The first thing I notice is how bright the lights are and how musty the air is. It makes it difficult to see anything and breathe. I have to catch my breath and blink a few times to get my vision to adjust to the florescent lighting. That’s when I realize just how big of trouble I’m in. Because Anthony’s not alone. He’s got two really big guys beside him; his bodyguards, I’m guessing. They’re sitting on fold up chairs around a square table, and on it is enough money and bags of cocaine to fill up an entire trunk of a car.

I’m debating whether or not to bail because this isn’t how this is supposed to go down, but then Anthony glances up from the pile of cash and drugs in front of him, and I know there’s no backing out.

He’s in his mid-forties, tall, sturdy, arms the size of both my legs. He has a scar going all the way down his nose to his lip and a tribal tattoo on his neck that travels up to the top of his shaven head.

“Who the fuck are you...?” he starts to say, but then trails off as he recognizes who I am. “Lolita Anders,” he says with a grin.

The sequences of events that happen right after that move so quickly I barely have time to process them. While the two bodyguards spin around and jump out of their chairs, I panic and start to whirl around to run out the door. However, I catch Anthony reaching for his waist, his fingers heading for the silver handle of a gun sticking out of the top holster. I react the only way I can think of. I swiftly slide my hand up my dress and withdraw the 9mm. With one swift movement, I lift my hand and point the gun at him at the very exact moment he aims his at me.

My heart hammers in my chest. I can’t breathe. Think. See straight.

Don’t hesitate.

Don’t hesitate.

Don’t hesitate.

Layton was right. I don’t have it in me.

Anthony grins, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then his finger starts to press back on the trigger. Seconds later, a gun goes off, but it’s faint, quiet, the noise of the club outside washing it away. I see my life flash before my eyes. I wait to die, wait for the pain to arrive, but quickly realize I’m still breathing, my heart beat deafeningly loud inside my chest.

“Get out of here!” Layton shouts from behind me, snapping me out of my trance.

Reality slaps me fast and hard as warm liquid covers my face and arms. There’s blood everywhere and Anthony is lying on the floor, bleeding profusely from a wound in his chest. The bodyguards have withdrawn their guns and have them aimed at Layton and me. I still have my gun out in front of me, my hand unsteady. Layton is standing beside me with his gun out, drops of Anthony’s blood on his face, his hand steady as a rock.

“Get out of here, Lola,” he orders in a firm tone without taking his eyes off the men.

“She’s not going anywhere, Layton. Neither of you are,” one of the men says. I don’t know his name, but he has this four-leaf clover tattooed on his scruffy cheek along with the number 99 and the word Denny. I wonder what it means. If it’s his lucky number or something more personal, like a year someone was born. Maybe his kid. Does he have kids? If he does, will it hurt to lose their father as much as it hurt me when I lost my mother. Oh God. Am I about to see a father die? Am I about to break a family? And what about Layton. Am I about to see him die? Am I about to die?

My mind is racing while the fear inside me is making me want to puke. Seconds later, I hear another gun go off. There’s no warning. No time to react, only flinch. It all happens incredibly fast, and I get caught up the middle of it, making choices based on my fear, going against everything my father ever taught me.

My gun goes off… I can’t even remember pulling the trigger, yet my gun goes off and the last man standing, the one with the four-leaf clover, falls to the floor on his back, clutching his chest. He gasps for air over and over again, though a few heartbeats later, he stills. There’s a hole in his chest, blood pouring out of it and soaking his shirt. Just like that, it’s all over. Everything’s changed, just like I knew it would.

Because I have officially become a hit man and a murderer. Nothing will ever be the same again.

Layton was wrong.

I am a killer.

Everything seems so much darker and colder. I’ve never been so cold, and I don’t think I’ll ever warm up again. The last few minutes keep replaying in my mind like a nightmare, even though I’m awake. But it always ends the same—with blood on my hands and the haunting image of the name Denny branded in my head. I can’t stop wondering who Denny is. If I killed a father. I’m not sure if it would matter either way. His blood would still be on my hands no matter who he was.

After the shots are fired, I go into shock; my body cold, numb, dead, just like the bodies on the floor. There’s blood splattered all over my skin, my hair, the floor, the wall, my clothes, the ceiling. I’m still holding the gun—why am I still holding the gun?

I drop it like it’s poison then stagger back from the bodies and throw up in the corner of the room. Layton doesn’t say a word as I empty my stomach and sink to my knees. He doesn’t ask me to get up. I don’t think I could if I tried. Instead, he scoops me up in his arms and carries me out of the club through the back entrance where no one will see us. It seems like forever when really it’s probably moments before we make it to his car.

Layton carefully puts me in, buckles me, and then gets into the driver’s seat. It’s still dark outside, the moon a sliver in the sky, stars twinkling. It’s the middle of May, a warmer time of the year, yet it feels so cold.

“You have blood on your cheek,” I say as I sit in the seat with my knees pulled up to my chest, shivering and chattering.

He reaches up and wipes away the blood then glances over at me. He opens his mouth to say something, but then, I guess, decides against it. He starts up the car and drives out of the parking lot and onto the street.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, shutting my eyes and turning forward in the seat. The heater blows over my body, however I can’t stop shivering.

“Home,” he says, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“What about my father?” I lean my head against the window, unable to hold my head up anymore.

“I’ll tell Frankie you did the job and to let him go. Everything will be fine.” He’s speaking to me, yet he’s not.

I open my eyelids, even though they feel so heavy. “And what about you? What will you do?”

“I already told you not to worry about me,” he says, looking straight ahead at the road. “I can take care of myself.”

I want to tell him that I am worried about him, that I do care about him, but I’m afraid to go there right now.

Layton and I don’t speak until we reach my house, but I don’t think there’s that much to say, other than we could talk about what’s happened. However, I don’t want to talk about it. Think about it. Remember it.

God, I’m a killer.

I can’t stop staring at my hands. They look so different. So tainted.

When he parks the car in front of my house’s entryway, he gets out and opens the door for me then helps me out of the car. My legs are wobbly and I stumble to get my footing. He catches me in his arms and helps me get my balance, holding me against him. He still doesn’t speak as he smoothes his hand over the back of my head over and over again. All I want to do is sink into him, disappear, vanish forever.

He starts placing kisses on my head over and over, and then he steps back from me and again I feel so cold. “Go inside and wait for your father to get home,” he instructs, quickly brushing his finger down my cheekbone, looking torn over something. “But, Lola, don’t believe anything he tells you.”