Sins & Secrets (10 page)

“Yeah, I know… maybe suspicious isn’t the right word.” I pause. “Have you seen anyone maybe watching The Dusky Inn or perhaps put something in the mailbox.”

“You mean like the mailman.”

“No someone else… someone was maybe dressed in a suit.”

She considers what I said, her head tipped to the side. “No, I don’t think so. But let me ask around.” Before I can say anything else, she wanders back to the crowd and starts chatting with everyone. Moments later she saunters back over with a shorter guy with overgrown hair and a goatee.

“Luscious says you’re looking for someone suspicious?” he asks, eyeing me over with want in his eyes.

I nod warily, not liking how he’s looking at me. “Yeah, someone maybe hanging out around The Dusky Inn.”

He gives me an amused grin. “Yeah, I saw someone staring at the building this morning. Some woman actually I’ve never seen before.”

Woman? Okay, not what I was expecting. I glance around at the houses then back at him. “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

His grin darkens and he tsks me. “Not so fast. First you gotta pay then I’ll give the info.”

I shake my head. “How much?”

“I don’t want your money.” His gaze lingers on my breasts before slowly traveling up to my face.

“Fuck you,” I say, my hand moving for my gun, ready to threaten him, but then I stop when I realize just how stupid of a move that would be.

Luscious slaps the guy on the back of the head. “Don’t me an ass. Just tell her what you told me.”

He glares at her. “Watch it bitch.”

Luscious raises her hand to hit him again, but I quickly pull two twenty’s out of my bra and wave it in his face. “Forty bucks if you just tell me what the woman looked like.” I’m not even sure if it’ll matter, if I’ve never seen the guy before.

He stares at the money for a second then snatches it out of my hands. “Yeah, okay.” He stuffs the money into his pocket. “She looked like you.” He starts to walk off, but I snag him by the arm.

“Don’t be an asshole,” I snap. “I gave you forty bucks now tell me what she looks like.”

He looks back at me, then down at my hand on his arm. “Hands off bitch,” he says.

“Not until you tell me.”

“I already told you she looked like you. Tall. Nice tits and ass. Same eyes and your faces looked pretty the same too. She was a little older maybe, but still hella fine.” He winks at me and makes this disgusting pucker with his lips.

“Oh yeah.” Luscious slams her hand against her forehead. “I saw her too, but I thought she was you. Except she was dressed in all leather which didn’t seem like something you would wear”

Leather? What the hell? “I wasn’t here this morning.”

Luscious shrugs. “Well, I thought it was you. Sure as hell looked like you.”

“Nah, I got up close to her,” the guy says. “She looked older and a little bot different. Bigger breasts too.”

My heart misses a beat in my chest as I stand frozen in time, lips parted, shocked to my very core. “Older like someone who could be my mother?”

“Mother. Older sister. Whatever.” He jerks his arm out of my hold. “We’re done here. I gotta get back to work.”

This time I let him walk off. It doesn’t matter if he stayed or not. I’m completely speechless. Someone that looked like me. Someone like a mother or a sister. Problem is I don’t have a sister. And my mother’s dead.

So who the hell is she?

Lola

I’m falling apart. Almost two years of suppressing my emotions and now their all manifesting in the form of anxiety. The thing that really sucks is that I only had an hour from when I was at The Dusky Inn until I had to meet my client for the night.

I think about calling my Aunt Glady, seeing if maybe she knows any of my relatives who look like me and perhaps have a leather fetish. There’s a ton I’ve never met before, so who the hell knows. Maybe my father has one of my aunts or cousins out looking for me. Although, I don’t know why the hell he’d have them give me strange notes. It doesn’t make any sense and I really don’t want to get my Aunt Glady involved in this. It’s why I cut ties with her almost two years ago.

So instead I do what I need to do and get cleaned up to go to work, making sure to pack my gun. I pretty much check over my shoulder every five seconds, knowing that someone out there, in the street, in the restaurant—everywhere—there’s probably someone watching me.

