by Gow, Kailin
“I still don’t get why this happened. How my father could possibly be in debt to Frankie.” I wait for Layton to say something, even though I know he won’t. He silently checks his watch and then orders another drink, downing it the moment he gets it into his hands. After two songs play through and Layton hasn’t done anything but drink and stare at the front door, I say, “This is really depressing.”
“That it is,” he agrees without looking at me.
I take in his firm jawline, the confliction in his expression, the silence. God, the silence is driving me mad, although I know if I speak again, we’ll probably just fight, so I keep my mouth shut and turn my knees inward as a group of guys come wandering by dressed in spikes, leather collars, gloves, dark clothes, and chains. One even has horns tattooed on his head.
Devils & Demons has a strict gothic dress code. Layton and I almost didn’t get in because of his poor choice in clothing; leather pants and a fitted black shirt apparently aren’t enough, although his ass does look amazing in the pants. He was never into Goth, though I’m sure he could pull it off—he can pull off anything.
I, however, was the opposite and went through a phase when I was around sixteen-years-old and saved a lot of my clothing from then. Besides that, the studs in my brows and tattoos are just me, no dressing up needed. I like to consider my body a canvas—just like the ones I paint and sketch on—and paint it up whenever I can. If I could, I’d leave this life and make a career of it. Well, the art part, not my body.
As Layton tracks the group of guys from the corner of his eye, I can see the distaste in his expression. “They have some unique people around here,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “I honestly don’t get why the Defontelles want to own a club like this.”
Vomit burns at the back of my throat at the mention of the name Defontelles and what I’m about to do to one of them.
“Unique isn’t bad,” I tell him in an unsteady voice. “In fact, I prefer unique over ordinary, and who knows, maybe all those guys are really good people. They probably are… better than me.” I reach for my drink again; the gun feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds, crushing my thigh.
It’s not like I’m a bad girl. I’m not that bad, though not a goody-goody, either. I have fun. I know how to party. I’ve dabbled in drugs maybe once or twice. I’ve gotten into some trouble, but nothing major. I’ve never been arrested, never killed anyone. However, what I’m about to Anthony Defontelles, even if he’s not necessarily good people, is wrong and will forever change me in a negative way.
“Hey.” Layton reaches out and sweeps his fingertips across the back of my hand as my fingers wrap around my drink, his hard expression softening. For a second, he’s my Layton, not Frankie’s. “Just take deep breaths and calm down before someone notices how nervous you are.” He takes the glass from my hand and sets it down on the countertop.
I notice I’m notably shaking, which isn’t good. The Defontelles have eyes everywhere. He’s right. I need to settle down now.
“I know I need to relax, but it’s a hell of a lot difficult,” I draw a line up the side of my thigh, “when I have this thing strapped onto me.”
There’s a twinkle in his eyes, a sign of life for the first time tonight. “It’s not the first time you’ve had a gun strapped to your leg.”
“Yeah, but the last time wasn’t so I could…” I trail off, unable to say it aloud. “Maybe Frankie’s right. Perhaps I’m not an Anelli, considering I can’t even talk about…” I swallow hard, “killing aloud.”
His lips part to speak, but then he presses them back together and observes me intently for a while, his head slanting to the side. “We’ve probably got like another half an hour to an hour before Anthony Defontelles shows up,” he finally says. “What can I do to help you relax?”
It takes me a moment to answer, a moment to pull myself together. “Is that part of your job description?” I ask, devouring the rest of the scotch in one, large, searing gulp. “To keep me relaxed until the dirty work’s over?”
“Yeah, but I’d do it anyway,” he replies with a hint of a ghost smile on his face, the one he used to wear all the time when we were younger. It makes me want to hug him, yet I know better; know that it’s just a glimpse of the past that accidentally slipped through.
“Why? Things are different now. You work for my family’s enemy, so you no longer have to protect me.”
