Sins & Secrets (4 page)

I grow more and more wary the longer I stare at the trace of a smirk on Frankie’s face. “Yeah, right,” I say. “Like it’s just that simple. I make the kill and then you just what? Let me and my father go, unharmed?”

He shrugs, crossing his arms. “Well, you will be responsible for the kill.”

Fuck me a thousand ways. I am clueless. Why didn’t I realize this the moment he said it? “So that’s what this is really about. I kill Anthony and that pretty much starts a war between the Anelli’s and Defontelles’. That’s what this is about, right?”

“Maybe, but would it really even matter to you?” he asks. “Technically, you’re not an Anelli but an Ander.”

That’s because my mother wanted me to take her name
, I want to argue defensively. It’s always been a sore spot, but now it’s even sorer since I’m not quite sure where my bloodline lies. Therefore, instead, all I say is, “That’s for protection, if needed.”

He cocks a brow. “You think that’s the real reason? Or did it ever cross your mind that it might be something else? Like maybe he knew you didn’t have it in your blood to be an Anelli.”

The letter flashes through my mind and stops any words from leaving my lips. Maybe I was named Anders because my father knew I wasn’t a true Anelli. Perhaps he’s known all this time. But then, why take me on as his own? Why not leave my mother when he found out she was pregnant or whenever she told him? He has a temper, and I can only imagine how angry this sort of thing would make him.

“So what’s it going to be, Lolita?” Frankie asks. “Live or die? Brave or weak? Anders or Anelli?”

There isn’t much to say after that. I don’t verbally agree to do it, though I don’t have to. I don’t really a choice in the end. Either way, I’m going to be responsible for a death tonight, so it might as well be someone that isn’t my father.

After I make the agreement, Frankie orders Layton to take me into the backroom to give me details about the hit and to let me change into something more club appropriate.

“Where the hell did you get these cloths?” I ask as I rummage through the pile that’s on a stack of boxes. I pick up one of the dresses and notice that it looks very familiar. “Wait? Did you get this from my room?”

Layton shrugs as he takes out one of his guns and pulls out the magazine to check the bullets. He has his jacket off, his holster showing over his black t-shirt. “I picked some up while I was there getting your father.”

I turn to him, astounded. “Wait? You helped with my father’s kidnapping?”

He pushes the magazine back into the gun then puts it back into the holster. “I had to, Lola. I work for Frankie now and have to follow his orders.” He doesn’t make eye contact with me, instead bending down to make sure he has his knife tucked in his boot.

I clutch the dress in my hand. “Were you there when I was being shoved in the car? When I smacked my head and then was assaulted?” I’m flabbergasted. I’d assumed he’d gotten in the car later on, but now I’m wondering if I was wrong.

His attention snaps up to me, his eyes wide. “No, of course I wasn’t.” He starts to reach for me, but then glances over his shoulder at the shut door and withdraws his hand to his side, his worried expression shifting to neutral. “Look, could you just get dressed?” He looks down at the watch on his wrist. “We need to be at the club in less than an hour if this is going to work.”

“If this is going to work.” I shake my head, pissed off. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the guy that’s going to make sure you see this through to the end,” he says with no emotion in his voice. “Now get dressed.”

I narrow my eyes at him, hating that I can’t actually despise him. “Turn around so I can get dressed.”

He presses his lips together. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Fucking turn around, Layton.” My voice is eerily calm as I struggle to keep the emotion out, the hurt out. If it had been any of Frankie’s other guys, I’d probably be beaten and raped by this point, so I should be grateful for Layton, however there’s too much pain from the betrayal.

When he doesn’t say anything but does what I ask and turns around, I quickly change into the dress, my fingers trembling the entire time. “There, you can turn around,” I tell him as I sit down on the boxes to put my boots on.

He slowly turns around and watches me as I slip my foot into the boot and zip it up. I’m about to put the other one on when he kneels down in front of me and reaches for my thigh.

“Don’t touch me.” I start to get up to move away from him, but he pulls me down; not roughly, but gently, like he’s still my best friend. Then he reaches for a hostler that’s on one of the boxes. Without saying a word, he straps it to my leg. The graze of his knuckles against my flesh cause unwelcomed bolts of pleasure, and I have to fight to keep the moans in. After he gets it fastened, he reaches for one of his guns and tucks it in my holster before pulling the bottom of my dress down to cover it up.

