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 f**k 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?