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art part, not my body.

    As Layton tracks the group of guys from the corner of his eye, I can see the distaste in his expression. “They have some unique people around here,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “I honestly don’t get why the Defontelles want to own a club like this.”

    Vomit burns at the back of my throat at the mention of the name Defontelles and what I’m about to do to one of them.

    “Unique isn’t bad,” I tell him in an unsteady voice. “In fact, I prefer unique over ordinary, and who knows, maybe all those guys are really good people. They probably are… better than me.” I reach for my drink again; the gun feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds, crushing my thigh.

    It’s not like I’m a bad girl. I’m not that bad, though not a goody-goody, either. I have fun. I know how to party. I’ve dabbled in drugs maybe once or twice. I’ve gotten into some trouble, but nothing major. I’ve never been arrested, never killed anyone. However, what I’m about to Anthony Defontelles, even if he’s not necessarily good people, is wrong and will forever change me in a negative way.

    “Hey.” Layton reaches out and sweeps his fingertips across the back of my hand as my fingers wrap around my drink, his hard expression softening. For a second, he’s my Layton, not Frankie’s. “Just take deep breaths and calm down before someone notices how nervous you are.” He takes the glass from my hand and sets it down on the countertop.

    I notice I’m notably shaking, which isn’t good. The Defontelles have eyes everywhere. He’s right. I need to settle down now.

    “I know I need to relax, but it’s a hell of a lot difficult,” I draw a line up the side of my thigh, “when I have this thing strapped onto me.”

    There’s a twinkle in his eyes, a sign of life for the first time tonight. “It’s not the first time you’ve had a gun strapped to your leg.”

    “Yeah, but the last time wasn’t so I could…” I trail off, unable to say it aloud. “Maybe Frankie’s right. Perhaps I’m not an Anelli, considering I can’t even talk about…” I swallow hard, “killing aloud.”

    His lips part to speak, but then he presses them back together and observes me intently for a while, his head slanting to the side. “We’ve probably got like another half an hour to an hour before Anthony Defontelles shows up,” he finally says. “What can I do to help you relax?”

    It takes me a moment to answer, a moment to pull myself together. “Is that part of your job description?” I ask, devouring the rest of the scotch in one, large, searing gulp. “To keep me relaxed until the dirty work’s over?”

    “Yeah, but I’d do it anyway,” he replies with a hint of a ghost smile on his face, the one he used to wear all the time when we were younger. It makes me want to hug him, yet I know better; know that it’s just a glimpse of the past that accidentally slipped through.

    “Why? Things are different now. You work for my family’s enemy, so you no longer have to protect me.”

    He starts to say something, but I know what he’s going to say—that I don’t understand stuff. And he’s right. I don’t. But it doesn’t matter. Even if I understood his reasons for working for Frankie, I’m not sure I can forgive him for what’s about to happen tonight. I wonder, though, if I tried to flee, if he’d let me. Frankie has ordered him to kill me if I attempt to bail, and he’s agreed, however I wonder if, when it all came down to the deed, he could pull the trigger.

    “What’s wrong?” he asks with a hint of concern on his face.

    “It’s nothing. I was just thinking of ways I could possible get myself to calm down,” I lie. “That’s all.”

    He puts the drink down on the counter. “What can I do to help?”

    I shrug, eyes locked on his. “There are only three things that make me relax in tense situations.” I count down on my fingers. “Scotch, which isn’t helping at all