Sins & Secrets (9 page)

I shrug as I open the soda and take a sip. “Lana was telling me out your relationship and how super cute you two are. Way cuter than when the two of them dated.” Lana is probably the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. Long brown hair, skin like honey, perfect lips, perfect body. Plus, she’s super nice and sweet. I serious have a girl crush on her, which makes me feel bad for using her my play, but she’s also nice enough to forgive me when this is all said and done.

“Wait. Lana dated Chase?” Marla looks horrified at the thought of sweet, perfect Lana dating her Chase. “Neither of them mentioned this to me.”

“Oh.” I place my hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”

Her eyes flare with anger. “Will you excuse me for a moment.” She rises from her chair and storms off toward the break room.

Once she’s out of sight, I grab a few papers from her desk and compare her handwriting to the note Danni gave me. It’s not even close and I immediately get this sense of uneasiness. I know the handwriting but why? Who’s could it possibly be? I was really hoping it was Marla. I can handle Marla, even if she knew everything, because she’s be easy to break down. But now that I know it’s not her opens a whole lot of doors and a whole lot of worry. Anyone could be the person that wrote it, including someone from my old life. What if my secrets have fallen into the wrong hands?

Lola

For the last two years, I’ve had nightmares about the night I shot and killed a man with a tattoo of 99 and the name Denny. I never did find out who the guy was or who Denny was, but in my mind Denny was the guy’s son, which means I killed a father. I sometimes think maybe I should be dead myself. That I deserve to be caught and tortured for what I’ve done. But it’s more naturally to survive so instead of facing what I’ve caused, I run and let the pain silently eat away at me. I’m a pro anymore with dealing with the nightmares anymore. When I wake up, drenched in sweat, my hands warm with the memory of blood painted on them, I barely so much as gasp, barely feel a thing. The same goes for whenever I think about Layton. I won’t let myself feel anything for him—feel anything at all—because I know the moment I let the guilt, remorse, and vast sense of losing the love of my life spill through, I’ll drowned in the emotion. So I’ve learned over the last couple of years that there are certain things that help me remain cold and detached inside, like working myself to the bone. If I’m having a bad day, I work the crap out of myself, until I’m so tired that it’s too exhausting to be worried. Unfortunately, that’s not the case today because the note is getting to me.

I’m really off my game, unable to get past it and the fear of who wrote it. I can barely concentrate—barely get anything done, almost as bad as the few months after I found out Layton was dead. Even when Marla comes back and chews me out for lying to her about her boyfriend, I can barely conjure up a good lie. My thoughts are elsewhere.

It’s time to run again. Move again.
Disappear
.
The notes said secrets. What if they know more about me than just my nighttime job? What if it’s one of the Dellefontes? What if I’m found? Even if I try to run now, they’ll find me or catch me before I can even escape.

Fortunately through the chaos in my head, I do manage to keep it together on the outside, even when I go straight to my second job at The Dusky Inn. I’m as cool and collected as I chat with my boss Nyjah while he gives me a rundown of my client tonight and then he starts onto tomorrow’s client, listing off what he asked for. Nyjah is a pretty decent guy, considering what he does. He’s young, twenty-seven, and runs the business mainly because his dad, Reagan makes him. Honestly, he seems like he hates the job most of the time and I wonder why he doesn’t leave. His dad’s an ass, always yelling at everything that moves, and bailing out is possible—I should know.

“He didn’t ask for sex?” I question warily after I get the lowdown on tonight’s “date.” “Really?” They always ask for sex, although some don’t go through with it in the end.

“It happens sometimes, just not a lot.” Nyjah shrugs, kicking his feet up on the desk, His jeans are frayed and his shirt’s unbutton, revealing his colorful, detailed, tattoos covering his chest. There’s always been one in particular that’s caught my attention—one on his neck. It looks like a family crest, a triangle with a strange symbol inside that looks like the roman numeral ten. Back home a lot of people I know have tattoos of their family crests, but I haven’t seen any since I left Boston. When I asked Nyjah, he said it had to do with his past and his mother, but didn’t go into details. Afterward, I’d done a search on their last name—Peirton—just to make sure they weren’t mobster.