“There. I think you’re ready.”

I put my hand over the gun and stare up at him. “I could shoot you right now, you know?”

“But you won’t,” he says with indescribable pain, sorrow, and remorse haunting his eyes. It’s like we’re fourteen again and he’s getting into Frankie’s SUV while I stay with my dead mother. “You don’t have it in you.”

“Maybe I do,” I argue. “Maybe it’s just a side you haven’t seen before.”

He shakes his head with confidence. “No, Lola. You’re not a killer.” He reaches forward and brushes my cheek with his finger, sadness creeping through the mask he’s been wearing. There’s something haunting him, something dark, but what?

“If you really believe that, then what the hell do you think’s going to happen tonight?” I ask as I get to my feet. “You’re not telling me everything. I can feel it.”

“I’m not telling you a lot of things,” he mutters then sighs before giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. He then whispers in my ear, “I’m so sorry, Lola.” With that, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving me more confused than ever, something I didn’t think was possible.

I’m having one of those moments when I’m reflecting on every single bad thing I’ve done in my past. Every bad decision I’ve made. The path I followed that led me to this moment in time. Wondering exactly who paved that path. Me? My mother? Father? Dammit, who am I?

My mind is racing, and my body still hurts from the sedative and the hijacking. While my pulse throbs, the music in the club pounding deep inside my body, my skin remains damp and my body numb from the multiple drinks I’ve consumed.

I have on a short, backless, black dress Layton took from my house. The sides are intentionally torn and show off a flower tattoo on the side of my lower thigh and an intricate dandelion one in the center of my back. A pair of lace-up boots covers my feet and half of my legs. And a thick, leather collar is around my neck. My long, black hair’s done up on the top of my head in waves and curls, and I have three studs above my eyebrows. My lips are stained a fiery red to cover up the cut I got while being thrown in the backseat, the vamped color matching my painted nails.

The real icing on the cake to my attire is the 9mm pistol in a holster strapped to my thigh, the one that’s been taunting me since Layton put it there. The metal is icy cold against my skin and sends goose bumps erupting all over my legs. I have a very intense urge to reach up my dress, pull it out, and throw it in the trashcan. However, it would probably bust the plan to shit, and a lot is riding on me not screwing this up, despite the fact that Layton thinks I’m going to. At least, that’s what I’ve decided since he walked out on me in the backroom without answering me.

“Would you relax?” Layton places a hand on my knee to get me to stop bouncing it. “It’s really important that you keep calm, Lola.” It’s the same thing he’s been saying to me since we left the warehouse. “Otherwise, this isn’t going to work.”

“And how do you suppose I do that?” I tip my head and tap my lip, pretending to think deeply, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “I mean, I’m here, not under my own freewill, and all of this—what I’m about to do—all relies on something I don’t want to do nor do you believe I
can
do. Plus, I hate doing things I don’t want to do. And if I do go through with it, I could easily end up getting caught, go to jail or get shot, or get a hit put on me.”

I tear my eyes off the dance floor and focus on his hand that’s on top of my knee. “And touching isn’t part of the deal, just like watching me change wasn’t.” I elevate my gaze to Layton’s silverfish-blue eyes and arch my eyebrow. “So hands off.”

During a different time in our lives, I would have loved to have his hand on my knee. There’s no denying that Layton is sexy as hell with his dark, messy hair; tattooed body; and long, lean arms. What’s more, he used to be a good, caring, nice person—at least to me—but not anymore. Now there’s something dark living inside him, something I’ve never seen before, something that’s haunting him, something I don’t understand but want to.

His lips quirk as he removes his hand from my knee. “If that’s what you want, Lolita,” he picks up his glass filled with scotch, “then I’ll oblige.”

I narrow my eyes at him as I reach for my own glass of scotch. “Then you’ll
oblige
? What the hell happened to
you
? You’re too…”

“Too what?” he challenges, wetting his lips with his tongue, causing my gaze to unintentionally zero in on his tongue ring. It makes my thighs burn for the sensation of the metal to graze along my skin; for his lips to be between my legs, his tongue licking me. It’s such the wrong moment to be thinking this, but I can’t help it. Sex has a sedating effect on me, and when I’m anxious, I want it.

