Sins & Secrets Page 10

  “Well, Reagan never told me this, nor did I get any extra money to let some fucking pervert live out his rape fantasy.” With the gun still out, I move off the bed and reach for my dress. Tenner starts to move for me again, but I shove the gun against his chest. “You touch me and you’re fucking dead.”

  He backs away, looking angry, yet terrified at the same time. “Stupid cunt.”

  I tell him to sit down on the bed then I hurry and get dressed, keeping the gun pointed at him, getting more and more irritated every second. I should just leave but the bad part of me seeks revenge, wants to teach him a lesson, so instead I move toward him. “Hand me your wallet.”

  He shakes his head. “No way. I’m not getting ripped off more.”

  Rolling my eyes, I bend down and pick up his pants, searching his pockets until I find his wallet. I open it up and find a picture of his family. No shocker there.

  “A wife and two kids, huh?” I ask, taking a thin stack of tens and twenties out of his wallet and tucking them into my bra.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re going to pay for this you bitch.”

  “No, I’m not,” I start to say, but then he’s springing from the bed and running at me. I move to shoot but choke up. The image of the tattooed guy I killed to years ago flashing through my head.

  Kill him.

  Protect yourself.

  I can’t.

  I start to run for the door, but he tackles me from behind and wrestles the gun from my hand. I open my mouth and scream, hating that that’s what he wants, that it’s probably turning him on. But I’m clocked over the head with the handle of the gun.

  I see spots.

  Hear Tenner laugh.

  I fight to stay conscious, crawling across the floor toward the door, digging my fingernails into the carpet. But I start to slip away from reality. The last thing I see is the door swing open and a pair of boots appear followed by the sound of a voice I swear I’ve heard before.

  Then I black out.

  Chapter 5

  Lola

  When I come back to consciousness, I’m still in the hotel room only I’m on the bed, lying on my side, a wet washcloth on my forehead. I slowly sit up, the room spinning, my head throbbing, feeling like I’m about to vomit. There’s a lamp on but other than that the room seems untouched. I even seem untouched, fully dressed, the gun tucked back in its spot beneath my boot, and I’m not aching anywhere between my legs. The only thing that lets me know I didn’t dream the attack is the bump on my head with a bit of blood caked in my hair, the red marks on my wrists where he gripped me roughly, and the pain erupting through my body.

  Where’s Tenner? There’s not a signal sign that he was here, which makes me wonder if he ran or if boots did this to him. I don’t waste time thinking about it though, since the last thing I want to do is be here in case he comes back from wherever the hell he went. I get up and hurry out of the room, taking the stairway out to avoid running into people, trying to put together what happened. Someone came into the room, but who? Who the hell could possibly know what was going on? Were they there to save me? Be part of the situation? I doubt it.

  It’s a cold night, the night sky clear enough that I can see the starts shining bright. As I make my way across the parking lot toward the corner where I can hopefully find a taxi, I wrap my arms around myself, trying to get myself to stop shivering. But as I move my arm around, I notice there’s something written on the palm of my hand in what looks like my red lipstick

  “Don’t trust anyone.” I look around the area and over my shoulder, with the strangest feeling that I’m being watched. I’d seen boots before I passed out. Who did they belong too? And did they write this on my hand—did they write me the notes too?

  Confused beyond imaginable, I find a cab and then dial Nyjah’s private number once I’m in the backseat and the driver is heading toward my apartment.

  He answers after three rings. “Hey, I was just thinking about you. Look, I know things got a little intense this afternoon and I just wanted to say I’m sorry and that hopefully you’ll forgive me.”

  “Am I also supposed to forgive you for sending me on a date with a sick pervert who likes to rape women.” I don’t mean to sound so bitter, but what if Nyjah knew what Reagan was doing.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He sounds shocked and kind offended. “What happened? And where are you?”

  “In the back of a cab.” I slump back in the seat, glancing up at the cab driver who seems to be engulfed in driving. “Tell me you didn’t know about it. Tell me you had no idea your father set this all up.”

  “Didn’t know what exactly? Lola, I’m going to need more to go on here.”

  “That guy you sent me with. Tenner. He tried to rape me tonight and ended up knocking me unconscious.” I bite down on my tongue as emotions start to erupt through me. I won’t go there. Won’t feel the fear. “Said Reagan had something do to with it—that he told him it was okay. He even paid extra for it.”

  He lets out a sequences of curses than I hear what sounds like glass shattering. “God dammit, I’m going to kill him for doing this.”

  “You can’t kill your father,” I say dryly, pressing my hand to my hand as it starts to pound. “It’d be unethical.”

  “Yeah well he’d deserve it.”

  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t deserve the pain and guilt that came after.”

  There’s a pause and I swear I just gave him a time machine that lets him see straight into my past. “Okay, so I won’t kill him,” he says. “But I can beat the shit out of him to the point that he’d be close dead.” Silences stretches between us and I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to instigate violence—I’ve had enough of that in my life.

