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He smiles. That smile. It is the smile of someone holding all the cards. “I can't say that I do.”
“That a fact?”
“It sure is,” he says.
The smile grows wider.
I can see it. I can see the man behind the smile. “And why is that?”
His smile disappears.
I stare into his cold eyes. I don't know what he's getting at.
“You know her. A pretty girl with a gun in her pocket. She your whore, or what? Can't be too careful these days.”
“Layla's a little more than that,” I tell him.
He grins this time. It's smug and certain. Deadly. “Is that right?”
“You tell me.”
“Layla's a lot of things. She's a good time. I'll give her that. She's a pistol, too. Reckless. Out of control. I thought so, too, once upon a time. Then... Well, you know. Thinking back, I'm not so sure. People change.”
He levels the gun at me. He is bigger and stronger, but I am sober and he is not. I can take him.
“She's a lot of things,” he continues, “but she's no friend to you. She's a liar and a backstabber. She can't be trusted.”
He pulls the trigger. But he doesn't stop there. He keeps pulling. The gun’s hammer clicks and clicks and clicks, clicking for what seems like an eternity. The man doesn't stop. I'm still alive.
His eyes widen. He looks at me as if he's seeing me for the very first time.
“What the hell?” he says, looking down at his gun like he can't believe what just happened. Then he looks back at me again, and I see it in his eyes. Hatred. “Layla,” he says.
“Layla,” I repeat. And I realize someone is sending me a message.