Thankfully, I’m a pro at turning myself off when I need to. Despite my rattle nerves, the night goes smoothly. I have dinner with my client Tenner, a tall, larger guy in his early thirties, who smells like cheap cologne and who can’t seem to take his eyes off my cleavage. I make sure to drink a lot of scotch, because scotch makes almost anything okay, including sex with a guy I’m in no way attracted too. Then we go up to the room where it’s clear he wants sex despite what he said to Nyjah so I strip everything off but my boots so my gun will stay hidden.

He’s nervous and it’s my job to make him relaxed so I sit him down on the bed and straddle him. “Relax baby,” I tell him as he grips at my hips. For a moment I wince at his touch, but then smile, pretending that it’s Layton I’m touching. I always picture him when I do this, which is probably fucked up in so many ways but so am I. Sex with Layton had always been good, despite the many complications between us and it’s the one time I can think of him without being bombarded by emotions. Sex has always been sort of a relaxing, calming sort of experience for me, and now it’s become my way of numbing. Like I’ve devoured glass after glass of Whiskey.

“I am relaxed,” Tenner promises, then leans in to kiss me, his eyes closing, his lips puckered.

I put my hand over his mouth and slant back, shaking my head, but keeping my charming smile on. “No kissing on the mouth. Remember.” My rule, not The Dusky Inn’s. It was my one stipulation when I started working there, something that bugged Reagan but Nyjah made it his duty to inform all the clients of this. The no kissing rule had started with something my mother had told me, but honestly, after Layton died, I made a silent promise to myself never to kiss a guy ever. He’d stolen a short kiss that night when we fucked in the bathroom stale and I want that to be the last kiss I ever have.

I lower my hand as his eyes open, and then let my hands wander toward his cock, turning inside everything off until I feel so numb I swear I’ve died. I’ve done it a hundred times and it’s starting to get somewhat alarming how easily I can shut down in the snap of a finger. Sometimes I wonder if one day I won’t be able to turn it back on.

As my hand brushes his harness, Tenner reaches down and grabs my wrist roughly, apparently shaking all of his nerves in a second flat—either that or it was just a facade. “I was told that I could do whatever.”

This isn’t the first time a guy’s gotten a little rough with me and I know the best thing to do is keep everything calm. “Well, whoever told you that was wrong? There are a few things I don’t do. Like kissing.”
Why the hell did Nyjah not tell him this?

His fingertips press downward, fingernails biting my skin. “Wrong or not, I want what I was told I would get. I paid good money for you.”

“It’s just a kiss,” I tell him calmly. “No big deal. I have a lot of other talents.” I reach for his cock again, although this time it’s not as easy at the first, my irritation getting to me.

He swats me hand away and suddenly I’m being flipped over onto the bed on my belly. He pushes down on me, pressing my face into the mattress. “It’s just a kiss for now, but the next thing I know you’ll be stealing my wallet and taking off before I even get laid.”

I don’t squirm. Don’t scream. Barely breathe. I’m not afraid. Not yet anyway. “Whoever did that to you didn’t work for Nyjah. We have rules there. Now just tell me what you want.”

He shoves on me harder, his hand on my back, his weight hovering over me and he leans down and breathes in my ear, “I want you to scream.” I feel his weight come down on me, his hand hitting me in the back of the head. It feels like my skull cracks and my ears start to ring.

“Mother fucker,” I curse, blinking my vision back into focus. That went downhill really fast. I try to slam my head back against but he dodges my advances. Fighting against his weight, I wiggle my arm out from under me and lean to the side, reaching down to my boot. I can feel the tip of his hard on pressing against me, one hand grabbing my hair, the other pushing me down and I know that at any moment he’s going to slip inside me. It shouldn’t be different, but it is. It feels twister and makes me feel sick to my stomach so mustering up every ounce of strength I have, I push upward, forcing his weight off me. My hand slides into my boot and as I roll over I withdraw my gun.

He’s about to lunge at me, but catches sight of the gun and stops in his tracks, kneeling on the edge of the bed near my legs and putting his hands up. “What the hell is this shit? This wasn’t part of the deal.”

Sitting up, I keep the gun aimed at him, hating that my hand is a little unsteady. “What deal?”

