Inferno Anthology

by Gow, Kailin

  “Shit, Lola.” He groans as I take him deep in my mouth without warning. His head bangs against the door as he slumps back, continuing to make throaty noises and low moans as I move my mouth up and down along his swollen cock.

  I can hear whispering on the other side of the door, something about me being a whore, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything, and that’s sort of the point of all of this. Sex can be numbing. Invigorating. Distracting. So much so that I can barely feel the gun on my leg anymore. The fear of what I’m about to do, the pain of knowing what’s been done to my father, it’s all gone. For a moment, I’m simply Lolita, and I’m okay with it.

  “God… Lolita,” Layton moans out my name as he grabs a handful of my hair, causing the pins holding it up to fall out. My hair falls to my shoulders as he gently tugs on the strands.

  I move my mouth up and down on him a few more times, letting my eyes close. I’m getting lost in another place, drifting, drifting, drifting, but then he takes it away as he gently pulls on my hair, guiding my mouth away.

  “What are you doing?” I protest as his fingers enfold my arms, and with one swift tug, he lifts me to my feet.

  Then his fingers leave my arms and drift downward, under the hem of my panties. He jerks them down my legs and I eagerly help him out by stepping out of them and kicking them off to the side. Seconds later, his fingers are in me, feeling me thoroughly, each movement causing me to gasp and stab my nails into his shoulders, scratching his flesh.

  I’ve never been so aggressive, but it’s like all the emotions are flooding out of me and clawing their way out. I’m losing it, on the verge of combusting, losing sight of what’s around me. My hands take on a life of their own. I rip his shirt over his head then feel his lean muscles, trace the dark lines of the tattoos on his ribs and arms before I collapse back against the wall.

  “God, this is exactly what I needed tonight,” I moan, my fingers finding his cock again. I grasp it in my hand as my eyelids drift shut once more. We keep feeling each other; panting, sweaty, growing needier and needier until finally we can’t take it anymore.

  When he slips his fingers out of me, I open my eyes to find him taking a condom out of his pocket. I’m bursting with need as he tears it open, and then I impatiently grab it from his hand and put it on him slowly, making his eyes roll into the back of his head, high on the sensation of my touch. A faint smile touches my lips as I pull my hand away. His eyes come back into focus and he grabs my thighs before forcefully picking me up, slamming me against the wall as he backs us up. Then, with one hard thrust, he sinks deep inside me. My back arches and my legs hitch tightly around his waist.

  “Oh, God,” I gasp, starting to let my head fall back. Before I can protest, his lips come down hard on mine and he slips his tongue inside my mouth, stealing my second kiss. Just like that. Without permission. Without warning.

  For the briefest second—one based on confusion and Bacardi—I tangle my tongue with his, loving the taste of him, loving the kiss. But then my commonsense kicks in, and I pull my tongue out and bite down on his bottom lip hard.

  “No kissing,” I growl in a low tone, tracing my fingers up his chest as he pauses inside me, still holding onto me.

  His eyes are glossed over and he looks completely out of it. “Fine… if that’s what you want.” He licks his wounded lip as he rocks into me again.

  “Those are the rules,” I groan, rolling my hips forward. He sucks in a sharp breath then reciprocates by rocking his hips forward, sliding inside me almost painfully slow. My nails pierce his skin again as I veer toward the edge of losing it, desperate to hold on, knowing once I fall, it will be back to reality.

  He continues the slow movements again and again, grasping onto my thighs, fingertips delving into my skin so roughly I’m sure I’m going to have bruises. I clutch onto his shoulders as I move my hips in sync with his. The lights, music, voices—everything—fades around us. My body climbs higher and higher away from reality.

  I forget where I am. Who I am. I forget about everything as he drives my mind and body further away from reality until I completely come apart, crying out his name as my head falls back. He gives one last thrust inside me then joins me, struggling to hold onto me as he comes.

