Jessica Sorensen: Sins & Secrets

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 friend’s part. We just haven’t seen each other in a while.”

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!

He continues to grin, but there’s darkness in his eyes. I’ve struck a nerve. “Just as sassy as your mother.” He pauses again, walking so close to me I can see the scar on his forehead that runs across his hairline. Rumor has it, when Frankie was younger, his father went bat-shit crazy and cut him there. “I’m wondering what other talents of your mother’s you have.” As he stops just short of me, the way he leers at me makes me squirm in my skin. “Maybe we should find out.”

I want to clock him in the face—and probably would, too—but my hands are still bound. So, instead, I say, “Don’t fucking talk about my mother. Ever, ” I growl. “ You didn’t know her, so don’t pretend you did.”

That makes him laugh. “Everyone knew Lalana, Lola. Most men better than you, probably.”

I hate the way he annunciates men. I’m about to snap at him, tear open the wound and let myself bleed out, just to get in a few good lines and threats, however the metal door to my right swings open and in walks Layton.

I give him the coldest glare I can muster, more enraged than I ever have been at him before. This isn’t the Layton I used to know; his eyes are colder, his shoulders carrying more weight, probably from the lives he’s taken in the name of his job. He used to be so caring, so protective.

There was one time when we were about fifteen and I’d beaten the shit out of Manny Depler for grabbing my ass while I was heading to class. Layton took the fall for it when the Delper clan had showed up for payback. They beat him up pretty good; broken arm, bloody nose, which still has a tiny kink in it now. When I’d asked Layton why he had taken the fall, he’d simply said, “ Because I care more about you than I do myself. I’d rather get hurt than see you get hurt .”

But seeing him here, his expression hard as tone, I decide things have dramatically changed.

“Perfect timing, Layton,” Frankie says. “Lolita and I were just finished getting reacquainted.”

“It’s Lola,” I say coldly as my gaze cuts to Frankie. “No one’s allowed to call me Lolita unless I give them permission.”

Frankie’s eyelids lower as he aims me a look of warning. “Maybe I was wrong. You seem more like your father with that mouth of yours—never knowing when to shut the fuck up.” He slowly draws one of his pistols out, not aiming at me, but carrying it to his side with his finger hovering on the trigger. “I could make you shut up, make it so you can never speak again.”

I should be more afraid than I am—maybe it’s shock, maybe it’s madness—but for some reason, I feel calm.

But Layton is nervous, tensing as he stops to the side of me. “Easy, Frankie. There’s no use shooting her just yet when she hasn’t done what you need her to do.”

Frankie rubs his jawline that’s covered in grey whiskers. “Good point.” He tucks the gun back into the holster, then he paces the floor. “Where to start. Where to start.” He wavers, amusedly.

“Just tell me why am I here,” I demand.

Layton grazes his finger along the inside of my wrist, though instead of welcoming his touch, I move my arm away. He frowns but doesn’t utter a word.

Frankie’s smile broadens as he continues to pace the floor, pointing his finger at me. “That’s a very good question.”

“It wasn’t a quest—” I start to say, but Layton snatches ahold of my wrist, rather roughly, and then gives me a pleading, pressing glance.

Please be careful, he mouths.

I hate admitting it, yet he’s right. No matter how bad I want to put Frankie in his place, now is not the time. I just hope I get another time—another chance to make him pay for everything.

I bite down on my tongue and stay quiet as Frankie strolls toward the television and turns it on. He doesn’t say a word; he simply steps back and lets me watch the screen. It’s a video of my father chained to a chair, his shoulders slumped, blood dripping down his head and pooling around his feet. I want to cry out as a hefty man with arms the size of my legs steps up to my father and starts beating him with a metal pole, slamming it against him repeatedly, causing more blood to stream onto the floor. The cracking sounds make me sick, but what’s worse is the silence of my father, as if he’s been so beaten he can’t even muster up a single noise.

“That’s enough,” I say after about five minutes of watching the screen in horror. Layton is still holding onto my arm, which is good in a way because, otherwise, I may have buckled to the floor. Between the sedative and watching my father bloody and battered, I’m feeling a little lightheaded.

Frankie lets the video play for a minute more just to torture me then turns the television off and faces me. “You’re going to do a hit on Anthony Defontelles in exchange for your father’s freedom and life.” He says it as if it’s the simplest thing to do, as if I’m a natural-born killer.

“No way.” I shake my head as I scan the warehouse for an easy exit, but unfortunately, there are guards everywhere. Layton’s fingertips dig into my arms, as if sensing I’m going to try to run for it. “I’m not a hit man, nor will I ever do anything for you.”