His eyes are wide and full of alarm. “My deal with Reagan. He said if I paid an extra five hundred I could get rough with you. He’s done it for me before with another woman.”

Fucking Reagan. His morals have always questionable at best and I’m starting to wonder if maybe this is why Nyjah pushed so hard for me to stop escorting—perhaps he knew this shit was coming. Maybe that’s where the date offer was coming from. Perhaps he knew this is what I’d be facing tonight.

“Well, Reagan never told me this, nor did I get any extra money to let some fucking pervert live out his rape fantasy.” With the gun still out, I move off the bed and reach for my dress. Tenner starts to move for me again, but I shove the gun against his chest. “You touch me and you’re fucking dead.”

He backs away, looking angry, yet terrified at the same time. “Stupid cunt.”

I tell him to sit down on the bed then I hurry and get dressed, keeping the gun pointed at him, getting more and more irritated every second. I should just leave but the bad part of me seeks revenge, wants to teach him a lesson, so instead I move toward him. “Hand me your wallet.”

He shakes his head. “No way. I’m not getting ripped off more.”

Rolling my eyes, I bend down and pick up his pants, searching his pockets until I find his wallet. I open it up and find a picture of his family. No shocker there.

“A wife and two kids, huh?” I ask, taking a thin stack of tens and twenties out of his wallet and tucking them into my bra.

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re going to pay for this you bitch.”

“No, I’m not,” I start to say, but then he’s springing from the bed and running at me. I move to shoot but choke up. The image of the tattooed guy I killed to years ago flashing through my head.

Kill him.

Protect yourself.

I can’t.

I start to run for the door, but he tackles me from behind and wrestles the gun from my hand. I open my mouth and scream, hating that that’s what he wants, that it’s probably turning him on. But I’m clocked over the head with the handle of the gun.

I see spots.

Hear Tenner laugh.

I fight to stay conscious, crawling across the floor toward the door, digging my fingernails into the carpet. But I start to slip away from reality. The last thing I see is the door swing open and a pair of boots appear followed by the sound of a voice I swear I’ve heard before.

Lola

When I come back to consciousness, I’m still in the hotel room only I’m on the bed, lying on my side, a wet washcloth on my forehead. I slowly sit up, the room spinning, my head throbbing, feeling like I’m about to vomit. There’s a lamp on but other than that the room seems untouched. I even seem untouched, fully dressed, the gun tucked back in its spot beneath my boot, and I’m not aching anywhere between my legs. The only thing that lets me know I didn’t dream the attack is the bump on my head with a bit of blood caked in my hair, the red marks on my wrists where he gripped me roughly, and the pain erupting through my body.

Where’s Tenner?
There’s not a signal sign that he was here, which makes me wonder if he ran or if boots did this to him. I don’t waste time thinking about it though, since the last thing I want to do is be here in case he comes back from wherever the hell he went. I get up and hurry out of the room, taking the stairway out to avoid running into people, trying to put together what happened. Someone came into the room, but who? Who the hell could possibly know what was going on? Were they there to save me? Be part of the situation? I doubt it.

It’s a cold night, the night sky clear enough that I can see the starts shining bright. As I make my way across the parking lot toward the corner where I can hopefully find a taxi, I wrap my arms around myself, trying to get myself to stop shivering. But as I move my arm around, I notice there’s something written on the palm of my hand in what looks like my red lipstick

“Don’t trust anyone.” I look around the area and over my shoulder, with the strangest feeling that I’m being watched. I’d seen boots before I passed out. Who did they belong too? And did they write this on my hand—did they write me the notes too?

Confused beyond imaginable, I find a cab and then dial Nyjah’s private number once I’m in the backseat and the driver is heading toward my apartment.

He answers after three rings. “Hey, I was just thinking about you. Look, I know things got a little intense this afternoon and I just wanted to say I’m sorry and that hopefully you’ll forgive me.”

“Am I also supposed to forgive you for sending me on a date with a sick pervert who likes to rape women.” I don’t mean to sound so bitter, but what if Nyjah knew what Reagan was doing.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He sounds shocked and kind offended. “What happened? And where are you?”