He starts to say something, but I know what he’s going to say—that I don’t understand stuff. And he’s right. I don’t. But it doesn’t matter. Even if I understood his reasons for working for Frankie, I’m not sure I can forgive him for what’s about to happen tonight. I wonder, though, if I tried to flee, if he’d let me. Frankie has ordered him to kill me if I attempt to bail, and he’s agreed, however I wonder if, when it all came down to the deed, he could pull the trigger.
“What’s wrong?” he asks with a hint of concern on his face.
“It’s nothing. I was just thinking of ways I could possible get myself to calm down,” I lie. “That’s all.”
He puts the drink down on the counter. “What can I do to help?”
I shrug, eyes locked on his. “There are only three things that make me relax in tense situations.” I count down on my fingers. “Scotch, which isn’t helping at all tonight. Kickboxing. And sex. So either you can let me kick the shit out of you out back or fuck me in the bathroom.”
There’s no shock factor with Layton. He knows me enough to know how I am, enough to know that all these things calm me down.
“We haven’t fucked since junior year of high school,” he remarks, his eyes sweeping across my body. Figures he’d go for that one.
“Yeah, the year you took my virginity. So what, you can’t screw me now because of that?” I ask. When he stays silent forever, I add, “I gave you another option, you know. Kicking might be easier for the both of us. A lot less painful.”
While his gaze never wavers from mine, the tension between us heightens to the point I think I might combust. “Do you still have that no kissing rule?”
I nod slowly. I’m not a prude. I’ve had my fair share of sexual experiences, just none that have had lip-to-lip contact. “Kissing still makes things complicated.” The one and only time I kissed a guy was when I was thirteen. Trayson Millony forced a kiss on me when I refused to kiss him during a game of spin the bottle. In return, I kneed him in the balls.
No kissing is a rule my mother told me about. No kissing equals no strings attached. Until you’ve found the one. Kissing comes with an emotional connection, and if he isn’t the right guy for me, I’ll end up with a broken heart. Crushed. Ruined. And I don’t want to be ruined, do I?
Ruined would turn me into Gretta, my sixty-year-old aunt who’s never been married, has never went on date in the last forty or so years, and is still obsessed with her first love who has been happily married for forty-something years. Ruined could make me bitter. Ruined could get me into a life with a man where I was so unhappy I wanted to die.
“But I’ve learned a few new tricks since the last time we fucked.” I bite down on my lip, deciding if I’m really going to go through with this. Can I just shove everything aside? Forget about everything for a moment? It’s worked in the past, but the situation has never been this complicated and intense.
Heat blazes in his eyes, but every other part of him remains in control. “And what about the no falling in love rule?” he asks, his gaze relentless, daring me to comment on me breaking his heart. With anyone else, I would crack a joke about him being weak, but Layton… I care… cared for him once. And the day he told me he was in love with me and I told him I didn’t feel the same was the one and only day I ever felt my heart ache over a guy.
“Yeah, the no falling in love rule still applies, too,” I manage to say calmly, even though I feel a flicker of agony attached to the memory. “So are you going to help me relax?” I shock myself more than I do him.
He stares at me a second longer then,
with a quick swipe of his tongue across his lips, he rotates around on the barstool and raises his hand to get the bartender’s attention. When the bartender comes over, he orders two double shots of Bacardi then sits in silence while he waits.
I’m mildly disappointed by his rejection, although I have bigger problems at the moment, ones I should be more focused on. Otherwise, I’m going to mess up.
After the bartender sets the two shots down on the counter, Layton slides one toward me. “Drink this,” he says.
“I already told you drinking isn’t doing it for me tonight,” I remind him as he retrieves his wallet from his pocket then tosses a twenty down on the countertop before guzzling his shot.
“Drink the shot.” His voice is demanding as he sets the empty glass down, but I detect a hint of a tremble in his hand.
I collect the large glass in my hand. Putting the rim up to my lips, I let the fiery liquid spill down my throat. It tastes like trouble, danger, and ecstasy all mixed up in one potent swallow. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
“Now dance with me,” he says, slipping his fingers through mine and pulling me to my feet.
