Sins & Secrets (6 page)

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.

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 back, 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.

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.

“You have blood on your cheek,” I say as I sit in the seat with my knees pulled up to my chest, shivering and chattering.

He reaches up and wipes away the blood then glances over at me. He opens his mouth to say something, but then, I guess, decides against it. He starts up the car and drives out of the parking lot and onto the street.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, shutting my eyes and turning forward in the seat. The heater blows over my body, however I can’t stop shivering.

“Home,” he says, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“What about my father?” I lean my head against the window, unable to hold my head up anymore.

“I’ll tell Frankie you did the job and to let him go. Everything will be fine.” He’s speaking to me, yet he’s not.

I open my eyelids, even though they feel so heavy. “And what about you? What will you do?”

“I already told you not to worry about me,” he says, looking straight ahead at the road. “I can take care of myself.”

I want to tell him that I am worried about him, that I do care about him, but I’m afraid to go there right now.

Layton and I don’t speak until we reach my house, but I don’t think there’s that much to say, other than we could talk about what’s happened. However, I don’t want to talk about it. Think about it. Remember it.

God, I’m a killer.

I can’t stop staring at my hands. They look so different. So tainted.

When he parks the car in front of my house’s entryway, he gets out and opens the door for me then helps me out of the car. My legs are wobbly and I stumble to get my footing. He catches me in his arms and helps me get my balance, holding me against him. He still doesn’t speak as he smoothes his hand over the back of my head over and over again. All I want to do is sink into him, disappear, vanish forever.

He starts placing kisses on my head over and over, and then he steps back from me and again I feel so cold. “Go inside and wait for your father to get home,” he instructs, quickly brushing his finger down my cheekbone, looking torn over something. “But, Lola, don’t believe anything he tells you.”

“What?” Confused, I struggle to get my balance. “Why not?”

“I can’t tell you why. You just need to trust me.” His eyes plead with me to believe him.

I shake my head. “It doesn’t even matter… nothing does… I’m as good as dead. You know it—everyone knows it.”

He swallows hard and then suddenly he’s pulling me back to him, his lips rushing against mine before I can even take my next breath. He kisses me with so much passion, like it’s his last kiss, last breath he’ll ever take, and it means everything in the world to him.

And just as quickly as it happens, it stops. He pulls away, slipping away, leaving me breathless as he whispers, “Run away. It’s the only way you’ll survive this. Run away and never look back. It’s what your mother should have done.” Without saying anything else, he gets into the car and drives into the night, leaving me stunned beyond words.

Like my mother should have done? What does he know?

I try to call him several times as I hurry inside, but it keeps going to his voicemail. I wonder if he has to go into hiding for killing Anthony. I wonder a lot of things, like why he thinks I can’t trust my father. Why he stepped up and shot Anthony himself. If it was because I hesitated and he thought I was going to get shot, or if maybe he was never going to let me shoot Anthony all along. If he does still care about me like he did when we were kids.

My heart feels about as empty as the house, entirely unfamiliar, entirely dead. I want to crumble in the emptiness and cry my heart out, but I’m not going to. Blood on my hands or not, I’m not going to be a weak girl. I’m stronger than that. So instead, I pull myself together and go straight up into bathroom to take a shower, confusion fogging up my thoughts. What do I do? Where do I go? Who can I trust?

I scrub and scrub and scrub. I scrub so hard to get the blood off my skin starts to bleed. By the time I’m done, I feel a little cleaner and my head is clearer. And I know what I have to do.

After I get out, I get dressed and then take a pair of scissors to my hair, chopping it off. Erase who I am. I know better than to think that my father won’t do everything he can to find me and probably Anthony’s family will as well. If I don’t want to be found, I have to be careful. Be smart. Go into survival mode. I’m going to run. Disappear. Forever. Carry out the plan I made in the park, pretend tonight never happened. Do what Layton says, which I guess technically means I’m trusting him. I don’t know why, other than I am.

By the time I’m finished hacking my hair off, it’s chin length and looks like shit, but I feel satisfied. I pack my stuff along with the letter my mom wrote to Everson. I grab a stash of cash from under my mattress, the one my father gave me for emergencies. Then I get in my car and drive away from the house I grew up in, never looking back, as if the last fourteen hours haven’t happened. I’ll turn it all off. That is my goal as I drive down the road toward the bus station.

It’s a pretty far drive since we live in the more rural, rich area of town, and by the time I pull into the parking lot, the sun is coming up. I leave my keys in the car since I won’t need them. Then I grab my suitcase from the trunk and go inside the bus station.

As I walk by people, I wonder if anyone can see what I am. What I’ve done. Can they see the blood on my hands? No one seems to be alarmed, yet I still feel nervous as I cautiously walk up to the counter to buy a ticket.

When the cashier asks me where I want to go, I tell him, “Anywhere.”

He gives me a confused look, like he has no idea what to do. “I’m sorry, but I need a destination.”

I blow out a breath and think of the first place that comes to mind. “Do you have any buses going to Great Falls, Montana?”

He types something on his computer. “There’s one headed in that direction in about an hour. There’s quite a few stops, though.”

“Sold,” I say without missing a beat.

Montana is far. Rural. An unlikely place for me to pick. And it just happens to be the address of the letter. I’m not sure if I’ll find this Everson man or if that’s even the point, but it might be a start to trying to figure out who the hell I am. Who the hell my mother was.

After I pay for the ticket, I briefly consider asking the cashier guy if he’ll come screw me in the bathroom. He’s not bad looking at all, just a little preppy for my taste, and I need to relax somehow. I could do it again, just like with Layton.

Layton.

Pain crushes my chest, and after staring at the cashier guy long enough that I make him uncomfortable, I end up walking away for reasons I can barely comprehend. I take a seat on one of the benches, waiting to get on the bus. While I’m watching people wander around, searching the crowd for signs of the Defontelles, my phone goes off in my pocket. It rings on and off for five minutes, but I ignore it until a text comes through. I check it, and no surprise, it’s from my father.

Dad: I’m okay, Lolita. On my way home. Stay there until I get there and please call me. I know you must have questions about everything.

I read the message over five times, and with each time, I grow angrier.
Everything.
I want to ask him exactly what he means by everything. About his debt. About my mother. About why Layton thinks he’s a liar. And why the hell he got me into this mess after all those years of protecting me.

Finally, I throw my phone into the trash bin. The last connection to my home is now gone. It gives me a little sense of peace. I wonder if Layton’s doing the same thing. If he’s erasing his identity. For the briefest moment, I think about pulling my phone out of the garbage and calling him, just to make sure he got away okay, but in the end, I don’t. I can’t bring myself to do so. And deep down, I know he probably won’t answer.

Therefore, I wait for the bus, and when it’s time to board, I do so without looking back, leaving everything behind, knowing I can never be Lola or Lolita again.