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.

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.

I’m lost. Afraid. A scared girl who wants to run away.

It’s all I can think about—running away—for the next twenty minutes after Layton pulls me on the dance floor. Sweat is beading my skin as I rock my hips to the rhythm of “Ooh La La” by Goldfrap.

As I move to the music, Layton’s hands wander all over my body; cup my ass, grab my hips, his breath caressing my neck. It feels absolutely, mind-blowingly good. I desperately crave more touches, more closeness, more heat, passion, sex. Fun and relaxing, just like I was taught. I want more of it; I want what I know awaits me if I can push us both further. A few minutes of bliss from this shitty night that I’m sure will lead to an endless amount of shitty nights, if I survive. I need it—this. Hunger for it.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. The need and desire mixed with a hell of a lot of Bacardi and Scotch is too much.

I spin around and grind my body against him for a moment while dipping my lips to his ear. “Take me into the bathroom and fuck me,” I whisper hotly against his ear while running my fingers through the back of his hair and grinding my hips against his. I sound like someone else, someone in control, who knows what she wants. I sound like the Lola I was a few weeks ago, before the letter, before this.

I nip at his earlobe, grazing my teeth against his flesh. His breath catches in his throat, his breathing fierce—in and out, in and out—driving my body into a sexual frenzy as his solid chest brushes with mine. The intense feeling amplifies as he pushes back and I see the glossy, lost look in his eyes, like he’s high.

When the DJ starts saying something in the background, the crowd cheers and jumps up and down, slamming into us and pushing us closer. Neither of us looks away from each other, though; our gazes and bodies melded together.

Then, without saying a word, he grabs my hand and shoves his way through the dance floor, pushing people out of the way. Excitement roars through my body and fleetingly erases the fear and nervousness I’ve been feeling all night.

I can do this. I can let everything go. Just take a moment.

But then I spot one tall, solidly built man with a goatee and a tattoo on the side of his neck entering the bar from the back entrance. Draston Fordelles, one of Defontelles’ men.

Like a sharp slap across the face, I’m reminded of why I’m here. Not to play. Not to have fun. Not to have sex with a guy who I need to start seeing as an enemy.