With the limited numbness inside me, I almost start to cry thinking about him. I haven’t cried in a very long time and the sensation feels strange and kind of alarming.
But I manage to suck back the tears and head to the right toward the street, but stop dead in my tracks at the sight of what’s at to left my left at the end of the alley. Parked near the trashcans and hidden in the shadows is an oversized SUV with tinted windows.
“It could be just a normal SUV,” I whisper to myself as I move quickly for the street. “I’m just being paranoid.” I start to jog. “Just being paranoid…” I take off running. “Just being—” The headlights flip on and beam brightly against my back. I don’t give myself time to hesitate, running as if my life depends on it. Tires screech against the pavement behind me as the car drives forward.
I reach for my gun as I near the street, but right as I’m about to leave the alley, another vehicle pulls up and blocks my exit. It’s not an SUV, but a plain black car with no tinting, just like the one I saw in front of my house the other night. Light trails into the windows from the lampposts lining the street and nearby buildings and I can tell there’s only one person inside the car, but their face is just a shadow beneath the hoodie pulled over the head.
Is that the guy from out front?
They start to lean over for the passenger side door, which is closest to me and that’s when I notice the gun in their hand. I step back from the door, hurry to the side, then jump onto the hood of the car and barreling across it and hop into the street. Then I take off toward the corner, telling myself to look forward—don’t look back. But when I hear a loud crash and the sound of voices from close behind me, I can help but glance over my shoulder. The SUV has side swiped the car and dented in the door. I don’t stop. Only speed up more, especially when a group of large men hop out of the SUV, all dressed in dark clothes and packing. When I make out a few of their faces though, my heart does slam into my chest.
Frankie Catherlson’s men. What the hell? Why are they here? I don’t get it… don’t understand. I’m not stupid enough to turn around and ask them, though. Whatever the reason they’re here, can’t be good. So I run like I’ve never run before until I’m several blocks away from the hotel. Then I flag down the first cab I see and only breath freely when I’m in it and the door is shut.
“Where to?” The cab driver asks, looking over his shoulder at me with a smile on his face. But his grin immediately drops when he catches sight of my face. “Miss, are you okay?”
“Yeah… I’m fine,” I tell him breathlessly, wiping the sweat from my face. “Just take me to 49005 West Gray Street,” I sputter out my apartment address, but then wonder if I should go somewhere else. But I need to go back and at least get my money and a couple of other important items, like my identification before I try to take off. God, but how far am I going to make it now that they’re here?
With no other choice, I let the cab driver forward toward my apartment, letting myself look through the back window only when I know I’m going to be able to get away. But what I see makes me wish I never looked in the first place. Because standing in the shadows, at a distance, watching Frankie’s men chase after me, is someone I never thought I’d see again. At first I think he’s a ghost because that’s the only way I can be seeing him. I figment of my imagination. My ex-best friend. The man who saved me. The man who for the last eighteen months I thought was dead.
Layton Everett.
Chapter 8
Lola
Layton Everett. Layton. Layton. Layton.
“He’s supposed to be dead… I don’t understand it?” I whisper to myself as I pace the floor of my living room. It’s dark inside because I know better than to turn the lights on. I’ve changed into a hoodie, jeans, and boots and my hair is pulled into a ponytail. My bags are packed and waiting by the front door, my money and ID’s in them. I should leave right now. Walk away. But I can’t stop thinking about Layton. He’s here and alive. I know for a fact I saw him. I’m desperate to find out, desperate to see him again, desperate to understand why in the hell my Aunt Glady told me he died eighteen months ago. Desperate. Desperate. Desperate. And that desperation is keeping me in the living room instead of moving me toward the closet cab. I know if I stay here long enough, Frankie’s men will find me. And then what? I’m not sure why they’re here but it can’t be for any good reasons.
With my gun in my hand, I peer out the blinds, looking down from my second story window for any signs of mafia men lurking out there. But there’s nothing but cars in the parking lot and darkness—not a single person in sight.
“Fuck. Shit. Fuck.” I need to see Layton again or at least understand, otherwise it’s going to haunt me. So I do something I thought I’d never do. I dial my Aunt Glady’s number, hoping she can enlighten me, but her line has been disconnected. “Dammit!” I kick the wall then huff out a few frustrated breaths. I wait about ten minutes longer in the silence of my home, them give up and force myself to leave. Staying here means getting caught. And getting caught means God knows what. I can try to get a hold of Glady when I get somewhere safe… see what’s going on.
Even though it kills me, I pick up my bags and sling them over my shoulder, then depart through the kitchen and toward the back door that’s, taking measured steps. As I’m reaching for the doorknob, I hear voices from the other side. Son of a bitch. I back away from the door, the gun out in front of me, my other hand clutching onto the handles of the bags. They start banging on the door, like they’re going to break the damn thing down. I whirl around to run, not even sure where I’m running too, but slam into someone with a rock solid chest—the guy with the hoodie. It’s dark, so I can’t see their face, but I can tell from the height and build that it has to be a guy. Instinctively my knee shoots up and collides straight in between his legs, crushing his man jewels.
The guy hunches over, grunting in pain. “God dammit, Lolita!”
I almost drop my gun. Fall to the ground. Stop breathing. I do end up losing hold of my bags and they fall heavily to the floor. The men are still slamming against the back door of my house, making a shitload of noise, but it seems quiet through it, my body hitting some kind of eerie calm.
“You’re alive.” My voice is a whisper, stunned into a state of shock by the sight of the guy I thought I’d lost forever.