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I see spots.
I hear Tenner laugh.
I fight to stay conscious, crawling across the floor toward the door, digging my fingernails into the carpet.
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.
Then I black out.
Chapter 5
Lola
When I return to consciousness, I’m still in the hotel room but lying on the bed with a wet washcloth over my forehead. I slowly sit up, my head throbbing. I feel like I’m about to vomit.
A lamp is on, but other than that, the room appears untouched. I even seem untouched, fully dressed, the gun tucked back in its spot inside my boot, and I’m not aching between my legs. The only things that let me know I didn’t dream the attack are the bump on my head, blood caked in my hair, the red marks on my wrists where he gripped me roughly, and the pain erupting throughout my body.
Where’s Tenner?
There’s not a single sign he was here, which makes me wonder if he ran off, or if whoever the boots belonged to did something 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.
I get up and hurry out of the room, taking the stairway out to avoid people, while I try to put together what happened.
Someone came into the room, but who? Who the hell knew what was going on? Were they there to save me? Be a part of the situation? I doubt it.
It’s a cold night. The sky is clear enough I can see the stars shining brightly.
As I make my way across the parking lot toward the corner where I can hopefully find a taxi, I start to wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop shivering. However, 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 saw boots before I passed out. Who did they belong to? And did they write this on my hand? Did they write me the notes, too?
Confused beyond comprehension, I find a cab. Then I dial Nyjah’s private number once 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 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 offended. “What happened? Where are you?”
“In the back of a cab.” I slump back in the seat, glancing up at the 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. I won’t go there. I won’t feel the fear. “Said Reagan had something to do with it. That he told him it was okay. He even paid extra.”
Nyjah lets out a sequence of curses. Then I hear what sounds like glass shattering.
“Goddammit, I’m going to kill him for doing this.”
“You can’t kill your father,” I say dryly, pressing my hand to my head as it starts to pound. “It’d be unethical.”
“Yeah, well … He deserves it.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t deserve the pain and guilt that came after.”
He pauses, and I swear I just gave him a time machine that allows him to see straight into my past.
“Okay, so I won’t kill him. But I can beat the shit out of him to the point that he’ll be close to dead.”
Silence stretches between us. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to instigate violence. I’ve had enough of that.
Finally, he releases a stressed breath. “Are you heading 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 … to 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 need to find a new job.”
“I’ve been telling you that since the day you walked into the Inn. 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?” 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 secretarial job. It’s much safer for you, Lola. More than you realize.” His tone carries an underlying meaning, making me wonder just what he knows about his father and business.
“I’m fine. Just let me know what you find out.”
A few minutes later, I get out of the taxi and hurry into my apartment, double-checking that all the doors are locked, a habit I picked up when I was younger. Then I immediately undress and take a shower, scrubbing my skin until it’s raw, until I no longer feel the day on me.
After the shower, I put on a robe then open my closet, moving a few boxes so I can put the gun away in the trunk that holds my other weapons: a smaller gun, a few knives, and a tranquilizer. I’m always prepared for when the Defontelles catch up with me. Although, 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 could have happened if the boots person hadn’t shown up.
After my weapons are put away, I move 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 almost two years ago. It was dated seven years before that, the night before my mom 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, and I know you said not to contact you, all things considered, but I really need to talk to you.
I’m not even sure how to start. However, I’ll put it like this: it may break hearts and ruin lives, but it could also free lives, like my daughter’s. Or, I should say, our daughter’s. There. I wrote it. It’s out.
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 me being 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 by keeping everything a secret, but I was wrong. And I’m really starting to worry 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 the kindness from 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 makes me even more afraid. Not just for myself, but for our da
ughter. I don’t want her following in those footsteps anymore, but I fear it’s too late. She can’t go back from where she’s heading. So, please, help.
Yours,
Lalana Anders Anelli
The letter never made it to Everson because my mother died the next day, which is another reason I find 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.
