with his hair still wet, only wearing a pair of jeans, only to find Lola trying to discretely smoke behind a newspaper. It's been almost three whole months since that first night, and Lola's almost seventeen, and for the first time she feels like she has her whole life ahead of her.
"No way, you're by the window," she pointedly leans back, breathing a lungful of smoke through the mesh.
"Just smoke outside," he snaps, pulling himself up the ladder to sit by her, scowling, before shaking his head like a dog, flicking water all over her.
"It's cold outside, you asshole!" She fired back around the cigarette in her mouth, smacking him with the paper, unable to shield herself in time from the water he flicks on her, settling for this instead. In retaliation, Frank takes the cigarette from her lips and takes a drag, reaching across Lola to flick the ashes into the empty can she'd been using as an impromptu ash tray.
"Anything interesting?" He flicks the paper before putting the cigarette into Lola's waiting grip. After a beat, he leans over to the window to blow out the smoke, and Lola hums.
"I wouldn't know," she dismisses the question without any preamble, before grinning, turning to Frank, "who's playing tonight? They any good?" And she's shooting for casual, and failing pretty miserably. He drags out the moment, part of him likes to see her squirm, before finally shrugging, admitting he doesn't know the band. This isn't the answer she was looking for, and it shows on her face, the way her nose wrinkles and her lips turn down in a frown, and she stubs out the last remaining embers of the cigarette before putting the butt in the can itself and pushing the can to the corner of the bed.
"You complaining? You don't have to come," he offers, but Lola's only response is to flop dramatically onto the bed.
"God, of course I'll go," she paused for a moment, "how are you not wearing a shirt, it's fucking freezing, the window's open." She tossed the paper to the ground and rested her hands behind her head, gaze focused on the ceiling, pointedly not looking at Frank.
"I'm cold blooded, I don't feel it," she can hear him smirking, and without warning, she sits up, reaching out and taking his arm, running her thumb over the goosebumps forming there.
"Dirty fuckin' liar," she grins back at him, even as he flips the script, pulls her close and wraps an arm around her. It's easy contact, familiar, and Lola leans into it a little, one hand still holding his wrist,
"You run warm enough," he grinned, and there's an answer on the tip of her tongue, just behind her grin-
"God, you two are damn ferals; get away from each other, no touching," one of ladies who runs the home spots them on her way through to the laundry, and sounds as if she's already tired of whatever interaction this is about to yield.
"You gonna get the hose again?" Lola spits back, scrambling to her knees, leaning on the railing at the edge of the bunk bed, looking every bit as irritated and feral as the woman accused her of. Even so, the woman can see Frank's amused smirk, but not how he's looped a finger through one of Lola's belt loops, a quiet reminder to not pitch herself off the bed by accident.
"You bet I will!" She snapped, "if you two are within a foot of each other when I come back I'll spray you both." The woman warned, storming off to the laundry.
"Fuckin' bitch," Lola huffed, sitting back, practically on Frank this time when he tugs her backwards, "no touching," she parrots back before scoffing derisively, even a Frank laughs low and amused, reaching around to cup one of her boobs through her shirt in blatant defiance. It doesn't seem to phase Lola, who just sulks, leans a little bit close to him. He moves away first, climbing down and pulling on his shirt and a jacket, rattling off Nadine's promise of dinner as he's fastening his shoelaces; it's enough to distract Lola from her anger, and the two of them have disappeared from the building within minutes, on their way to Nadine's place, as they often went before seeing a gig.
After that first night, casual sexual contact became almost like a form of currency between them, for cigarettes, to borrow records, occasionally for caps or weed, sometimes just for candy, and sometimes when she's feeling especially drunk and sappy, Lola's on her knees in a bathroom stall as a thanks for taking her out in the first place. And it's still that, still a transaction, but then Lola gets fed up with a club early, despite Frank having promised the band he'd stay to the end to discuss potentially joining them. She whining, tipsy, think's the music's shit - it is, their bass player is being replaced for a reason, but that's besides the point - and he's sick of it.
"Since you're so fucking tense," and she's in shorts tonight, high waisted and black and denim, not ideal. But then she's on the counter, leaning back against the side of the mirror with his hand cramping beneath her fly as she rolls her hips in time with his fingers, gasping and whimpering as she tries to keep quiet.