“In the back of a cab.” I slump back in the seat, glancing up at the cab driver who seems to be engulfed in driving. “Tell me you didn’t know about it. Tell me you had no idea your father set this all up.”

“Didn’t know what exactly? Lola, I’m going to need more to go on here.”

“That guy you sent me with. Tenner. He tried to rape me tonight and ended up knocking me unconscious.” I bite down on my tongue as emotions start to erupt through me. I won’t go there. Won’t feel the fear. “Said Reagan had something do to with it—that he told him it was okay. He even paid extra for it.”

He lets out a sequences of curses than I hear what sounds like glass shattering. “God dammit, I’m going to kill him for doing this.”

“You can’t kill your father,” I say dryly, pressing my hand to my hand as it starts to pound. “It’d be unethical.”

“Yeah well he’d deserve it.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t deserve the pain and guilt that came after.”

There’s a pause and I swear I just gave him a time machine that lets him see straight into my past. “Okay, so I won’t kill him,” he says. “But I can beat the shit out of him to the point that he’d be close dead.” Silences stretches between us and I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to instigate violence—I’ve had enough of that in my life.

Finally, he releases a stressed breath. “Are you headed home now?”

I glance out the window at the street sign. “Yeah, I’m only a few blocks away.”

“I can come over if you want,” he says. “And check on you. I need to see if you’re okay.”

I shake my head. “No, don’t do that. I’m fine. Just please find out if Reagan plans on sending me creepers like this every night. I might have to find a new job.”

“I’ve been telling you that since the day you walked into the Inn just over a month ago,” he tells me. “You shouldn’t be working at a place like this. It’s not in you.”

It was in my mother
. “How come you don’t say that to all the women who work there?” I ask. “You encourage most of them to keep going.”

“Because they’re different from you.”

“How so?”

“They’re just… just… Look, I’ll talk to Reagan and see what’s going on, but like I’ve been saying, you might want to consider taking that secretary job. It’s so much safer for you, Lola. More than you even realize.”

There’s an underlying meaning to his tone and I wonder just what he knows about his father and his business. “I’m fine. Just let me know what you find out.”

A few minutes later I get out of the taxi and go into my apartment, double-checking that all the doors are locked—a habit I picked up when I was younger. Then I immediately undressed and take a shower, scrubbing my skin until it’s raw, until I no longer feel the day on me anymore. I put a robe on, then open my closet, move a few boxes, and put the gun away in a trunk that holds my other weapons—a smaller gun, a few knives, and a tranquilizer if needed. I’m always prepared for when the Dellefontes catch up with me, in case I have to fight for my life. But after tonight, I’m wondering if I’ll be able to do it. I froze up again. God, I don’t even want to think about what would have happened to me if boots hadn’t shown up.

After my weapons are put away, I go over to the bed and take out
the letter,
hoping it’ll distract me for a little while from this shitty day. I’ve probably read the thing a thousand times since I found it over two years ago. It was dated six years before that, the night before she died, addressed to an Everson Milantes.

Dear Everson,

I know it’s been over a decade and a half since we spoke to each other again and I know you said not to contact you, all things considering, but I really need to talk to you.

I’m not even sure how to start. However I put this it may break hearts and ruin lives, but it could also free lives, like my daughter’s. Or should I say our daughter’s. There. I wrote it. It’s out. And let me tell you, she’s beautiful, feisty, strong—way stronger than anyone I’ve ever met… the things she’s been through… I can’t even imagine.

God, I know you’re probably reading this and thinking how? How could I not tell you until now when she’s all grown up? How could I keep this not only from you, but from her? Well, at first it was because I wasn’t sure if she was yours. There was a time when you both sort of crossed over, which I’m so sorry for. But if I’m being honest with myself a lot of it had to do with that I was afraid. Afraid of living a life where I had to struggle for money. Afraid of her living one as well. Afraid of what Larenze would do. I thought I could protect her and myself keep everything a secret, but I was wrong. And I’m really starting to get worried that the wrong people will find out. You know as well as I do what the consequences for this will be for the both of us. Please, please tell me you’ll help her. You were such a kind man. Please tell me I didn’t break that with what I did to you by choosing Larenze.

