“What’s wrong?” he asks with a hint of concern on his face.
“It’s nothing. I was just thinking of ways I could possible get myself to calm down,” I lie. “That’s all.”
He puts the drink down on the counter. “What can I do to help?”
I shrug, eyes locked on his. “There are only three things that make me relax in tense situations.” I count down on my fingers. “Scotch, which isn’t helping at all tonight. Kickboxing. And sex. So either you can let me kick the shit out of you out back or fuck me in the bathroom.”
There’s no shock factor with Layton. He knows me enough to know how I am, enough to know that all these things calm me down.
“We haven’t fucked since junior year of high school,” he remarks, his eyes sweeping across my body. Figures he’d go for that one.
“Yeah, the year you took my virginity. So what, you can’t screw me now because of that?” I ask. When he stays silent forever, I add, “I gave you another option, you know. Kicking might be easier for the both of us. A lot less painful.”
While his gaze never wavers from mine, the tension between us heightens to the point I think I might combust. “Do you still have that no kissing rule?”
I nod slowly. I’m not a prude. I’ve had my fair share of sexual experiences, just none that have had lip-to-lip contact. “Kissing still makes things complicated.” The one and only time I kissed a guy was when I was thirteen. Trayson Millony forced a kiss on me when I refused to kiss him during a game of spin the bottle. In return, I kneed him in the balls.
No kissing is a rule my mother told me about. No kissing equals no strings attached. Until you’ve found the one. Kissing comes with an emotional connection, and if he isn’t the right guy for me, I’ll end up with a broken heart. Crushed. Ruined. And I don’t want to be ruined, do I?
Ruined would turn me into Gretta, my sixty-year-old aunt who’s never been married, has never went on date in the last forty or so years, and is still obsessed with her first love who has been happily married for forty-something years. Ruined could make me bitter. Ruined could get me into a life with a man where I was so unhappy I wanted to die.
“But I’ve learned a few new tricks since the last time we fucked.” I bite down on my lip, deciding if I’m really going to go through with this. Can I just shove everything aside? Forget about everything for a moment? It’s worked in the past, but the situation has never been this complicated and intense.
Heat blazes in his eyes, but every other part of him remains in control. “And what about the no falling in love rule?” he asks, his gaze relentless, daring me to comment on me breaking his heart. With anyone else, I would crack a joke about him being weak, but Layton… I care… cared for him once. And the day he told me he was in love with me and I told him I didn’t feel the same was the one and only day I ever felt my heart ache over a guy.
“Yeah, the no falling in love rule still applies, too,” I manage to say calmly, even though I feel a flicker of agony attached to the memory. “So are you going to help me relax?” I shock myself more than I do him.
He stares at me a second longer then, with a quick swipe of his tongue across his lips, he rotates around on the barstool and raises his hand to get the bartender’s attention. When the bartender comes over, he orders two double shots of Bacardi then sits in silence while he waits.
I’m mildly disappointed by his rejection, although I have bigger problems at the moment, ones I should be more focused on. Otherwise, I’m going to mess up.
After the bartender sets the two shots down on the counter, Layton slides one toward me. “Drink this,” he says.
“I already told you drinking isn’t doing it for me tonight,” I remind him as he retrieves his wallet from his pocket then tosses a twenty down on the countertop before guzzling his shot.
“Drink the shot.” His voice is demanding as he sets the empty glass down, but I detect a hint of a tremble in his hand.
I collect the large glass in my hand. Putting the rim up to my lips, I let the fiery liquid spill down my throat. It tastes like trouble, danger, and ecstasy all mixed up in one potent swallow. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
“Now dance with me,” he says, slipping his fingers through mine and pulling me to my feet.
“Dance?” There’s doubt in my voice as we make our way to the crowded dance floor. “Seriously? Since when do you dance?”
He places a hand on the small of my back and guides me closer as we near the mob of people drowning in sweat, and the sensual throbbing base of the music envelopes us further. He pauses as he reaches the center, getting poked and prodded with stray elbows, knees, and other bulging body parts.
“Just relax and trust me,” he says, turning to face me.
“I don’t trust anyone anymore.” I stare him down with reluctance. “Not after this.”
He contemplates what I’ve said before he grabs me by the waist forcefully. His touch makes my skin scorch and my thighs erupt with heat. I blame it on the Bacardi when, really, I know what’s doing it. “Okay, then just try to relax,” he says, drawing me closer. “Let’s make the most of the time we have.”
Despite how much I want to turn and walk away from him, I give in and dance. In just about an hour, I’ll be taking someone’s life. What’s more, I have a feeling that, after that, the life I know now isn’t going to exist anymore. That dancing or having any sort of relaxing moment isn’t going to be in the cards for me anymore because the life I know is about to disappear.
Maybe forever.
Chapter 5
My mother was an opinionated woman, who had her beliefs and loved to share them with me. I know that a lot of the things she said shaped me into the person I am now. Some of it good, some of it bad, but that’s life in general.
“Sex can be two things,” my mama told me once when I was about thirteen. “A weapon or just plain fun and relaxation¸ if you’ll let it. Don’t always make it such a big deal, my Lolita. Don’t let men own you because of it.” It went right along with her no kissing rule.
She was what a lot of men called a promiscuous woman. My daddy met her when he hired her as an escort. She was nineteen and he was thirty-five. After spending one night with her, he fell madly in love with her sporadic, mysterious, impulsive character along with her beauty. One month later, they were married, and nine months later, I was born. This means, during the first month they were married, she’d had an affair with this Everson man, if the letter means what I take it to mean.
I probably would have never known the real life story of my parents if it wasn’t for my mother’s sister, Aunt Glady, who told me all of this right after my mom died when I was fourteen. Aunt Glady had been on the bottle for three days straight. She told me never to tell anyone that I knew the secret—that my daddy would cut her out of the will if she did. And being from a poor family from Cheyenne, Wyoming, she needed the money.
Money and power, that’s what my dad’s known for, and that’s why it makes no sense that he’s gotten into debt with Frankie. Benny Big Bones was the name my father was given when he was eight by Big Doug Dellanay, one of the major drug lords during the seventies. My dad was his protégé and his nickname has never left him.
He’s a good father, though; for the most part. I grew up with pretty much any luxury I wanted. I always felt loved, nurtured, and cared for, even after my mother died and I stopped trusting him. He tried his best, but I pushed him away, wanting to make him feel helpless for letting my mom go so easily, even though, deep down I know it’s not his fault. It’s an emotion I know he hates—feeling helpless. Right now, I’m the one that feels helpless, though.