"You gonna calm the fuck down? Not gonna fuck this up for me, alright?" And like an asshole, he asks her right as she's on the edge, and the moment she agrees, whispered agreements tumbling from her lips, back arching, she comes hard, arms trembling a little where she's holding herself up on the counter.
"Jesus, yeah, fine, I'll stop complaining," she huffs as she finally comes back to herself, trying to prop herself up further, trying to do something, anything to make herself look more presentable, though the effect is ruined a little by her hard breathing and flushed cheeks. Frank's playing at serious where he's washing his hands in the sink beside her, but she can tell he's a little pleased with himself. "Don't act so smug, it's not cute."
"I'm not trying to be cute, Lo," and there's something like a warning in his voice, but Lola's only response is to grin mischievously and hop from the counter. They take a few moments to look at themselves in the mirror, through the dim, grimy overhead light. Lola tucks her shirt back into her shorts and ties up her hair to hide how messy the back had gotten, and it's quiet, subtle, but they both know there's been a change, a shift in dynamic.
Call it teenage rebellion, call it two runaways trying to make a connection, call it whatever you want; it's not so easily definable. Lola doesn't say it, but to her it's a fuck you to the puritanical prison in which she was raised, it's taking back control of her own body, of her own life, and she liked Frank well enough, liked his taste in music and in people and the way he would smile. He's unlike any friend she'd been allowed before, and she's willing to do whatever it takes to keep him around.
So today, they leave before the woman from the home can catch them, before the front doors are locked for the night, before the sun's fully submerged beneath the horizon. Frank complains about not having a car, making some vague declaration that it's the first thing he'd get once he started earning some cash of his own, and Lola shoves him, laughing a 'sure, whatever helps you sleep at night', and he shoves her right back, but he's grinning.
Nadine bought pizza, and Lola gives back the skirt she'd been wearing the week before for a pair of leather pants, and Frank won't stop smiling and neither he nor Nadine will tell Lola why.
"It's a surprise," is all Nadine says, "now eat your dinner, I slaved for minutes over a phone ordering that for you." She jokes, grinning sharply, and Lola rolls her eyes and shoves another piece of four cheese pizza in her mouth.
They're early to one of the pubs they usually frequent, weirdly early, suspiciously; they arrive at the same time the band does, and Lola's halfway through telling him that they should at least hang out at Nadia's until the band's due to start, but he's already making a beeline for the station wagon piled high with equipment.
"Took your sweet fuckin' time, Ferranna," one of the band members yells, and Frank's replying with an easy banter as he helps lift an amp, and it's here that Lola recognises the band from a few weeks ago.
"Lo, give us a hand, will ya?" Frank nods to where a few guitar cases were sitting in the trunk of the car, but Lola cocks her hip and crosses her arm, affixing him with an unamused stare.
"Do I look like your fucking roadie?" She asks, and Frank rolls his eyes.
"Come on, I'll owe you," and though usually Lola would jump at the prospect, she's not about to help some random band because Frank feels like being a good samaritan for the first time in his life. She grinds her heel into the gravel of the road and shifts her weight to her other foot. She doesn't move. "Alright, fine, I'm playing with them tonight; this is Sister, we saw them a few weeks ago." He paused, grunting as he hands off the amp to one of the other band members inside the club.
"Hey, kid," one of the other band members slams the door of the car, glaring at them over the roof, "if you're girlfriend's gonna just stand there looking bitchy, tell her she can do that inside-"
"Tell me yourself, asshole, I'm right here," Lola snaps, and though Frank looks at her like she's giving him a headache, she begrudgingly takes a guitar case from the back, "and I'm not his fucking girlfriend."
"I don't give a shit; be careful with that." The other band member snaps.
Frank moves to get the other case out of the back, rolling his eyes at Lola's stormy expression as she stalks past him, but then she stops, looks over her shoulder at him and her expression actually softens.
"What?" He frowns.
"It is actually pretty cool that you got the gig," Lola gives him a grin, pride blossoming in her chest as she takes in his surprisingly pleased smile, "but you still owe me."