  Finally, he releases a stressed breath. “Are you headed home now?”

  I glance out the window at the street sign. “Yeah, I’m only a few blocks away.”

  “I can come over if you want,” he says. “And check on you. I need to see if you’re okay.”

  I shake my head. “No, don’t do that. I’m fine. Just please find out if Reagan plans on sending me creepers like this every night. I might have to find a new job.”

  “I’ve been telling you that since the day you walked into the Inn just over a month ago,” he tells me. “You shouldn’t be working at a place like this. It’s not in you.”

  It was in my mother. “How come you don’t say that to all the women who work there?” I ask. “You encourage most of them to keep going.”

  “Because they’re different from you.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re just… just… Look, I’ll talk to Reagan and see what’s going on, but like I’ve been saying, you might want to consider taking that secretary job. It’s so much safer for you, Lola. More than you even realize.”

  There’s an underlying meaning to his tone and I wonder just what he knows about his father and his business. “I’m fine. Just let me know what you find out.”

  A few minutes later I get out of the taxi and go into my apartment, double-checking that all the doors are locked—a habit I picked up when I was younger. Then I immediately undressed and take a shower, scrubbing my skin until it’s raw, until I no longer feel the day on me anymore. I put a robe on, then open my closet, move a few boxes, and put the gun away in a trunk that holds my other weapons—a smaller gun, a few knives, and a tranquilizer if needed. I’m always prepared for when the Dellefontes catch up with me, in case I have to fight for my life. But after tonight, I’m wondering if I’ll be able to do it. I froze up again. God, I don’t even want to think about what would have happened to me if boots hadn’t shown up.

  After my weapons are put away, I go over to the bed and take out the letter, hoping it’ll distract me for a little while from this shitty day. I’ve probably read the thing a thousand times since I found it over two years ago. It was dated six years before that, the night before she died, addressed to an Everson Milantes.

 
Dear Everson,

  I know it’s been over a decade and a half since we spoke to each other again and I know you said not to contact you, all things considering, but I really need to talk to you.

  I’m not even sure how to start. However I put this it may break hearts and ruin lives, but it could also free lives, like my daughter’s. Or should I say our daughter’s. There. I wrote it. It’s out. And let me tell you, she’s beautiful, feisty, strong—way stronger than anyone I’ve ever met… the things she’s been through… I can’t even imagine.

  God, I know you’re probably reading this and thinking how? How could I not tell you until now when she’s all grown up? How could I keep this not only from you, but from her? Well, at first it was because I wasn’t sure if she was yours. There was a time when you both sort of crossed over, which I’m so sorry for. But if I’m being honest with myself a lot of it had to do with that I was afraid. Afraid of living a life where I had to struggle for money. Afraid of her living one as well. Afraid of what Larenze would do. I thought I could protect her and myself keep everything a secret, but I was wrong. And I’m really starting to get worried that the wrong people will find out. You know as well as I do what the consequences for this will be for the both of us. Please, please tell me you’ll help her. You were such a kind man. Please tell me I didn’t break that with what I did to you by choosing Larenze.

  I really need your help Everson. There’s so much more to it, more than I can put into words. Larenze has his secrets as well and I’ve been looking into them. What I’m finding out makes me even more afraid. Not just for myself, but our daughter. I don’t want her following in those footsteps anymore, but I fear it’s too late—that she can’t go back from where she’s headed. So please, help.

  Yours,

  Lalana Anders Anelli

  The letter never made it to Everson, because my mother died the next day, another reason why I found her death such a mystery. Yes, it could be coincidental, but at the same time, what if the wrong person found out that I might not be an Anelli? Like my father? I’d love to be one of those people who couldn’t believe her father was capable of such a thing, but I’m not. I’ve heard of some of the things my father’s capable of. God-awful things that make even me afraid of him sometimes and apparently it did for my mother as well. She clearly didn’t want me following in his footsteps, but already thought I was, which hurts. Back when she wrote it, I didn’t think I was that bad of a person. Now of course it’s different, but she couldn’t possibly have known that, could she? Did she really think that poorly of me? She clearly thought that poorly of my father and I have to wonder, with as afraid as she sounded, could he have had something to do with her death?

  My thoughts slowly drift to what the guy on the corner told me earlier. About the woman hanging around The Dusky Inn who looked a lot like me. The last time I saw my mother was when she was in her coffin. Dead. She was dead. I saw her die. But what if she’s not?

  After analyzing my mother’s death and letter for way too long, I put it away, get up, and wander over to the window, staring out at the night. I live in an apartment complex in a quiet neighborhood that normally makes me feel safe. But tonight it feels different. Every shadow, every noise, every movement makes me jump. I’m not sure if it’s the random letters or if Tenner’s attack has gotten to me more than I’m allowing myself to feel. But it is a safe place. A small town in the middle of nowhere. The perfect set up. But if the did find out where I was living, I wouldn’t be too hard to track down.