I really need your help Everson. There’s so much more to it, more than I can put into words. Larenze has his secrets as well and I’ve been looking into them. What I’m finding out makes me even more afraid. Not just for myself, but our daughter. I don’t want her following in
those
footsteps anymore, but I fear it’s too late—that she can’t go back from where she’s headed. So please, help.

Yours,

Lalana Anders Anelli

The letter never made it to Everson, because my mother died the next day, another reason why I found her death such a mystery. Yes, it could be coincidental, but at the same time, what if the wrong person found out that I might not be an Anelli? Like my father? I’d love to be one of those people who couldn’t believe her father was capable of such a thing, but I’m not. I’ve heard of some of the things my father’s capable of. God-awful things that make even me afraid of him sometimes and apparently it did for my mother as well. She clearly didn’t want me following in his footsteps, but already thought I was, which hurts. Back when she wrote it, I didn’t think I was that bad of a person. Now of course it’s different, but she couldn’t possibly have known that, could she? Did she really think that poorly of me? She clearly thought that poorly of my father and I have to wonder, with as afraid as she sounded, could he have had something to do with her death?

My thoughts slowly drift to what the guy on the corner told me earlier. About the woman hanging around The Dusky Inn who looked a lot like me. The last time I saw my mother was when she was in her coffin.
Dead. She was dead. I saw her die. But what if she’s not?

After analyzing my mother’s death and letter for way too long, I put it away, get up, and wander over to the window, staring out at the night. I live in an apartment complex in a quiet neighborhood that normally makes me feel safe. But tonight it feels different. Every shadow, every noise, every movement makes me jump. I’m not sure if it’s the random letters or if Tenner’s attack has gotten to me more than I’m allowing myself to feel. But it is a safe place. A small town in the middle of nowhere. The perfect set up. But if the did find out where I was living, I wouldn’t be too hard to track down.

What if they’re out there watching me?

Who are they?

As I’m staring out the window, I notice a car parked on the curb just across the street. It’s black with tinted windows, nearly blending into the night, yet to me it stands out like sore thumb. All the mafia men that I grew up around have that type of car to keep a low profile. Could this be it? Could this be who’s been sending me notes? I need to find out where the plates are from. Hurrying over to my closet, I slip on a jacket and a pair of boots, then grab one of my smaller handguns so I won’t scare the shit out of my neighbors if I do cross paths with one of them. I go out the back door so if there is someone in the car, they won’t see me coming. I rush down the steps, keeping my back to the wall, my eyes focused on the field just out back. It’s flat and bare enough that I can see there’s nothing out there. Coast clear there, so I round the corner of the apartment and lower my gun to my side and cautiously cross the parking lot, staying in the shadows of the carports and cars as long as possible. I backtrack a little ways, the walk upward, so I approach the rear of the car. When I get close enough, I see that the plates aren’t from Massachusetts, but from here with a bright neon green sticker that says “Back off my Rear.” The sticker stands out on the nice car like a sore thumb and seems oddly out of place.

It doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside so I move around and peer in the window. It’s clean and empty except for a few papers in the middle console and a bag on the passenger seat. I glance around from left to right, making sure that no one is around, then I open the door and search around. The receipts aren’t cause for suspicion, gas, food, the norm. I move onto the bag, which is strangely empty, but again nothing to raise a red flag. I open the glove box and find the rental car papers and nothing else. I don’t relax yet though, not until I check the trunk. The trunk is where all the bad stuff is kept. So I pop it open, climb out of the car, and round the back. There’s nothing there but a tire iron and jack and a pair of black stilettos—again odd, but nothing to be alarmed about.

Shaking my head at myself, I close the trunk and turn to go back inside, but stop dead in my tracks as I’m about to cross the street. For a flicker of a second, I swear I see someone in the shadows of the parking lot watching me. Tall, with a hoodie pulled over their head, smoking a cigarette and wearing boots. Could it be boots? The boots who saved me?

But when I blink, they’re gone. It happens so fast that it has to be my imagination. Or the bump on my head. Dammit, I need to find out who wrote the note before I go crazy. Or end up dead.