“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.

“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.