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saying a word, he straps it to my leg. The graze of his knuckles against my flesh cause unwelcomed bolts of pleasure, and I have to fight to keep the moans in. After he gets it fastened, he reaches for one of his guns and tucks it in my holster before pulling the bottom of my dress down to cover it up.

    “There. I think you’re ready.”

    I put my hand over the gun and stare up at him. “I could shoot you right now, you know?”

    “But you won’t,” he says with indescribable pain, sorrow, and remorse haunting his eyes. It’s like we’re fourteen again and he’s getting into Frankie’s SUV while I stay with my dead mother. “You don’t have it in you.”

    “Maybe I do,” I argue. “Maybe it’s just a side you haven’t seen before.”

    He shakes his head with confidence. “No, Lola. You’re not a killer.” He reaches forward and brushes my cheek with his finger, sadness creeping through the mask he’s been wearing. There’s something haunting him, something dark, but what?

    “If you really believe that, then what the hell do you think’s going to happen tonight?” I ask as I get to my feet. “You’re not telling me everything. I can feel it.”

    “I’m not telling you a lot of things,” he mutters then sighs before giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. He then whispers in my ear, “I’m so sorry, Lola.” With that, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving me more confused than ever, something I didn’t think was possible.

Chapter 4

    I’m having one of those moments when I’m reflecting on every single bad thing I’ve done in my past. Every bad decision I’ve made. The path I followed that led me to this moment in time. Wondering exactly who paved that path. Me? My mother? Father? Dammit, who am I?

    My mind is racing, and my body still hurts from the sedative and the hijacking. While my pulse throbs, the music in the club pounding deep inside my body, my skin remains damp and my body numb from the multiple drinks I’ve consumed.

    I have on a short, backless, black dress Layton took from my house. The sides are intentionally torn and show off a flower tattoo on the side of my lower thigh and an intricate dandelion one in the center of my back. A pair of lace-up boots covers my feet and half of my legs. And a thick, leather collar is around my neck. My long, black hair’s done up on the top of my head in waves and curls, and I have three studs above my eyebrows. My lips are stained a fiery red to cover up the cut I got while being thrown in the backseat, the vamped color matching my painted nails.

    The real icing on the cake to my attire is the 9mm pistol in a holster strapped to my thigh, the one that’s been taunting me since Layton put it there. The metal is icy cold against my skin and sends goose bumps erupting all over my legs. I have a very intense urge to reach up my dress, pull it out, and throw it in the trashcan. However, it would probably bust the plan to shit, and a lot is riding on me not screwing this up, despite the fact that Layton thinks I’m going to. At least, that’s what I’ve decided since he walked out on me in the backroom without answering me.

    “Would you relax?” Layton places a hand on my knee to get me to stop bouncing it. “It’s really important that you keep calm, Lola.” It’s the same thing he’s been saying to me since we left the warehouse. “Otherwise, this isn’t going to work.”

    “And how do you suppose I do that?” I tip my head and tap my lip, pretending to think deeply, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “I mean, I’m here, not under my own freewill, and all of this—what I’m about to do—all relies on something I don’t want to do nor do you believe I can do. Plus, I hate doing things I don’t want to do. And if I do go through with it, I could easily end up getting caught, go to jail or get shot, or get a hit put on me.”

    I tear my eyes off the dance floor and focus on his hand that’s on top of my knee.