I have hardly any time to come up with an answer, though, as I’m roughly forced into the backseat of the car. As I land face first, bumping my head onto the roof, I try to get a few kicks in, but my struggles are effortless. Before I know it, I have a bag over my head, my hands are tied behind my back, and the car is speeding off.
“Who the hell are you?” I growl through the dark fabric, hoping for someone to reply, then maybe I can figure out who it is. However, the only thing I get in response is a low chuckle and a brush of a finger up my bare thigh to the edge of my shorts. When their hand slips up the front of me and cops a feel of my breast, the touch stands the hair on the back of my neck on end and my stomach churns. I vow to myself that, if I get out of this, I’m going to make the fucker pay.
Instead of causing more drama, I bite down on my lip and force myself to stay silent and remain still. This is what I have been taught to do as a defense mechanism. The last thing I need is to piss the wrong person off or get so worked up I can’t think clearly. It’s in the Preparation for When Kidnapped Handbook, and I’m not talking metaphorically. There was an actual handbook, given to me by my father on my eighth birthday.
“Lolita, nothing will ever conquer you if you don’t show any fear,” my daddy said as I’d torn the wrapping paper off the present then frowned at the thin leather-bound book inside. “In our world, never show fear. Never let it own you. Always be strong or else you won’t survive. This book will teach you to do just that.” It was a family heirloom, and honestly, I’d thought he was insane, but I still read it. I wanted to make him proud, up until my mother passed away. After that, our relationship turned rocky.
Now, I can’t help thinking how right he was, though. Fear is the enemy. Fear is making my head foggy, making me think irrational ideas like throwing myself forward and trying to escape blind. Crying. Screaming. I need a level head if I’m going to accomplish anything.
Deep breaths.
Stay calm.
Breathe.
Twenty minutes later, I’m still sitting in the backseat of the car, squeezed between the two sweaty, smelly men. My heart’s racing in my chest, despite how much I’m telling it to shut the fucking hell up. I try to steady my breathing, stable my heart rate, inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, let my muscles unravel. Think of something relaxing. Reading… sleeping… taking a bath… They all seem okay, somewhat relaxing, but if I’m honest with myself, I need to think of something that actually relaxes me—the real me, the one hardly anyone knows. Drinking… shots… beating the shit out of the guy beside me… sex… hot, sweaty sex. It might be messed up, yet it makes me feel the slightest bit content.
After I get about as calm as I can—still somewhat jittery, though, and with way too much adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream—I sink back in the seat and assess what I can about my surroundings.
The engine is humming and I can hear the sound of the wind, which means the car’s moving and the windows are rolled down. I think about the weapons I have on me. Brass knuckles and mace in my purse, but I dropped it when the guys grabbed me back at the park. I do have a small knife in a holster hidden inside my boot, but how the hell am I supposed to get it out when my hands are bound and I can’t see a damn thing?
Turning my head to the side, I strain to see through the bag. The sunlight faintly slips through the fabric, and I can make out the top of one of the guy’s heads beside me. I wonder if he’s watching me; if he’s thinking about touching me again. I want to rip his hand off for touching me already.
I’m evaluating my options—keep sitting, try to fight blind, cause a scene—when the car comes to a screeching halt. I hear the driver mutter something, then a door opens and the guy to the side of me gets out. I start to let out a breath of relief, but then he either climbs back in or someone else takes his place.
Moments later, the scent of cologne and cigarettes grace my nostrils. I realize there’s definitely someone different sitting next to me since the previous guy stank like BO. There’s something very familiar about the scent, too… I know it from somewhere. I try to think of all the parties I’ve attended, the “family gatherings.” Is that why the person smells familiar? Have I met them at one of those perhaps?
I feel the person shift in the seat and I cringe as their warm breath caresses my cheek. “Just calm down, Lola,” they whisper softly as I clench my hands into fists. Then, their finger brushes the inside of my wrist, a comforting gesture only one person in my life has ever used on me, and suddenly I realize who it is. “Everything will be okay.”
Boy, oh, boy, do I know that voice. What’s more, now I know just how much trouble I’m in, who’s behind the kidnapping, and how slim things are looking for me ever seeing the light of day again. Dead—I’m pretty sure that’s how I’m going to end up.
Sitting beside me is Layton Everett, a guy who used to be my best friend when we were younger, but now he works for my family’s enemy, the Catlersons. Frankie is their leader, the guy who grinned and winked at me the day my mother died. He has despised my father more than any other drug lord on the east coast and has been trying to set my father up and get him killed. He even put a hit on my father once when I was about seven, but it was quickly taken off when my father retaliated, which has always made me question why the hell Frankie was at my house the day my mother died. Of course, I’m not supposed to know any of this, however the house I grew up in had cathedral ceilings that caused every conversation to carry throughout the rooms and hallways.
