“Oh.” I place my hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”
Her eyes flare with anger. “Will you excuse me for a moment.” She rises from her chair and storms off toward the break room.
Once she’s out of sight, I grab a few papers from her desk and compare her handwriting to the note Danni gave me. It’s not even close and I immediately get this sense of uneasiness. I know the handwriting but why? Who’s could it possibly be? I was really hoping it was Marla. I can handle Marla, even if she knew everything, because she’s be easy to break down. But now that I know it’s not her opens a whole lot of doors and a whole lot of worry. Anyone could be the person that wrote it, including someone from my old life. What if my secrets have fallen into the wrong hands?
What if I’ve finally been caught?
Chapter 3
Lola
For the last two years, I’ve had nightmares about the night I shot and killed a man with a tattoo of 99 and the name Denny. I never did find out who the guy was or who Denny was, but in my mind Denny was the guy’s son, which means I killed a father. I sometimes think maybe I should be dead myself. That I deserve to be caught and tortured for what I’ve done. But it’s more naturally to survive so instead of facing what I’ve caused, I run and let the pain silently eat away at me. I’m a pro anymore with dealing with the nightmares anymore. When I wake up, drenched in sweat, my hands warm with the memory of blood painted on them, I barely so much as gasp, barely feel a thing. The same goes for whenever I think about Layton. I won’t let myself feel anything for him—feel anything at all—because I know the moment I let the guilt, remorse, and vast sense of losing the love of my life spill through, I’ll drowned in the emotion. So I’ve learned over the last couple of years that there are certain things that help me remain cold and detached inside, like working myself to the bone. If I’m having a bad day, I work the crap out of myself, until I’m so tired that it’s too exhausting to be worried. Unfortunately, that’s not the case today because the note is getting to me.
I’m really off my game, unable to get past it and the fear of who wrote it. I can barely concentrate—barely get anything done, almost as bad as the few months after I found out Layton was dead. Even when Marla comes back and chews me out for lying to her about her boyfriend, I can barely conjure up a good lie. My thoughts are elsewhere.
It’s time to run again. Move again. Disappear. The notes said secrets. What if they know more about me than just my nighttime job? What if it’s one of the Dellefontes? What if I’m found? Even if I try to run now, they’ll find me or catch me before I can even escape.
Fortunately through the chaos in my head, I do manage to keep it together on the outside, even when I go straight to my second job at The Dusky Inn. I’m as cool and collected as I chat with my boss Nyjah while he gives me a rundown of my client tonight and then he starts onto tomorrow’s client, listing off what he asked for. Nyjah is a pretty decent guy, considering what he does. He’s young, twenty-seven, and runs the business mainly because his dad, Reagan makes him. Honestly, he seems like he hates the job most of the time and I wonder why he doesn’t leave. His dad’s an ass, always yelling at everything that moves, and bailing out is possible—I should know.
“He didn’t ask for sex?” I question warily after I get the lowdown on tonight’s “date.” “Really?” They always ask for sex, although some don’t go through with it in the end.
“It happens sometimes, just not a lot.” Nyjah shrugs, kicking his feet up on the desk, His jeans are frayed and his shirt’s unbutton, revealing his colorful, detailed, tattoos covering his chest. There’s always been one in particular that’s caught my attention—one on his neck. It looks like a family crest, a triangle with a strange symbol inside that looks like the roman numeral ten. Back home a lot of people I know have tattoos of their family crests, but I haven’t seen any since I left Boston. When I asked Nyjah, he said it had to do with his past and his mother, but didn’t go into details. Afterward, I’d done a search on their last name—Peirton—just to make sure they weren’t mobster.
“It still seems a little weird,” I tell him, picking at my fiery red nail polish. I’m in my nighttime attire, my earrings in place now, lining up the lobe, like silver and diamond artwork along with a few studs on my eyebrows. My black hair is down and wildly wavy, my lips are stained red, my eyes like smoke, and I have a dress on that barely covers up my ass and boots that go up to my thighs. And strapped to my thigh, underneath my dress, is a gun
Nijah arches his brow as he lowers his feet to the floor and sits up in his chair. “Considering some of the fetishes mentioned by some of the clients we get in here, I’m a little puzzled why you’re acting so weird about this.”
I sigh and shake off the edge. “Sorry. I’m just having a… weird day.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” he asks with concern. “You know I’m here for you—always will be.”
I almost laugh since Danni said almost the exact same thing to me just a few hours earlier which makes me feel the slightest bit guilty. Like Mary and Danni, I think I’ve crossed a line with Nyjah too. But he’s a tough enough guy that I’m sure it won’t crush his heart when I take off—well, if I take off. It’s kind of in the air right now, depending on how the thing with the note goes and who wrote it.
“Nah, I just need to work past it, but thanks for the offer.” I give him the best smile I can muster.
It seems like he wants to say more, his crystal blue eyes boring into me. “Maybe you should take tonight off… Get some rest. We could hang out here. Order in some food. Whatever you want.”
“Are you asking me out on a date?” My tone is playful because I know it’s not what he’s doing, at least that’s what I originally thought until he looks at me with a very intent, serious expression.
“If that’s what you want,” he says, maintaining my gaze. “Then yeah, we can do the whole date thing.”
“Nyjah, you don’t want to date me. Trust me. I’m not dating material.” And the idea of going out on a date makes me want to throw up. Yes, I have sex with men, but for money and the fact that it hollows me inside makes it possible. But actually going on a date with someone, setting myself up for some kind of romantic connection, makes me feel sick. I still haven’t gotten over Layton—not sure that I ever will—so dating isn’t an option.
“I know what you are, Lola—I know what I’m getting into.”
“No you don’t. Trust me.” I squirm uncomfortably in the chair. “If you did, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”
He shakes his head with aggravation. “You always think so lowly of yourself. Is that why you do it? Because you don’t think you deserve better.”
I’m getting irritated, even though I know I shouldn’t be. He only cares about me, but I’m not worthy of his sympathy—worthy of anything. “No, that’s not why I do it. I do it for the same reason everyone else around here does. Because I’m a slut who likes sex.”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s not why everyone does it and you know it.”
“It’s why some do.”
“Yeah, but not you. I saw it in your eyes the day you walked in here. You’re carrying something dark inside you.”
I’m having a hard time breathing. “Nyjah, please drop it. I don’t want to talk about this. I just want to go do my job, which apparently is going to be real easy tonight since he doesn’t list wanting sex.”