“Dance?” There’s doubt in my voice as we make our way to the crowded dance floor. “Seriously? Since when do you dance?”
He places a hand on the small of my back and guides me closer as we near the mob of people drowning in sweat, and the sensual throbbing base of the music envelopes us further. He pauses as he reaches the center, getting poked and prodded with stray elbows, knees, and other bulging body parts.
“Just relax and trust me,” he says, turning to face me.
“I don’t trust anyone anymore.” I stare him down with reluctance. “Not after this.”
He contemplates what I’ve said before he grabs me by the waist forcefully. His touch makes my skin scorch and my thighs erupt with heat. I blame it on the Bacardi when, really, I know what’s doing it. “Okay, then just try to relax,” he says, drawing me closer. “Let’s make the most of the time we have.”
Despite how much I want to turn and walk away from him, I give in and dance. In just about an hour, I’ll be taking someone’s life. What’s more, I have a feeling that, after that, the life I know now isn’t going to exist anymore. That dancing or having any sort of relaxing moment isn’t going to be in the cards for me anymore because the life I know is about to disappear.
Maybe forever.
Chapter 5
My mother was an opinionated woman, who had her beliefs and loved to share them with me. I know that a lot of the things she said shaped me into the person I am now. Some of it good, some of it bad, but that’s life in general.
“Sex can be two things,” my mama told me once when I was about thirteen. “A weapon or just plain fun and relaxation, if you’ll let it. Don’t always make it such a big deal, my Lolita. Don’t let men own you because of it.” It went right along with her no kissing rule.
She was what a lot of men called a promiscuous woman. My daddy met her when he hired her as an escort. She was nineteen and he was thirty-five. After spending one night with her, he fell madly in love with her sporadic, mysterious, impulsive character along with her beauty. One month later, they were married, and nine months later, I was born. This means, during the first month they were married, she’d had an affair with this Everson man, if the letter means what I take it to mean.
I probably would have never known the real life story of my parents if it wasn’t for my mother’s sister, Aunt Glady, who told me all of this right after my mom died when I was fourteen. Aunt Glady had been on the bottle for three days straight. She told me never to tell anyone that I knew the secret—that my daddy would cut her out of the will if she did. And being from a poor family from Cheyenne, Wyoming, she needed the money.
Money and power, that’s what my dad’s known for, and that’s why it makes no sense that he’s gotten into debt with Frankie. Benny Big Bones was the name my father was given when he was eight by Big Doug Dellanay, one of the major drug lords during the seventies. My dad was his protégé and his nickname has never left him.
He’s a good father, though; for the most part. I grew up with pretty much any luxury I wanted. I always felt loved, nurtured, and cared for, even after my mother died and I stopped trusting him. He tried his best, but I pushed him away, wanting to make him feel helpless for letting my mom go so easily, even though, deep down I know it’s not his fault. It’s an emotion I know he hates—feeling helpless. Right now, I’m the one that feels helpless, though.
I’m lost. Afraid. A scared girl who wants to run away.
It’s all I can think about—running away—for the next twenty minutes after Layton pulls me on the dance floor. Sweat is beading my skin as I rock my hips to the rhythm of “Ooh La La” by Goldfrap.
As I move to the music, Layton’s hands wander all over my body; cup my ass, grab my hips, his breath caressing my neck. It feels absolutely, mind-blowingly good. I desperately crave more touches, more closeness, more heat, passion, sex. Fun and relaxing, just like I was taught. I want more of it; I want what I know awaits me if I can push us both further. A few minutes of bliss from this shitty night that I’m sure will lead to an endless amount of shitty nights, if I survive. I need it—this. Hunger for it.
Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. The need and desire mixed with a hell of a lot of Bacardi and Scotch is too much.
I spin around and grind my body against him for a moment while dipping my lips to his ear. “Take me into the bathroom and fuck me,” I whisper hotly against his ear while running my fingers through the back of his hair and grinding my hips against his. I sound like someone else, someone in control, who knows what she wants. I sound like the Lola I was a few weeks ago, before the letter, before this.