  After everything settles, he rests his face in the crook of my neck and starts placing light kisses on my damp skin. I don’t even bother stopping him, too tired and content to speak. This was good, I want to say. Much better than the first time. Yet, by the time I work up the energy to say it, his phone starts ringing from inside the pocket of his pants.

  Blowing out a loud breath, he unwinds my legs from his waist and my feet return to the floor. Then he moves around me, his eyes on the floor as he pulls up his pants. He has scratches all over his chest, his hair is disheveled, his lips swollen, and I-just-had-hot-as-hell-sex is written all over him. I’m sure I look the same way.

  I wish it was enough, wish I could hold onto the feelings that were in me moments ago, however they’re already slipping away.

  I collect my panties from the floor and put them back on while he retrieves his phone. He checks his messages, his frown deepening the longer he stares at the screen. I try to put on my dress as calmly as I can, but the look on his face and the quietness is killing me. It’s impending. Because, deep down, I know what the phone call is.

  Seconds later, he confirms what I already knew. “It’s time,” he says quietly, still not looking at me. “I’ll let you get dressed; meet me outside the bathroom.” Then he puts on his shirt, exits the stall, and leaves me alone, taking all my contentment along with him.

  Chapter 6

  I’ve never been much of a worrier or the kind of person that has a panic attack. The only time I came close was when I was twelve and one of my dad’s enemies tried to kidnap me as I was playing in the park with one of my friends. It never got very far, partially because it was just a couple of crack addicts pissed off at my dad for the increase in money to feed their addiction. And partially because I had Dougie and Dominic, my two bodyguards, who rarely left my side at the time.

  As soon as the crackheads approached me, they were taken out. Nothing major happened. But I did see a bigger picture at the moment that worried me a little. That all those times my dad had made me go practice shooting guns, all the self-defense classes, all the protection—it was for a reason. That my life was fuller of risks than most, and for the next few days after, I had a sequence of panic attacks.

  I quickly learned to deal with this revelation, and for the most part, lived a pretty content life. At least up until a few hours ago when I woke up in the warehouse—that took any contentment left away. I started realizing that this point in time has probably been inevitable. It probably has been set in my future since I was born, or something like it. What’s more, I should have run when I had the chance—just run and never looked back.

  ***

  After I get dressed and fix my hair and makeup, I meet Layton outside of the bathroom. He’s there just like he said, leaning against the filthy wall, arms crossed, his hair back into place, and clothes smooth of wrinkles, as if we hadn’t just fucked each other’s brains out.

  “You ready?” he asks when he spots me walking down the hall toward him. The darkness has returned to his expression, and he’s no longer my Layton but Frankie’s.

  Stopping in front of him, I shrug, as blasé as I can be. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He nods his head once and then stands up straight, motioning me to follow him as he heads back down the hall toward the bar area and dance floor. The music slams against my chest and the lights sting at my eyes as I step out of the dim hallway and into the room. I don’t have to ask him where he’s going as he makes his way down the side of the bar and toward the back door. He’s already told me step by step what I am going to do.

  The hefty bartender standing behind the counter is Big Dog Hankton and actually works for Frankie, but Anthony doesn’t know that. He’s supposed to give
Layton the heads up when Anthony arrives, which I’m assuming was the phone call Layton got right after we fucked.

  After the go-ahead from Hankton, Layton is supposed to take me to the backroom where Anthony does a lot of his dirty work; beatings, dealings, whacks and whatnot—in this world, everyone has a backroom. Tonight, Anthony’s going to be alone—at least, according to Hankton—so it should be a clear hit and I shouldn’t run into problems. Of course, if I do, then it’s all going to fall back on my family.

  The Defontelles are the second most powerful drug lords on the east coast. I’ve heard stories about them; ones where they cut off heads of the people who cross them then send them to the family members as a warning, pure torture.

  This is all I can think of by the time Layton and I reach the back door—my head being shipped to my father in a box with a big red bow on it. Is that where I’m going to end up after all of this? Beheaded? My stomach churns.

