"And if you have a minute, why don't we go talk about it somewhere only we know?"
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Maya Beaulieu, born and raised in Montreal, has heard the stories about Lance Stroll, the boy who grew up down the street of where she lived. All the reason to stay...
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𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚟
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Brent asks, he holds the door indicating that he has absolutely no interest in letting me in.
As soon as I received Maya's first text, I knew something was wrong. If I learned one thing from her, it is that she refuses to ask for help. Especially from me.
"Maya texted me," I reply, trying to look through behind him if I can see her. "I am here to pick her up."
"Absolutely not," Brent crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Maya stays here. I am not sending her off with you so you can do God knows what."
I sigh, and roll my eyes, "She texted me. So, let me get her. And I'm out of here."
"I am her best friend, I am here to protect her."
"Oh, are you now?" I already know Joey is here, but when I see him appearing behind Brent, I lean forward. "If you really are here to protect your so-called best friend, then why is her rapist here at your party?"
Brent looks at me confused, and this gives me the opportunity to barge in the door. I walk past Brent roughly and immediately walk into the living room. I let my eyes roam over the place and find Maya at the bar, nursing another drink.
Immediately, I walk towards her, "Let's go, princess."
"Lance!" She exclaims, and jumps up from her chair, but the intoxication makes her lose her balance, and Maya falls into my arms.
"Easy, there."
"You came," She composes herself, standing up on both her feet again. "Oh my God, you came."
"Yes, and we're going," I take her hand and make a move to leave.
"Wait, my drink," Maya tries to pull back her arm, but I tighten my grip.
"You've had enough. Come on."
Maya rolls her eyes, but follows me. Brent still stands near the front door, he looks absolutely defeated. I know I shouldn't have told him about Joey and Maya, that is if he is smart enough to connect the dots, but it enraged me how he claims to care about her, but at the same time is oblivious to her mental health.
"Where's your car? My feet hurt." Maya complains.
"Just around the corner."
"I can't walk anymore, my feet hurt badly."
"You're insufferable."
"Hey! That's my line." She pouts and refuses to walk any further. "Lance, my feet really hurt."
I sigh, throw my head back and turn around. She looks in pain, and uncomfortable. I'd almost compare her look with puppy-eyes. I walk over to her, and pick her up bride-wise, "And now, stop complaining."
