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.
Chapter 4
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?”