I nip at his earlobe, grazing my teeth against his flesh. His breath catches in his throat, his breathing fierce—in and out, in and out—driving my body into a sexual frenzy as his solid chest brushes with mine. The intense feeling amplifies as he pushes back and I see the glossy, lost look in his eyes, like he’s high.
When the DJ starts saying something in the background, the crowd cheers and jumps up and down, slamming into us and pushing us closer. Neither of us looks away from each other, though; our gazes and bodies melded together.
Then, without saying a word, he grabs my hand and shoves his way through the dance floor, pushing people out of the way. Excitement roars through my body and fleetingly erases the fear and nervousness I’ve been feeling all night.
I can do this. I can let everything go. Just take a moment.
But then I spot one tall, solidly built man with a goatee and a tattoo on the side of his neck entering the bar from the back entrance. Draston Fordelles, one of Defontelles’ men.
Like a sharp slap across the face, I’m reminded of why I’m here. Not to play. Not to have fun. Not to have sex with a guy who I need to start seeing as an enemy.
I’m here to kill.
However, my body has different ideas and won’t let me pull away from Layton. If anything, I hold on tighter, pretending he’s the guy I used to play with in the sandbox; the guy who kept an eye on me at parties, making sure I didn’t get too wasted and do something stupid; the guy who took the fall for me a thousand times. God dammit, I need this. I need just one more moment of calmness before my whole entire world is turned upside down.
I know things will never be the same after I go through with it. I’ve known a few people who have committed hits for various different reasons, and they were never the same afterwards. Even if it’s for a good reason and the person they kill is bad, it changes them forever. Darkens their soul. Hollows them out. They carry pain on their shoulders forever. Some don’t even survive, ending their own lives later on. I know this from growing up in the kind of environment I have.
And that’s what keeps me moving forward with Layton as he pushes through the bathroom door, startling a group of women putting lipstick and mascara on in front of the mirror. A couple of them yel
l at him to get out and the rest simply stare in awe. I’m sure they are wishing they were going into the stall to get fucked by him.
Layton disregards them completely as he strides toward the end stall, towing me along with him. He shoves the door open and tugs me in before letting my hand go then locking us in. By the time he turns around and faces me, I’m panting with need, my chest heaving ravenously.
I want. I want. I need. I need. I’m helpless with desire.
“Pull your pants down,” I say to Layton, relaxing back against the wall and biting my lip until it bleeds.
He shakes his head, his lips quirking with genuine amusement. “You’ve gotten bossier since the last time we hooked up.”
I tell my body to be patient, yet it’s difficult now that we’ve gotten this far, and I start running my hand along my body. “A lot has changed over the last four years.”
His elation sinks. “Yeah, it has…” He tracks my hand wandering across my breast, down to my stomach, then up to my other breast. Sucking in a slow breath, he unexpectedly hesitates. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”
I’m more insulted than hurt. “Why the fuck not?”
“Because…” he struggles for words, his gaze fixed on me, searching my eyes. “Because you’re stressed. Drunk. Under a lot of pressure. A lot of different things. And I don’t think under normal circumstances you’d even be touching me.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t normal circumstances, is it?” Not giving him time to react, I unzip the zipper going down the side of my dress and let it fall to my ankles. Then I carefully step out of the dress and stand there in my lacey black bra and panties, gun strapped to my thigh. “Now it’s your turn.”
He deliberately scrolls his eyes over my body, taking his sweet time, his breathing quickening the longer his gaze drinks me in. “God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he mumbles with his eyes fastened on me, hunger taking over the darkness in his eyes.
He slowly reaches for the button of his pants and undoes it, but his fingers linger so long on his zipper that impatience gets the best of me. I stumble across the small amount of space between us and jerk them down myself along with his boxers then bite down on my lip even harder as I drop to my knees.