“Too calm for this type of situation,” I tell him. “Is it because you don’t think I’ll do it?”

He searches my eyes briefly before his gaze drifts to my legs then back up my body again. “What I think is that you’re hot and bothered.”

I flip him off. “Fuck you.”

“I think that’s the problem, Lolita.”

I bite down on my lip and tell myself to remain composed. To try to remember when we were teenagers and our life was school, fun, excitement, and nothing else—not a worry in the world. Hot summer nights where breaking curfew, stealing bottles of expensive scotch from our daddies’ liquor cabinets, and the occasionally harmless brawl was the biggest risk we ever took. But we’re not friends anymore, and we’re not teenagers. We’re twenty-one-year-old adults who are about to break the law for different reasons.

I shake the glass in a circular motion, and the ice swishes around. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s Lola? No one’s called me Lolita since—”

“Since you were fourteen-years-old and Billy Maders found out the meaning of Lolita is seductress and everyone started calling you a whore.” He raises his glass to his lips and takes a long swallow before setting the glass down. “Yeah, I remember what happened. It was totally not true since you were a virgin, but you took it so defensively.”

He’s actually wrong; well, not about the virgin part. I stopped wanting to be called Lolita the day my mother died because she’d always called me that. Yet I never told anyone the real reason and blamed in on the Billy thing, being way overdramatic on purpose.

“Would you stop acting like we’re friends?” I ask, irritated that he knows me so well. He’s supposed to be the enemy, but it’s hard to look at him like that when I’ve known him since we were being potty trained. “We’re not anymore. Not after today.”

“That’s your choice,” he says in a tight voice. “And I don’t blame you for that.”

“Please just stop acting so… indifferent about everything.” I take a long sip of my drink, noting how he observes my neck muscles as I swallow. “Just because you decided to go work for Frankie, doesn’t mean you have to act like you don’t care about anything anymore.”

“I didn’t decide to work for Frankie.” His jaw tightens as he looks over at the bartender. “There were circumstances that led up to it.”

“What circumstances?” I set the glass down on the countertop and eye him over. “Because, from what I heard,
you
went to Frankie looking for a job. Or was that just a rumor?” I note how stiff his shoulders are, how tight his jaw is, the firm grasp he has on the drink. Tension is flowing off him. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Are you in some kind of trouble? You know, you can tell me if you are. I’d understand and I could maybe try to help.”

He shakes his head, grinding his teeth. “Look around you. You’re in no position to be trying to help anyone but yourself.”

“You could at least tell me… I used to be your best friend.” I sound completely innocent at the moment, just like Frankie stated back at the warehouse. I don’t like it at all, however if there is one person who can bring an emotional side out of me, it’s Layton.

His eyes widen as he looks back at me, startled by the emotion in my voice. “Lola, I…” He blows out a frustrated breath and then rakes his fingers roughly through his hair. “Please, just drop it, okay?” He angles his hand and knocks back the rest of his drink then slams the glass down so hard it cracks up the side. “You don’t want to go sticking your nose around in Frankie or mine’s business, especially with what’s going on with your father. Worry about your own damn problems.”

“Is that a threat from Frankie or you?” I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at him. “Tell me, did you feel bad at all when Tony stabbed me with a needle?”

“I didn’t like letting him do that to you, but I knew it had to be done.” His voice is impassive, his expression blank—detached.

“Wow.” It’s all I can say because I’m hurt, but I’ll never admit it. “All those years of friendship and this is what we’ve turned into. It’s sad and tragic.”

“Tragic? Don’t be overdramatic, Lola.” He sighs yet doesn’t disagree with me about our friendship no longer existing, and it stings a little. “I wish things could be different,” he mumbles, “but it’s not possible.”

I don’t say anything because I don’t know what else to say. He’s right. I wish things could be different, too, but after this—especially after what I do tonight—I can’t see that ever happening.

As unsettling silence stretches between us. Thoughts of why I’m here at the club resurface, I try to think about anything else, but nothing works. The gun is chilly against my skin, and I put my hand on the spot where my dress covers it, wondering how much colder it’s going to feel when it’s in my hand.

“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?”