  God, it seems like such a shitty way to go.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Layton’s voice jerks me back to reality.

  Blinking back into focus, I realize I’m trembling. I clear my throat and square my shoulders, trying to suck it up and appear more confident than I am. “I’m fine.” I start to step toward the door, yet he captures my arm and stops me.

  He leans in close, putting his lips right up beside my ear, and wraps my wrist in his hand, feeling my erratic pulse. “You don’t have to do this… this shouldn’t be your problem. You can just walk away and let your father deal with it. It’s his problem anyway,” he says in a low voice.

  “No, it’s not.” I refuse to look at him because I don’t want to see the look in his eyes—the one that either says he’s just saying this to try to make me feel better, or the one that says he really wants me to walk away. I just might be tempted to. “I’m not just going to let Frankie kill my father, so unless you have a way to free him without me doing this, then let me go so I can get this over with.”

  “You shouldn’t be so desperate to save your father, Lola,” he says quietly.

  I jerk back and look at him. “What the hell does that me?”

  He swallows hard and then shakes his head. “Nothing. Never mind… I don’t even know what I’m saying.” As he takes a deep breath, he pulls his hand away from my wrist.

  I search his eyes for something, but he’s turned his emotions off, seeming completely hollow. Finally, I give up, and blowing out a breath, I stare at the door. “So I’m just supposed to walk in, then?” I ask nervously. “And then just… pull the trigger?”

  Layton doesn’t answer, instead he steps forward and grabs the doorknob. “It’ll be over quick. Just don’t hesitate, okay?”

  “Does Anthony have a gun on him?” I wonder, avoiding eye contact with him.

  I can’t look at him. I can’t breathe. God, I wish I could go back to five minutes ago and freeze time.

  Layton shakes his head, trying to catch my eye. “He shouldn’t. Hankton says he puts it in a safe when he comes in here. I guess it’s his sick way of showing that he thinks he’s invincible or something.”

  “And what about you?” I ask. “People have seen you here. Aren’t they going to put two and two together?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he says in a tight voice and then looks away from me and down the hall. “You need to worry about yourself at the moment.”

  There’s so much he’s not telling me—I can tell—but I don’t have time to press him right now. I need to focus. Think clearly. Do what I need to do. Get it over with.

  When he moves away from the door, I reach to open it. “Just think of it as target practice,” he says softly, quickly brushing his fingers along the back of my neck. “Just pretend Anthony’s a target.”

  I doubt that will work, but there’s no point saying it. I need to be strong, remember why I’m doing this. For my father. The man who raised me. Took care of me. Gave me everything I wanted.

  But what if he’s not? I shake the fleeting thought from my head. It doesn’t matter. He’s the only father I’ve known, and that’s what matters. Isn’t it?

  My fingers shake as I turn the doorknob and open the door, giving myself no time to hesitate. Then, taking another deep breath, I barge into the room.

  The first thing I notice is how bright the lights are and how musty the air is. It makes it difficult to see anything and breathe. I have to catch my breath and blink a few times to get my vision to adjust to the florescent lighting. That’s when I realize just how big of trouble I’m in. Because Anthony’s not alone. He’s got two really big guys beside him; his bodyguards, I’m guessing. They’re sitting on fold up chairs around a square table, and on it is enough money and bags of cocaine to fill up an entire trunk of a car.

  I’m debating whether or not to bail because this isn’t how this is supposed to go down, but then Anthony glances up from the pile of cash and drugs in front of him, and I know there’s no backing out.

  He’s in his mid-forties, tall, sturdy, arms the size of both my legs. He has a scar going all the way down his nose to his lip and a tribal tattoo on his neck that travels up to the top of his shaven head.

  “Who the fuck are you...?” he starts to say, but then trails off as he recognizes who I am. “Lolita Anders,” he says with a grin.

