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Chapter 1
Lola
Layton Everett. Layton. Layton. Layton.
“He’s supposed to be dead … I don’t understand,” I whisper to myself as I pace the floor of my living room.
I keep the lights off as I change into a hoodie, jeans, and boots before pulling my hair into a ponytail. My bags are packed and waiting by the front door, my money and IDs in them. I should leave right now, walk away, yet I can’t stop thinking about Layton.
He’s here and alive. I know for a fact I saw him. I’m desperate to find out, desperate to see him again, desperate to understand why in the hell Aunt Glady told me he died eighteen months ago.
Desperate. Desperate. Desperate. And that desperation is keeping me in the living room instead of moving me toward the closest cab If I stay here long enough, I know Frankie’s men will find me. Then what? I’m not sure why they’re here, but it can’t be for a good reason.
With my gun in my hand, I peer out the blinds, looking down from my second story window for any signs of mafia men lurking around. Nothing except cars in the parking lot and darkness. Not a single person in sight.
“Fuck. Shit. Fuck.”
I need to see Layton again. Otherwise, it’s going to haunt me.
I do something I thought I’d never do again. I dial my aunt Glady’s number, hoping she can enlighten me, but her line has been disconnected.
“Dammit!” I kick the wall then huff out a few frustrated breaths. I wait about ten minutes longer in the silence of my home then give up and force myself to leave.
Staying here means getting caught. Getting caught means God knows what. I can try to get ahold of Aunt Glady when I get somewhere safe.
Even though it kills me, I collect my bags and head toward the back door, taking measured steps. As I’m reaching for the doorknob, I hear voices from the other side.
Son of a bitch.
I back away with my gun out in front of me. My other hand clutches my bags.
When someone starts banging on the door like they’re going to break the damn thing down, I whirl around to run … and slam into a rock-solid chest.
It’s dark, so I can’t see the person’s face, yet I can tell by the height and build it has to be a guy. Instinctively, my knee shoots up and collides straight between his legs.
The guy hunches over, grunting in pain. “Goddammit, Lolita!”
I almost drop my gun. Fall to the ground. Stop breathing.
I do end up losing ahold of my bags.
The men are still slamming against the back door, making a shitload of noise, but it seems quiet, my body hitting some kind of eerie calm.
“You’re alive.” My voice is a whisper.
The moonlight casts across Layton’s face; his strong features, his silvery eyes looking black, but I can picture their real color. I have it memorized.
“Of course I am. You didn’t think I’d let the Defontelles get me that easily, did you?” He winces as he straightens.
“But Glady said … She said …” I shake my head. “You were dead. Eighteen months ago, she said my father told her you—”
Someone crashes against the door so forcefully it rattles the entire apartment. I jump straight into Layton, more skittish than normal. I think it’s from shock.
“It’s okay.” He steadies me. “We’re going to get you out of here, Lolita.” He calls me by my real name, which used to bother the shit out of me, but right now, I couldn’t care less.
He’s here.
Wait? How is he here?
Something snaps inside me, breaks like a rubber band, the only thing that was holding me together.
“Why are you here?” My voice is off-pitch as I nod my head in the direction behind me. “And them, too. What the hell does Frankie want with me? I always thought it would be the Defontelles.”
Layton glances over my shoulder then looks me directly in the eyes. “We need to get you out of here.” He slides his hands down my arms, and then grips my wrists, caressing the skin like he used to. I feel safe even with all the danger around me. Completely safe. Completely at home.
Completely alive.
Then it hits me like a ton of bricks, slamming into my stomach and knocking the wind out of me. I thought he was dead all this time, and I was hurting more than I want to admit. And it was all for nothing. All that pain … for nothing?
“Wait a minute.” I attempt to wiggle my hands out of his. I need answers, like why he’s here and breathing.
He only grips tighter and forces me to follow him into my room, scooping up my bag in the process.
“You need to tell me what’s going on.” I continue to struggle to get free, but Layton is stronger than me. “Layton, I thought you were dead … None of this makes sense.”
“I know. And it’s been killing me for the last eighteen months—I swear it has—but it needed to be done.” His eyes plead for me to understand. How can I, though, when I have no clue what’s going on?
I try to read him, but it’s too dark to see what’s really going on inside those eyes, what lies behind all the sadness. I used to be able to read him better, but he’s purposefully shutting me out.
A cool breeze abruptly gusts through a broken window.
“Did you break in here?” I glance down at the glass on the floor.
The corners of his lips quirk up, and for a second, his old, playful attitude slips through. “How do you think I got in? Walked through the walls?”
Without warning, he gets behind me and shoves me forward.
I stumble and land on the bed then scurry to my feet and whirl to face him. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but you better start—”
A crash from inside the apartment makes both our eyes widen, and the grip I have on my gun tightens.
“Out the fucking window now, Lolita,” he demands, pushing me again. “I promise, when we get someplace safe, I’ll explain everything.”
When my back hits the wall right beside the window, I elevate my gun at him. There are so many things I want to say to him, but the footsteps and voices move closer. I know I have a choice to make; just like I did when Frankie took me to that warehouse two years ago and showed me the video of my father: let my father die or kill someone. I chose to kill, and right now, I’m choosing to trust Layton enough to jump out the window.
Spinning around, I tuck my gun into the back pocket of my jeans, tug the hoodie over my head, and without any hesit
ation, jump out into the night. It’s not a far fall, so it doesn’t hurt that much, but I do lose my balance and end up falling on my hands and knees.
As I scramble to my feet, someone falls to the grass beside me with a loud grunt. Once I’m upright, I spin around and hold my gun steady.
“Okay, start talking,” I demand as Layton gets up, holding my bag. I know we’re not in a safe place right now, but I still don’t trust him.
When I left, Layton was working for Frankie, and it was never explained why. For all I know, this could be another kidnapping trap. Perhaps he is luring me into the shadows so the rest of the men can get me. Or maybe he’s the one sent here to make the hit on me.
“Oh, God … Are you here to get me?” I stumble back from him. “Are you the one who was sent to put the hit on me?”
His lips part in shock. “What? No.” His expression swarms with perplexity as he matches my steps, stealing back any distance I attempt to take. “Look, I’ll explain in the car.” He extends his hand for me, but I jump back and skirt out of his reach. He frowns. “Lola, you can trust me. Deep down, you know that.”
I shake my head, looking around the empty parking lot. “You have to give me something. I haven’t seen or heard from you in nearly two years. I thought you were dead, and then you suddenly show up with them.” I swing my gun up toward the window where Tony Madman Makafee, a man who aided in my kidnapping and tranquilized me, is looking out the window at us.
He raises his gun as Layton’s fingers enfold my arm before he takes off toward a car parked near the street, the sound of gunfire chasing us.
“Does it seriously look like I’m with them, Lolita?” He hunkers down behind a car, pulling me down with him.
I peer over the hood where Tony is climbing out the window himself.
He’s right; he can’t possibly be with them.