  What if they’re out there watching me?

  Who are they?

  As I’m staring out the window, I notice a car parked on the curb just across the street. It’s black with tinted windows, nearly blending into the night, yet to me it stands out like sore thumb. All the mafia men that I grew up around have that type of car to keep a low profile. Could this be it? Could this be who’s been sending me notes? I need to find out where the plates are from. Hurrying over to my closet, I slip on a jacket and a pair of boots, then grab one of my smaller handguns so I won’t scare the shit out of my neighbors if I do cross paths with one of them. I go out the back door so if there is someone in the car, they won’t see me coming. I rush down the steps, keeping my back to the wall, my eyes focused on the field just out back. It’s flat and bare enough that I can see there’s nothing out there. Coast clear there, so I round the corner of the apartment and lower my gun to my side and cautiously cross the parking lot, staying in the shadows of the carports and cars as long as possible. I backtrack a little ways, the walk upward, so I approach the rear of the car. When I get close enough, I see that the plates aren’t from Massachusetts, but from here with a bright neon green sticker that says “Back off my Rear.” The sticker stands out on the nice car like a sore thumb and seems oddly out of place.

  It doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside so I move around and peer in the window. It’s clean and empty except for a few papers in the middle console and a bag on the passenger seat. I glance around from left to right, making sure that no one is around, then I open the door and search around. The receipts aren’t cause for suspicion, gas, food, the norm. I move onto the bag, which is strangely empty, but again nothing to raise a red flag. I open the glove box and find the rental car papers and nothing else. I don’t relax yet though, not until I check the trunk. The trunk is where all the bad stuff is kept. So I pop it open, climb out of the car, and round the back. There’s nothing there but a tire iron and jack and a pair of black stilettos—again odd, but nothing to be alarmed about.

  Shaking my head at myself, I close the trunk and turn to go back inside, but stop dead in my tracks as I’m about to cross the street. For a flicker of a second, I swear I see someone in the shadows of the parking lot watching me. Tall, with a hoodie pulled over their head, smoking a cigarette and wearing boots. Could it be boots? The boots who saved me?

  But when I blink, they’re gone. It happens so fast that it has to be my imagination. Or the bump on my head. Dammit, I need to find out who wrote the note before I go crazy. Or end up dead.

  Chapter 6

  Lola

  I don’t plan on going to work the next day, not after what happened with Tenner. I’m not planning on quitting or anything simply because I need the cash. Although, I’ll admit, I’m more shaken up than I’d like to be and I spend most of the morning trying to bury everything down where it belongs.

  But then I get a call from Reagan telling me I can either come in or not get the couple of grand owed to me for the prior two weeks work. He doesn’t give me time to argue, simply tells me this and hangs up on me. So I get my ass down to the Inn.

  I think about going to Nyjah first, but decide to face this head on. My problem. No one else needs to get involved.

  Reagan has this office upstairs that has rows of windows, but he’s chosen to board them up so that not a single drop of sunlight can sneak in. It’s always dark and musty in there and smells a little moldy. There’s this antique armoire in the corner that’s always locked with a chain and padlock. On the far back corner is a desk that’s always clutter in garbage and papers and when I walk in Reagan is sitting there reading a paper over. He has shoulder length hair, is always wearing a worn t-shirt, and is smoking a cigarette. He doesn’t look like Nyjah except for the eyes, only Reagan’s have more wrinkles around it and a harder, more unwelcoming.

  “I’m here,” I announce as I enter the office.

  I notice real quickly that he has a gun on the desk and am glad I brought mine. He glances up from a paper he was reading, eyes lazily drifting over me and making me feel naked, even though I’m wearing cutoffs and a ratty t-shirt. I’ve never liked Reagan, something about him rubbing me the wrong way every time I’m around him, but now it’s even worse, my spidey senses going crazy. “And so you are.” He motions for me to come in. “Have a seat, Lola.”

  “No thanks,” I decline with a shake of my head, my eyes drifting to his gun. “I think I’m good right here.”
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br />   He glances down at the gun then back up at me. “I always carry this on me—you know that.”

  “Yeah, but after what happened last night with Tenner, I don’t trust you anymore.” I lean against the doorframe and fold my arms. “Well, I shouldn’t say anymore since I’ve never trusted you to begin with.”

  “Watch it, Lola,” he warns, tossing the pen he’s holding onto the desk and then leans back in his seat. “After last night, you’re already walking on thin ice.”

  “You should have never told that creep I’d do what he wanted to do,” I say in a clipped tone. “You had no right.”

  He shrugs, overlapping his hands on his stomach. “I thought you were a tough girl—you always came across as one.” Another shrug and it takes a hell of a lot of energy not to march across the room and punch him in the face. “Guess I was wrong.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s not like that and you know it.”