  The sequences of events that happen right after that move so quickly I barely have time to process them. While the two bodyguards spin around and jump out of their chairs, I panic and start to whirl around to run out the door. However, I catch Anthony reaching for his waist, his fingers heading for the silver handle of a gun sticking out of the top holster. I react the only way I can think of. I swiftly slide my hand up my dress and withdraw the 9mm. With one swift movement, I lift my hand and point the gun at him at the very exact moment he aims his at me.

  My heart hammers in my chest. I can’t breathe. Think. See straight.

  Don’t hesitate.

  Don’t hesitate.

  Don’t hesitate.

  Layton was right. I don’t have it in me.

  Anthony grins, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then his finger starts to press back on the trigger. Seconds later, a gun goes off, but it’s faint, quiet, the noise of the club outside washing it away. I see my life flash before my eyes. I wait to die, wait for the pain to arrive, but quickly realize I’m still breathing, my heart beat deafeningly loud inside my chest.

  “Get out of here!” Layton shouts from behind me, snapping me out of my trance.

  Reality slaps me fast and hard as warm liquid covers my face and arms. There’s blood everywhere and Anthony is lying on the floor, bleeding profusely from a wound in his chest. The bodyguards have withdrawn their guns and have them aimed at Layton and me. I still have my gun out in front of me, my hand unsteady. Layton is standing beside me with his gun out, drops of Anthony’s blood on his face, his hand steady as a rock.

  “Get out of here, Lola,” he orders in a firm tone without taking his eyes off the men.

  “She’s not going anywhere, Layton. Neither of you are,” one of the men says. I don’t know his name, but he has this four-leaf clover tattooed on his scruffy cheek along with the number 99 and the word Denny. I wonder what it means. If it’s his lucky number or something more personal, like a year someone was born. Maybe his kid. Does he have kids? If he does, will it hurt to lose their father as much as it hurt me when I lost my mother. Oh God. Am I about to see a father die? Am I about to break a family? And what about Layton. Am I about to see him die? Am I about to die?

  My mind is racing while the fear inside me is making me want to puke. Seconds later, I hear another gun go off. There’s no warning. No time to react, only flinch. It all happens incredibly fast, and I get caught up the middle of it, making choices based on my fear, going against everything my father ever taught me.

  My gun goes off… I can’t even remember pulling the trigger, yet my gun goes off and the last man standing, the one with the four-leaf clover, falls to the floor on his b
ack, clutching his chest. He gasps for air over and over again, though a few heartbeats later, he stills. There’s a hole in his chest, blood pouring out of it and soaking his shirt. Just like that, it’s all over. Everything’s changed, just like I knew it would.

  Because I have officially become a hit man and a murderer. Nothing will ever be the same again.

  Layton was wrong.

  I am a killer.

  Chapter 7

  Everything seems so much darker and colder. I’ve never been so cold, and I don’t think I’ll ever warm up again. The last few minutes keep replaying in my mind like a nightmare, even though I’m awake. But it always ends the same—with blood on my hands and the haunting image of the name Denny branded in my head. I can’t stop wondering who Denny is. If I killed a father. I’m not sure if it would matter either way. His blood would still be on my hands no matter who he was.

  After the shots are fired, I go into shock; my body cold, numb, dead, just like the bodies on the floor. There’s blood splattered all over my skin, my hair, the floor, the wall, my clothes, the ceiling. I’m still holding the gun—why am I still holding the gun?

  I drop it like it’s poison then stagger back from the bodies and throw up in the corner of the room. Layton doesn’t say a word as I empty my stomach and sink to my knees. He doesn’t ask me to get up. I don’t think I could if I tried. Instead, he scoops me up in his arms and carries me out of the club through the back entrance where no one will see us. It seems like forever when really it’s probably moments before we make it to his car.

  Layton carefully puts me in, buckles me, and then gets into the driver’s seat. It’s still dark outside, the moon a sliver in the sky, stars twinkling. It’s the middle of May, a warmer time of the year, yet it feels so cold.