“It’s not because you feel cowed by him?” I ask her.

Lola tilts her head. “It’s not my expertise,” she says, adding, “Film, I mean.”

“But the story is. Razor is. Quinn is.” Quinn is you, I want to say. Don’t let him change you. Don’t let him sexualize your journey from ruin to triumph.

Nodding, she looks back out the window. “I know. I’m just thinking about how I want to handle it.”

“What if he insists Quinn be eighteen?” I ask her. “What if he says without a romance angle in the story, it won’t float in Hollywood?”

Lola turns and looks at me, and I catch a flash of fury in her eyes before I have to look back at the road. “He might be right,” she says. “That’s what sucks. It might need romance to work as a commercial film. We didn’t sell this to an art-house indie. We sold it to a major studio. Profit is the key. And I knew that going in.”

I see what she’s saying but it twists me, tightly. “You wouldn’t push back?”

“Of course I would,” she says. “And I know what you’re saying, but I guess I want to make sure I do it right. You should have seen the meeting. Angela and Roya got maybe three words in, and they’re the executive producers here. And contractually, I only have so much input.”

“Really?” I’m aware of the comic community’s ongoing discussion about feminine representation on the page and in creative staffing, but I still find myself surprised that Lola’s film might not be hers after all.

She nods. “I’m twenty-three. I’m the first female comic creator to have a major motion picture, and I’m one of the few people out there writing and illustrating it all. If I was Stan Lee or Geoff Johns walking in there—or even just some nobody guy with my age and experience—I could tell them what the fuck to do and they would listen. A man having strong opinions and pushing back right away is someone with sound business sense. If I walk in there as Lola Castle and push back, I’m pushy and hard to work with. Maybe someone will even use the word bitch.”

I feel my jaw go tight. I know she’s right, but still. “That’s fucking bullshit.”

“It’s the way the world works,” she says. “The first question I always get asked is what it’s like being a woman in the comic industry. Every single interview. The second question is whether any of my girlfriends read comics.”

Fuck. I never thought about the interview aspect before. They seemed like reasonable questions, but with a step away from it, I can see it’s utter shit.

“Do you think anyone would ever ask Brian Michael Bendis whether he has any male friends who read his comics?” she asks.

I laugh, but it isn’t really from humor. “Probably not.”

“We fight these perceptions one meeting at a time, but it’s why I want to be strategic about the battles I pick,” she says. “I need to convince myself first that these changes are absolutely unacceptable because I’m sure there are other things down the road that will floor me, and I don’t want to be excused from the conversation before it even starts.”

And there, right there, I want to propose.

I want to pull over and climb from the car, and get down on one knee on the dusty, narrow shoulder of the freeway. Because Lola knows it’s bullshit, she knows she needs to tread carefully. And she’s figuring out the best way to fight for what she’s built.

MILLION-DOLLAR HOMES PEEK out from behind lush trees and iron gates before we turn onto Sunset, parking in a sleek underground lot.

The lifts are spotless, marble floors polished to a shine. We’re on a list in the lobby; another list is checked upstairs. Lola takes my hand as we walk in but it isn’t romantic; I’m sure that much is clear to both of us. It’s what we would do before stepping off the side of our world and into another. It’s about having an anchor.

This is the kind of party where everyone is wearing black, and the waiters—most likely models or actors—wind their way through the room with silver trays covered in beautiful hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne. Music is loud so people are forced to speak over it. The room isn’t bursting with partygoers, but it sounds that way.

Some guy spots us from over near the bar and throws his hand in the air, calling out to Lola.

He’s shorter than I am by several inches, and is dressed so casually—in a T-shirt and jeans—in a roomful of meticulous people, it strikes me as a bit douchey.

“Loles!” he calls and comes up to hug her tightly . . . and for a while. Jesus. If my math is on, this is only the second time they’ve met. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

She thanks him for the invite and turns to gesture to me. “Austin, this is my friend, Oliver.”

“Oliver,” he says in surprise. It gives me no small pleasure that he has to tilt his head to look up at me. I can tell immediately from his little smirk that he’d planned to fuck Lola tonight, and I certainly hope he is recalculating his odds. I may not know if I claim Lola’s heart, but I sure as fuck know that this man could never claim a single inch of her.

Sorry, friend.

He extends his hand, shakes it firmly. “Nice to meet you.”

“You as well.”

There’s no more for us to say, really, and after a few more seconds endured of silent eye contact, he turns back to Lola.

“I want to introduce you to some people.” He scans the room, pointing out a few names we might recognize from where we stand.

The guy in the black pants and shirt is a screenwriter. The other guy in black pants and shirt is a director. The woman in the black cocktail dress is VP at some studio.

And Lola just fits in. The girls always joke that Lola looks like some kind of badass superhero, and it’s true. There’s a strength about her, a quiet confidence that comes from setting out to do something and getting it done.

“Now come on,” Austin says to her, and she grabs my hand. Her palm is clammy, fingers trembling. “Let’s go find Langdon.”

I hold back and because we’re now attached at the hand, Lola is gently jerked back, and looks at me.

“Go do your thing,” I tell her quietly. “I’m going to get a drink and something to eat. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” she asks.

“Totally.” It occurs to me only now that it’s going to be late when we’re done, and neither of us may be up for the long drive home. “But should I book a couple of rooms at a nearby—”

“Already handled,” she assures me with a smile.

My heart starts to thunder in my chest, and Lola doesn’t immediately turn. “Thanks for taking care of that.” It feels right to bend down and kiss her jaw, just shy of her neck, so I do.

I may have just crossed a line, but I can tell when she smiles at me and squeezes my hand that she doesn’t mind.

AT THE BAR, I drink, I eat, I people-watch.

It’s a fascinating study, and in such stark contrast to my everyday. I have the most casual of clientele; have always run in circles that were more comfortable with grub than polish. Literally no one I know other than Harlow and Ansel—and now Lola—would blend in here. But this is Lola’s new reality and so, in some ways, it’s also mine.

She finds me after about a half hour and slides onto the seat beside me. “Hey you.”

“Hey.” I put my drink down and take her hand, squeezing. I’m relieved to have her back. Despite my confidence that Lola would never go off with someone like Austin, I didn’t particularly relish being separated from her. “How did it go?”

She smiles and nods at someone across the room. “It was good,” she says through her grin, holding it. “I think. They have a lot of ideas. I sort of tried to listen.” She looks back at me, adding, “Without judgment.”

“That bad, huh?”

Shaking her head, she says, “Not all of it. It’s just weird when something so personal isn’t just mine anymore. Langdon already has a lot written, I guess. I’m trying not to knee-jerk all over the place.”