"Yeah, what a chore," she knows without even looking at him that he's smiling, rolling his eyes, with sarcasm practically dripping from his words as he hefts the other guitar case from the back, following her inside. She helps bring in a milk crate full of cables, and a parcan, and sits herself at the bar at the back of the room as the band starts setting up, and doing sound checks. The night's still young, and she's still learning the ropes, but she knows from looking around that no-one at the bar is drunk enough yet to either leave their drink unattended, or buy her a drink, so she settles for taking a sip from the flask Nadine had furnished her with, wrinkling her nose at the taste of cheap vodka.
The band sounds so much better than the first time, and in her mind, Lola attributes it all to Frank. And maybe it's the pride, the excitement, or the alcohol, but by the second set she's dancing with the rest of the girls who've formed a mosh pit. The lights are bright, and a haze of smoke in the air and then there's a guy in the crowd with his hands on her hips, and she moves along with him, and in time with the rhythm of the bass she can feel in her chest. He buys her a drink and another and another and she wishes the men's bathroom of a random dingy club wasn't as familiar as it had came to be.
The man doesn't know her name and she doesn't know his, but he knows he wants to fuck her, and she knows that if she blows him, she'll probably get another drink and not need to go all the way. He's satisfied, calls her an angel and doesn't see her roll her eyes, or her own self satisfied smirk when she asks for another drink and he's all but tripping over his words to comply. A transaction complete.
And she keeps dancing, and loses the guy in the crowd, and hangs with the band between sets, smoking by the bar, and the singer, who had yelled at her earlier, apologises. She just grins, shrugs it off, and proceeds to steal a sip from Frank's rum and coke.
By the end of the night she's exhausted, and looking forward to flopping into her own bed, brimming with joy at watching Frank perform; she'd known he could play in theory, but had never had the opportunity to see it in person. It turns out he'd been going to rehearsal for a few weeks, the band trying him out before they were fully ready to commit.
"Fully ready to commit?" Lola frowns at the wording as they walk back to the home; the band offered a lift, but even with two cars, there wasn't room for both Lola and Frank, and either way, they were used to the walk.
"They- ah," Frank gave pause for a moment, actually hesitated, "they were only here to scout talent; I'm heading back to LA with them in about a week; they're the real deal, Lo."
She wants to respond, wants to congratulate him, wants to ask what the fuck, but no sound is coming from her mouth.
"Were you planning on telling me?" Is what she actually says, and when Frank laughs it's humourless. They're slowing now, almost at a stop just a few blocks from home, and the crunch of gravel beneath Lola's boots sounds so loud in her ears. So she stops. "Just gonna take off? Leave and never come back and not say shit about it beforehand?"
"Pretty much," he admits, kicking at the ground, avoiding her gaze, "I've known you for like three months, Lo, I didn't expect it to be a big deal, it's not like -" he shuts himself up, mouth snapping closed as he rolls his eyes, but Lola just raises an eyebrow, mouth pressed into a thin line, "I didn't expect you to want to come couch surfing in LA, okay? You've got Nadine here," he throws his arms out in exasperation, "I haven't got shit and you barely know me."
"Yeah, Nads is lovely, but if you leave me in that fuckin' group home knowing you ran off to be a rockstar in LA without me, I'd lose my mind." Breathing deeply, Lola took a moment to centre herself, "listen, I ain't got shit either, and it's not like you know me any better than I know you, but if you want me there I'll go. Anything's better than the pitying looks those hags give me; trust me, if we both leave it'll be like Christmas for them."
"And what happens if we get sick of each other?" It did seem like he was seriously considering it though, giving her an appraising look.
"Then leave me on the side of the road; I'd rather be homeless in LA than pitied in this bland-ass group home; it's like the life equivalent of only ever eating oatmeal," she groaned, and at least that gets him to laugh.
"Fine, you might have to carry a light or two for the drive there, but I'll get them to squeeze you in," he assured. With that, they start walking again, and there's a new hope, new joy, new energy blooming bright in Lola's chest, an excitement for the future that's unfamiliar but not unwanted.
"Do I look like your fuckin' roadie?" Lola grins at him, warm and amused. He just smirks back, giving her a shrug.
"Starting to; you've got potential."
"Oh fuck that, shoot me if I ever become your roadie."