“I should have known you had something to do with this,” I say spitefully to Layton. My words carry no truth to them, though. Even after my mother died, Layton and I still remained friends for quite a while. He never would tell me why he got into the car with Frankie that day or what his father said to him. And about a week after the funeral, all was well in our drug lord world again. Mr. Everett and my father were friends once more, both despising Frankie Catlerson. No more strange meetings were held.
All was right in our crazy, mad world, up until a couple of months ago when I heard from one of my few female friends that Layton had shown up at a party with Frankie’s men. He didn’t even have the balls to tell me himself, nor did he offer me any explanation when I confronted him, nor have we talked since. I’ll admit, part of my anger stems from the fact that I’ve always believed Frankie had something to do with my mother’s death, and Layton knows my theory, even though he doesn’t believe it.
“Lola, don’t start with me, please,” Layton warns, his fingers leaving my wrist. “You’re only going to get yourself into trouble if you get that mouth of yours going.”
“Fuck you.” I lean into him, lifting my leg and moving my foot around until I find his shin, and then I kick as hard as I can. “You traitor.”
“Dammit, Lola,” he curses, jerking his leg away from mine. “Stop acting like a psychopath.”
“Stop acting like a psychopath? Are you serious?” I’d gape at him, but it’d be pointless since he can’t see my face beneath the bag. “I got picked up while I was innocently walking in the park, felt up by a middle-aged man with the worst combover I’ve ever seen, then bound and thrown into the back of a car, and now you show up and what? Expect me to act sane? I’m not even sane when everything’s fine. You know that.”
There’s a pause. “Innocently walking in the park,” he mumbles, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm, the tone he used to use with me all the time. “I highly doubt that. You’re never doing anything innocently.”
He’s right, but I’m not about to admit that to him. “Where are you taking me?” I ask, slumping back in the seat, pissed off that I feel more relax about this situation now that he’s sitting here beside me. He’s always had that way about him; which was fine when we were friends, but now it just makes the situation more dangerous. It makes me more trusting towards someone who’s my enemy. Remember who he is now. “I’m assuming to Frankie, but I’m wondering why. Did he decide to finish the rest of my famil
y off?”
“Lola, please don’t start with that,” Layton begs. “Your mother died of a heart attack. You need to accept that.”
“Keep her quiet, Layton,” a deep voice advises from the front seat.
It takes Layton a second to answer, the rhythm of his breathing surprisingly unsteady for him. “It has to do with your father,” he says quietly. “He’s in trouble.”
My entire body goes rigid, my already amped-up adrenaline skyrocketing. “What does Frankie want with my father this time? Money? Drugs? Revenge? More Anelli blood on his hands? Usually he’s more set on getting my father killed, not kidnapping his daughter, but I guess his many failed attempts have probably made him desperate.”
Another maddening pause from Layton, then I feel him slant closer to me, his body heat potently familiar. “It’s not what Frankie wants from your father, but what he wants from you, which is for you to pay your father’s debt.”
“Debt?” I’m thrown off by this bit of information and my voice comes out way louder than intended. “Since when does my dad owe Frankie anything?"
“Since he came to him to borrow money about six months ago.” He pauses while I try to wrap my mind around the idea, yet it doesn’t make sense.
“But we’re wealthy…” I try to argue. “What did he need the money for?"
“I’m not sure exactly.” His voice is tight, tense.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He sighs heavy-heartedly. “Look, Lolita, your father’s in some serious trouble. And I mean really big trouble. ”
“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, loathing that he used the full name my mother used to call me all the time. Ever since she died, it doesn’t feel right for anyone to use it. “It’s Lola. And what sort of trouble? Tell me what’s going on.”
“Keep her damn mouth shut, Layton,” the same person warns again, and this time, I recognize the baritone voice. Tony Madman Makafee, one of Frankie’s guards, the one who does his “dirty work.”
Shit. I’m now officially dirty work. This is bad. Worse than what I originally thought. People who go with Tony not only never ever seen again, but get tortured in the most painful ways possible until they take their last breath.
“What does Frankie want from me?” I whisper to Layton, scooting closer to him on the seat until our shoulders and legs our touching.
Layton blows out a stressed breath, and I can almost visualize him running his hands through his hair, like he used to do all the time whenever I was making him anxious. “Lolita, please just be quiet.” He gently puts a hand on my leg. “This will all be over soon, and if you cooperate, then it should go smoothly.”
“I told you to stop calling me that.” I jerk my knee out from under his hand. “And I highly doubt this is going to go smoothly. In fact, I’m guessing this is probably the last time you and I will talk ever again. And the last time I’ll be breathing.”
“You think I’m going to kill you?” He sounds so shocked and appalled.
