“I didn’t decide to work for Frankie.” His jaw tightens as he looks over at the bartender. “There were circumstances that led up to it.”
“What circumstances?” I set the glass down on the countertop and eye him over. “Because, from what I heard, you went to Frankie looking for a job. Or was that just a rumor?” I note how stiff his shoulders are, how tight his jaw is, the firm grasp he has on the drink. Tension is flowing off him. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Are you in some kind of trouble? You know, you can tell me if you are. I’d understand and I could maybe try to help.”
He shakes his head, grinding his teeth. “Look around you. You’re in no position to be trying to help anyone but yourself.”
“You could at least tell me… I used to be your best friend.” I sound completely innocent at the moment, just like Frankie stated back at the warehouse. I don’t like it at all, however if there is one person who can bring an emotional side out of me, it’s Layton.
His eyes widen as he looks back at me, startled by the emotion in my voice. “Lola, I…” He blows out a frustrated breath and then rakes his fingers roughly through his hair. “Please, just drop it, okay?” He angles his hand and knocks back the rest of his drink then slams the glass down so hard it cracks up the side. “You don’t want to go sticking your nose around in Frankie or mine’s business, especially with what’s going on with your father. Worry about your own damn problems.”
“Is that a threat from Frankie or you?” I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at him. “Tell me, did you feel bad at all when Tony stabbed me with a needle?”
“I didn’t like letting him do that to you, but I knew it had to be done.” His voice is impassive, his expression blank—detached.
“Wow.” It’s all I can say because I’m hurt, but I’ll never admit it. “All those years of friendship and this is what we’ve turned into. It’s sad and tragic.”
“Tragic? Don’t be overdramatic, Lola.” He sighs yet doesn’t disagree with me about our friendship no longer existing, and it stings a little. “I wish things could be different,” he mumbles, “but it’s not possible.”
I don’t say anything because I don’t know what else to say. He’s right. I wish things could be different, too, but after this—especially after what I do tonight—I can’t see that ever happening.
As unsettling silence stretches between us. Thoughts of why I’m here at the club resurface, I try to think about anything else, but nothing works. The gun is chilly against my skin, and I put my hand on the spot where my dress covers it, wondering how much colder it’s going to feel when it’s in my hand.
“I still don’t get why this happened. How my father could possibly be in debt to Frankie.” I wait for Layton to say something, even though I know he won’t. He silently checks his watch and then orders another drink, downing it the moment he gets it into his hands. After two songs play through and Layton hasn’t done anything but drink and stare at the front door, I say, “This is really depressing.”
“That it is,” he agrees without looking at me.
I take in his firm jawline, the confliction in his expression, the silence. God, the silence is driving me mad, although I know if I speak again, we’ll probably just fight, so I keep my mouth shut and turn my knees inward as a group of guys come wandering by dressed in spikes, leather collars, gloves, dark clothes, and chains. One even has horns tattooed on his head.
Devils & Demons has a strict gothic dress code. Layton and I almost didn’t get in because of his poor choice in clothing; leather pants and a fitted black shirt apparently aren’t enough, although his ass does look amazing in the pants. He was never into Goth, though I’m sure he could pull it off—he can pull off anything.
I, however, was the opposite and went through a phase when I was around sixteen-years-old and saved a lot of my clothing from then. Besides that, the studs in my brows and tattoos are just me, no dressing up needed. I like to consider my body a canvas—just like the ones I paint and sketch on—and paint it up whenever I can. If I could, I’d leave this life and make a career of it. Well, the art part, not my body.
As Layton tracks the group of guys from the corner of his eye, I can see the distaste in his expression. “They have some unique people around here,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “I honestly don’t get why the Defontelles want to own a club like this.”
Vomit burns at the back of my throat at the mention of the name Defontelles and what I’m about to do to one of them.
“Unique isn’t bad,” I tell him in an unsteady voice. “In fact, I prefer unique over ordinary, and who knows, maybe all those guys are really good people. They probably are… better than me.” I reach for my drink again; the gun feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds, crushing my thigh.
It’s not like I’m a bad girl. I’m not that bad, though not a goody-goody, either. I have fun. I know how to party. I’ve dabbled in drugs maybe once or twice. I’ve gotten into some trouble, but nothing major. I’ve never been arrested, never killed anyone. However, what I’m about to Anthony Defontelles, even if he’s not necessarily good people, is wrong and will forever change me in a negative way.
“Hey.” Layton reaches out and sweeps his fingertips across the back of my hand as my fingers wrap around my drink, his hard expression softening. For a second, he’s my Layton, not Frankie’s. “Just take deep breaths and calm down before someone notices how nervous you are.” He takes the glass from my hand and sets it down on the countertop.
I notice I’m notably shaking, which isn’t good. The Defontelles have eyes everywhere. He’s right. I need to settle down now.
“I know I need to relax, but it’s a hell of a lot difficult,” I draw a line up the side of my thigh, “when I have this thing strapped onto me.”
There’s a twinkle in his eyes, a sign of life for the first time tonight. “It’s not the first time you’ve had a gun strapped to your leg.”
“Yeah, but the last time wasn’t so I could…” I trail off, unable to say it aloud. “Maybe Frankie’s right. Perhaps I’m not an Anelli, considering I can’t even talk about…” I swallow hard, “killing aloud.”
His lips part to speak, but then he presses them back together and observes me intently for a while, his head slanting to the side. “We’ve probably got like another half an hour to an hour before Anthony Defontelles shows up,” he finally says. “What can I do to help you relax?”
It takes me a moment to answer, a moment to pull myself together. “Is that part of your job description?” I ask, devouring the rest of the scotch in one, large, searing gulp. “To keep me relaxed until the dirty work’s over?”
“Yeah, but I’d do it anyway,” he replies with a hint of a ghost smile on his face, the one he used to wear all the time when we were younger. It makes me want to hug him, yet I know better; know that it’s just a glimpse of the past that accidentally slipped through.
“Why? Things are different now. You work for my family’s enemy, so you no longer have to protect me.”
He starts to say something, but I know what he’s going to say—that I don’t understand stuff. And he’s right. I don’t. But it doesn’t matter. Even if I understood his reasons for working for Frankie, I’m not sure I can forgive him for what’s about to happen tonight. I wonder, though, if I tried to flee, if he’d let me. Frankie has ordered him to kill me if I attempt to bail, and he’s agreed, however I wonder if, when it all came down to the deed, he could pull the trigger.