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. “And touching isn’t part of the deal, just like watching me change wasn’t.” I elevate my gaze to Layton’s silverfish-blue eyes and arch my eyebrow. “So hands off.”

During a different time in our lives, I would have loved to have his hand on my knee. There’s no denying that Layton is sexy as hell with his dark, messy hair; tattooed body; and long, lean arms. What’s more, he used to be a good, caring, nice person—at least to me—but not anymore. Now there’s something dark living inside him, something I’ve never seen before, something that’s haunting him, something I don’t understand but want to.

His lips quirk as he removes his hand from my knee. “If that’s what you want, Lolita,” he picks up his glass filled with scotch, “then I’ll oblige.”

I narrow my eyes at him as I reach for my own glass of scotch. “Then you’ll oblige? What the hell happened to you? You’re too…”

“Too what?” he challenges, wetting his lips with his tongue, causing my gaze to unintentionally zero in on his tongue ring. It makes my thighs burn for the sensation of the metal to graze along my skin; for his lips to be between my legs, his tongue licking me. It’s such the wrong moment to be thinking this, but I can’t help it. Sex has a sedating effect on me, and when I’m anxious, I want it.

“Too calm for this type of situation,” I tell him. “Is it because you don’t think I’ll do it?”

He searches my eyes briefly before his gaze drifts to my legs then back up my body again. “What I think is that you’re hot and bothered.”

I flip him off. “Fuck you.”

“I think that’s the problem, Lolita.”

I bite down on my lip and tell myself to remain composed. To try to remember when we were teenagers and our life was school, fun, excitement, and nothing else—not a worry in the world. Hot summer nights where breaking curfew, stealing bottles of expensive scotch from our daddies’ liquor cabinets, and the occasionally harmless brawl was the biggest risk we ever took. But we’re not friends anymore, and we’re not teenagers. We’re twenty-one-year-old adults who are about to break the law for different reasons.

I shake the glass in a circular motion, and the ice swishes around. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s Lola? No one’s called me Lolita since—”

“Since you were fourteen-years-old and Billy Maders found out the meaning of Lolita is seductress and everyone started calling you a whore.” He raises his glass to his lips and takes a long swallow before setting the glass down. “Yeah, I remember what happened. It was totally not true since you were a virgin, but you took it so defensively.”

He’s actually wrong; well, not about the virgin part. I stopped wanting to be called Lolita the day my mother died because she’d always called me that. Yet I never told anyone the real reason and blamed in on the Billy thing, being way overdramatic on purpose.

“Would you stop acting like we’re friends?” I ask, irritated that he knows me so well. He’s supposed to be the enemy, but it’s hard to look at him like that when I’ve known him since we were being potty trained. “We’re not anymore. Not after today.”

“That’s your choice,” he says in a tight voice. “And I don’t blame you for that.”

“Please just stop acting so… indifferent about everything.” I take a long sip of my drink, noting how he observes my neck muscles as I swallow. “Just because you decided to go work for Frankie, doesn’t mean you have to act like you don’t care about anything anymore.”

“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.”