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“No.”
“Okay, then,” he says, cupping my chin in his hand and forcing me to look at him. “Trust me.”
Having no other choice, I do exactly what he says, hoping I’m not making a huge mistake, praying that the Layton I’m with now isn’t the Layton working for Frankie but the one I’ve known all my life.
The one who would do anything to save me.
Chapter 2
Lola
I can’t stop staring at him. He’s here and alive. He’s breathing; his solid chest rising and falling beneath his grey shirt. His eyes look full of life as he watches the street and drives toward the unknown, his grip firm on the steering wheel. He looks just like I remember—sexy as hell with his dark, messy hair; tattooed body; and long, lean arms. Although his hair is the slightest bit longer, his jaw a little scruffy, and his eyes carry even more darkness. Whatever he’s been up to for the last two years has taken a toll on him.
“Do you still have the tongue ring?” I ask, rotating in the seat to face him.
His gaze slides toward me, and the intensity burning in them makes me miss a breath. Instead of answering me, he slowly sticks out his tongue. When the silver stud glimmers in the moonlight, I bite down on my lip.
“I’m still the same person, Lolita. Nothing’s changed except for the fact that I don’t work for Frankie anymore. I don’t work for anyone.”
“And that I thought you were dead.” I don’t mean to sound bitter, but I do. “That’s different now. You seem like a ghost to me … Not even real.”
God, he’s actually real. Right here with me.
I start to choke up over it, but then I shove it down and bury it. I’m not ready to go there yet.
“Everyone thought I was dead,” he explains in an emotionless tone, returning his attention to the road. We’ve been driving for about an hour. In what direction, I’m not sure since I’ve been too distracted to pay attention to anything except Layton. “Even my parents. They still do.”
“Why? Why would you fake your own death? It doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t?” he questions.
I start to think of reasons someone would fake their own death.
“To escape. To disappear,” I say. “Why not just run away?”
He’s quiet, his breathing deep, as if he’s battling to get oxygen into his lungs. When he finally does look at me, I can tell he’s on the verge of losing it.
“You remember how you were always asking me about why I started working for Frankie?”
I nod. “Yeah, it never made sense to me, not when he was our enemy. At least, I always thought so.”
“You’ve always thought that?” he questions with doubt. “That the Catherlsons and the Everetts were enemies?”
“Yeah … Well, except for the day my ….” I swallow the massive lump rising in my throat as tears start to well in my eyes again. It’s been too much of an emotional day. I need to get my shit together. “The day my mother died and you guys got into the SUV with Frankie. I was so confused … And honestly, I felt betrayed. But, ever since then, it never seemed like it was a problem, not until a few months before … before I was kidnapped and you suddenly started working for him.”
“I had to,” he tells me through clenched teeth. “I didn’t have a choice, Lola. You have to believe that.”
“If that’s true, then tell me why,” I practically beg, needing to know in order to trust him.
He shakes his head, looking as though he’s in physical pain. “It’s so much more complicated than just telling you why I did it. It has to do with so much shit that’s happened since we were fourteen.” He turns the car off the road and into a gravel parking lot, pulling off to the side of a rundown motel where we are hidden.
I sit up. “You mean, since my mother died?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He puts the car in park then turns off the headlights. “Come inside with me, and I’ll try to explain it to you the best I can. But let me just say, I don’t have the answers to everything. I’m still trying to figure stuff out myself.”
“How do I know you’re not here to kill me?” I ask, eyeing the sketchy looking building. There’s not a person in sight, and it’s eerily quiet. Not to mention, the thick forest within walking distance that’s convenient for hiding bodies. “How do I know that I’m not going to walk into that room and be bombarded by the Defontelles? Or maybe you’ve taken me here to shoot me … make it a discreet kill.”
He gives me a tolerant look. “And why the hell would I do that?”
“To get yourself off the hook with the Defontelles.” I shrug, drawing off my hood and glancing around the area. “Honestly, I can think of a ton of reasons. And I have to be careful … You know how these things work.”
We exchange a look of mutual understanding. Cautiousness and paranoia have been bred into us since we were born. Otherwise, we probably wouldn’t be alive in this moment.
“I understand you need to be careful. It’s good that you are.” With that, he moves his hand around the back of him and takes out the gun tucked into the back of his pants. He gives it to me then reaches down to his boots to retrieve his other weapon—a switchblade.
Boots.
Wait, boots?
Something dawns on me.
“You were there that night, weren’t you? That night with Tenner? You came storming in and pretty much …” Saved me from getting raped.
He gives me his knife, his fingers grazing my palm and sending a shiver down my spine. The good kind of shiver. One that gets my blood pumping in a way it hasn’t done since I took off.
“I’ve been around a lot … Been watching you for the last couple of weeks.”
I shut my eyes for a moment, just to see past the emotions stirring inside me, ones I felt when I thought he died. Ones that are hard to feel. They’re so potent and go against everything my mother tried to instill in me.
“How did you find me?” I ask, opening my eyes. “I thought I was being careful.”
“A lot of searching,” he says, stuffing his hand into his pocket and taking out his brass knuckles, giving me the last of his we
apons, giving me all the power. “I would have found you sooner, but you’re a hard person to locate. Which is good. You did exactly what I wanted you to do. I just wish you wouldn’t have gone to work for someone who knew who you were.”
“I didn’t know he knew,” I protest. “I thought he was just … Well, a pimp pretty much.” It feels so weird talking to him about this.
“I know that, but …” He rakes his hands through his dark hair. “If you would have stayed away from that type of business, it would have never happened.” He isn’t making eye contact with me, staring out the window at the forest, instead.
“Does it bother you that I messed up?” I ask. “Or that I was working as an … an escort?”
He shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “You know both of them bother me. You’ve known how I feel about you since we were eighteen.”
When he opens his eyes, I expect them to be full of emotion, but they’re empty, like mine have been for the last two years.
I try to find words that will make him feel better and end up sputtering out, “I didn’t have sex with any of them.”
“Really?” He doesn’t seem convinced.
I nod. “I mean, I did stuff.” Shame washes over me. “But I had a choice when I first started working there … A choice of how far I’d let a guy go with me. And I said no sex.”
“Oh.” A mixture of emotions cross his face, but he doesn’t utter a damn word.
“You’re the only guy I’ve had sex with,” I continue to ramble, not knowing what’s wrong with me tonight, other than maybe I’m too stressed out. I’m not usually this chatty.
“That night at the club … when we …” He trails off, clearing his throat. “Your first time should’ve been better than that.”
“Maybe, but what’s done is done.” I have to catch my breath as I remember all of the memories from that night, both good and bad. “Now please stop changing the subject and tell me how you’re here and alive.”