“Maybe not you, but I know that’s Tony up there, and he’s infamous for his whacks.”
“Lola, I would never let that happen to you. I swear to God, I’d kill myself before I’d kill you, and it hurts that you don’t know that.”
“You’re letting me be here,” I snap. “Bound and blindfolded in the backseat of the car. That’s not any better—”
“God fucking dammit, Layton! I told you to shut her the fuck up!” Tony growls. I hear the sound of fabric brushing against leather, then the light through the mask dims.
“Tony, that’s not necessary.” There’s an edge to Layton’s tone. His body heat is suffocating me as he slants nearer to me, our shoulders pressing together and his arm aligning with mine, our fingers inches apart. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he was trying to comfort me. However I do know better. I won’t make the mistake thinking Layton will put me before his job and the duty he feels toward his family. “She’ll be quiet.”
“I already gave her three chances,” Tony replies. I hear him climb over the seat. Moments later, he plops down beside me so close his knee is crushing against mine. “This way’s a lot easier.”
“What way?” I flinch back, trying to get away from Tony and closer to Layton. “Don’t fucking touch me, douche bag, or I swear to God—”
Before I can finish the sentence, a needle pricks my forearm then enters my vein. Shit, this isn’t… good…
“Layton… help…” I hate the plea in my voice, but I have no other option at the moment. I’m slipping out of consciousness. I’ll be more helpless than I ever have… weak… “Please… do… something…”
And he does. He catches me as I fall back and black out.
Chapter 2
When I open my eyes again, I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, every single one of my limbs aching. The spot on my arm where the needle entered burns, too. I wonder what kind of drug they doped me up with and if it has any side effects. My vision is a little blurry and my head hurts, but I’m coherent enough to get my bearings.
I’m lying face first with my cheek pressed against the icy, cold, cement floor of a large warehouse filled with boxes and metal crates that make a perimeter around the walls. There are also a few large, stocky, bulky men—none of which I recognize, but assume are bodyguards—standing around me. There’s also a television and Frankie Catherlson. Just seeing him makes me want to strangle him as I think about that look he gave me the day I saw my mother dead.
He had to have something to do with it. I don’t care what anyone says.
Frankie is surprisingly a very short and stocky man who has these bushy eyebrows that look like two, very furry caterpillars. Despite his lack in body features, he always dresses to impress in designer suits and shoes, gold jewelry, and diamond encrusted watches. They are ways to scream that, despite his small demeanor, he’s still got his wealth, and how he got his wealth makes him important. He doesn’t want to be underestimated, and he’ll kill you if he gets a chance. And now just might be his chance to kill me, depending on how this plays out.
His black slacks match his button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing his aged skin. There’s a holster on each of his sides, both carrying guns.
As I push to my feet, I can’t seem to take my eyes off the guns. I wonder how many people he’s killed with them. I wonder how many people my father has killed. I wonder how many Layton has killed.
Where is Layton?
It’s not like these thoughts have never crossed my mind before. In the world I grew up in, death is common. It’s easy to lose someone close to you from death, and it’s equally as easy for someone close to you to cause the death of another. I’ve known this since I was four and lost the first person close to me. Dale, my bodyguard since birth.
We weren’t close, me being a child and him being an adult and big enough that, at the time, I believed he was part giant. However, I can remember crying when my father sat me down and told me Dale was never coming back. What made it worse was when I’d overheard my father and mother talking about how he died in a conversation they thought was private. He’d had every one of his fingers broken off, then he’d been shot simply because he worked for my father and my father had pissed some drug dealers off.
Right now, I am actually living it—the possibility that I could get shot right here—and it makes the reality my father has tried to protect me from all these years painfully real. It makes me regret ditching my bodyguards this morning, makes me regret a lot of things.
Frankie watches with delight as I struggle to get to my feet and gain my balance. “Lolita, it’s so nice to see you again,” he says with a stupid smirk on his face. “You’re looking as beautiful as ever.” His gaze sweeps me in, lingering on the section of my shirt that’s torn—God knows how it got that way. “All grown up, I see.”
“Don’t stand there and chat like we’re good friends,” I say as I clutch my throbbing head. “I don’t even know you other than you’re an
asshole who likes to try and get my father into trouble.” And who grinned and winked at me when my mother died.
He cocks his head to the side, his forehead wrinkling as he assesses me. “Oh, how I love feisty woman.” He pauses, stepping toward me with his hands at his sides as if his fingers itch to take out the guns. “And you’re wrong about the friends part. We just haven’t seen each other in awhile.”
I roll my eyes. “The only times I’ve,” I make air quotes, “’seen you’ are when you were either getting your ass kicked by my father for being a rat, and of course, the time you came over to my house and my mother…” Why can’t I just say it aloud? Confront him. Just spit it out, Lola!