“It still seems a little weird,” I tell him, picking at my fiery red nail polish. I’m in my nighttime attire, my earrings in place now, lining up the lobe, like silver and diamond artwork along with a few studs on my eyebrows. My black hair is down and wildly wavy, my lips are stained red, my eyes like smoke, and I have a dress on that barely covers up my ass and boots that go up to my thighs. And strapped to my thigh, underneath my dress, is a gun

Nijah arches his brow as he lowers his feet to the floor and sits up in his chair. “Considering some of the fetishes mentioned by some of the clients we get in here, I’m a little puzzled why you’re acting so weird about this.”

I sigh and shake off the edge. “Sorry. I’m just having a… weird day.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” he asks with concern. “You know I’m here for you—always will be.”

I almost laugh since Danni said almost the exact same thing to me just a few hours earlier which makes me feel the slightest bit guilty. Like Mary and Danni, I think I’ve crossed a line with Nyjah too. But he’s a tough enough guy that I’m sure it won’t crush his heart when I take off—well,
if
I take off. It’s kind of in the air right now, depending on how the thing with the note goes and who wrote it.

“Nah, I just need to work past it, but thanks for the offer.” I give him the best smile I can muster.

It seems like he wants to say more, his crystal blue eyes boring into me. “Maybe you should take tonight off… Get some rest. We could hang out here. Order in some food. Whatever you want.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” My tone is playful because I know it’s not what he’s doing, at least that’s what I originally thought until he looks at me with a very intent, serious expression.

“If that’s what you want,” he says, maintaining my gaze. “Then yeah, we can do the whole date thing.”

“Nyjah, you don’t want to date me. Trust me. I’m not dating material.” And the idea of going out on a date makes me want to throw up. Yes, I have sex with men, but for money and the fact that it hollows me inside makes it possible. But actually going on a date with someone, setting myself up for some kind of romantic connection, makes me feel sick. I still haven’t gotten over Layton—not sure that I ever will—so dating isn’t an option.

“I know what you are, Lola—I know what I’m getting into.”

“No you don’t. Trust me.” I squirm uncomfortably in the chair. “If you did, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

He shakes his head with aggravation. “You always think so lowly of yourself. Is that why you do it? Because you don’t think you deserve better.”

I’m getting irritated, even though I know I shouldn’t be. He only cares about me, but I’m not worthy of his sympathy—worthy of anything. “No, that’s not why I do it. I do it for the same reason everyone else around here does. Because I’m a slut who likes sex.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s not why everyone does it and you know it.”

“It’s why some do.”

“Yeah, but not you. I saw it in your eyes the day you walked in here. You’re carrying something dark inside you.”

I’m having a hard time breathing. “Nyjah, please drop it. I don’t want to talk about this. I just want to go do my job, which apparently is going to be real easy tonight since he doesn’t list wanting sex.”

“Yeah, but what if he does want sex?” he questions, searching my eyes for God knows what. “What if his weird answers to the questionnaire were simply because he didn’t want to admit what he was expecting?”

“Okay, then I’ll fuck him. Sex is nothing new, Nyjah.”

“Yeah, but you’re distracted today.”

I shrug. “Distracted or not, I can still be a great sex partner.”

He pauses, scratching at the back of his neck. I’m still in a little bit of shock about him asking me out. Yeah, he’s flirted with me a few times, but never acted on it. In a normal world, I’d be flattered, but this isn’t the normal world. This is Lola’s world, offspring of a very powerful, very dangerous drug lord.

“You know, my dad’s looking for help around the office again,” Nyjah says, lowering his hand onto his lap. “I know you said you weren’t interested the last time you offered, but thought maybe you’d changed your mind over the last couple of weeks.”

I tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Do we really have to do this again? I already told you, I can’t take the job and I still feel the same way.”

“Is it because of the money?”

“Partly. But there’s more to it than that, again, something I’ve already told you.”

“Like what?”

I consider what to tell him, consider the real reason, consider what makes me do the things I do without feeling any sense of shame. “Look, can we just leave it at I have some issues and this… job helps me deal with those issues. Without it, I’d just have to think all the time and I don’t want to think.” I sigh. “Women can enjoy sex, you know.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He pauses, rubbing his hand over his shortly shaven hair. “And it doesn’t seem like you enjoy it whether you’ll admit it or not.”

“You know, if you really want to pick people’s minds, Nyjah, then you should consider a career in psychology,” I say, getting up from the chair. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a guy to go fuck.”

He shakes his head, getting frustrated. “Fine, Lola. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He goes from friendly to formal in a second flat then gets up from his desk but then pauses, opens a drawer, and retrieves an envelope. He shoves it in my direction and when I take it he cross over to another woman who works here. He never seems to give any of them crap and I wish he’d do the same for me—stop trying to figure me out. And never ask me out again. Besides, if he really knew what was going on in my head, all the things I’ve thought and done, he’d probably run for his life.

I turn to leave, opening the envelope that has my name on it, figuring it’s my paycheck. Well, cash for my work since I won’t do checks. But I realize it’s too thin to be holding cash and by the time I get it open, I’m a confused. But the confusion shifts to sheer panic when I see a piece of paper inside, just like the note that was given to Dannie. It’s the same handwriting too.

Everything you know is a lie.

My gaze snaps up and I quickly scan the room. The women that I work with are loitering around near the bar area and sitting at the tables and some are on the stairway smoking. Nyjah is still chatting with the same woman with frustration in his expression. I hurry over to him, trying to keep myself together, but I sound breathless.

“Where did you get this?” I ask him, holding up the envelope, my hand twitching to go up my dress and to the gun strapped to my thigh. I carry it with me whenever I can for protection and right now it feels like I need protection.

“It was left in the mailbox out front.” His brows knit and he starts to reach for the envelope. “Why? What’s—”

I don’t let him finish. I rush off out of the building and onto the front porch. The Dusky Inn is exactly what it sounds like—an Inn. It’s a old two story-building enclosed by a rickety porch and is hidden out in a neighborhood where most of the houses look about as depressed and outdated as it so it doesn’t stand out. It also has a bright red mailbox out front near the edge of the gate. I always thought it was a little strange, mainly in the sense that it actually looked nice. Marching down to it, I open it up, not sure what I’m looking for but don’t find anything but a flyer for a free carwash. I shut the mailbox and glance around the neighborhood, again not sure what I’m looking for but feeling as though I need to search for an answer as to who the hell is sending the notes.

Nothing appears of the ordinary, though. A few people smoking and drinking on the porch next door. A guy working on his car. The usual drug dealers and prostitutes on the corner of the street. They’re there a lot and I wonder if any of them noticed anything different this morning.

I go over to one of the woman who I’ve chat with a couple of times. Her work name is Luscious and she’s nice enough. She’s always wearing a different color wig—today neon pink, which matches her stilettos.

“Hey Luscious,” I say, ignoring the few other women who give me dirty looks because of where I work. There’s sort of this ongoing fight between the women who work at The Dusky Inn and the street corner girls because the Dusky Inn girls think there more upper class hookers, which doesn’t make sense to me but still makes most of the women who work the corner hate me.

“Hey Lola.” She smiles at me as she struts away from the curb and the crowd, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. “What’s going on with the rich girl?”

“Not rich, remember. And nothing much.” I glance over her shoulder at the people watching us then lower my voice and lean. “I was just wondering if you notice anyone a little… suspicious hanging around here this morning?”

She cocks a brow, propping her hand on her hip. “Honey, have you seen the neighborhood we work in. Everyone is suspicious around here.”