A sleepless night. That’s what I get after Layla leaves my house. I can’t stop replaying her words, trying to understand why her parents don’t treat her like the light of their lives.
She sure as fuck is mine already.
It’s painful to imagine the little girl with big gray eyes who was denied affection by her parents. What kind of monster doesn’t hug their child?
I knew Layla before she entered Delta on Friday, but twelve years have passed since the last time I saw her. She’s hardly the child I remember. A smile plays on my lips when I recall the good old times. I spent most of my time at Frank’s house during the first six months of my career as a mafia man. Layla was a few months away from her seventh birthday at the time and the biggest pain in my ass.
Once. Only once had I asked her what she was up to while she sat at the kitchen table, drawing. From then on, she clung to me whenever I entered the house. Luckily, she never enjoyed playing with toys. As a sixteen-year-old fucker I wouldn’t have been keen on dressing up Barbies with her, but I didn’t have to.
Layla loved crayons, paints, and everything she could mess up my clothes with. I left their house with playdough stuck to my jeans more than I could count.
The one thing that hadn’t changed over the years is Layla’s eyes. Large, steel-gray irises watched me with admiration back then and now watch me with curiosity. I used to think she was simply taking advantage of my weakness and inability to say no when she pleaded quietly, almost begging me to look at what she had drawn the day before. Like any other kid, she wanted someone to play with.
Now, I wonder if she craved attention back then as she does now. And how much does she need it now, exactly?
The question kept me awake most of the night. I’m not an emotional man. The few women I dated in my early twenties complained about my lack of attention outside the bedroom. Things are different with Layla, though. I hold her hand and touch her whenever she’s within my reach. I kissed her in the middle of the road and kissed her forehead more than once—something I’d never done before. My mother once told me that a man who kisses a girl’s head cares about her deeply. I’d forgotten all about it until the first time my lips touched Layla’s head.
Two evenings.
Three kisses…
I’m way over my fucking head with this girl.
But in a way, I’m put off by her desperate need for attention. I can’t imagine dealing with her monopolizing my time. I also can’t imagine dealing with her unsatisfied craving for adoration. There’s no way I can or even want to live up to her expectations.
I know me. If she tries to cling to me all day, it’ll start pissing me off real soon. There’s something undeniable forming between us, sure, but it’s fresh and based mostly on hormones. We just fucking met, but my mind is preoccupied with the petite cutie non-stop.
Another reason behind the sleepless night is my newfound ability to trust at the snap of my fingers. I didn’t question Layla’s appearance in my life. At least not how I should have. Not how I question everything else. It crossed my mind that our relationship might be built on ill intentions, but I pushed the idea aside before it sprouted roots.
Layla wasn’t trying to seduce me; she wasn’t even trying to act friendly. If anything, she tried to push me away. On the other hand, her attitude is what intrigues me most.
A battle raged in my head all night. Despite not reaching any conclusions, I text her the moment I wake up, then check my phone every ten seconds like an infatuated teenager. Half an hour goes by while I wait for a reply, to no avail. When I try calling, it goes straight to voice mail.
Frank got his way.
Either he brainwashed her or pulled out the big guns, reverting to sabotage. Relief washes over me like a cleansing shower, relaxing my muscles and silencing the infuriating train of thoughts—the problem solved itself. There’s no longer any need to debate whether Layla’s worth the trouble.
Rejection doesn’t feel good, but it is a good thing.
At least, that’s how I choose to think of it for the first half an hour or so until the initial relief evaporates like rain puddles on a hot summer day. My mood deteriorates with every hour of her silence. I drive around the city, busying my mind with anything other than Layla, but nothing works. She’s dancing at the back of my mind, smiling adorable smiles, and kissing me with an aroused kind of urgency.
And then comes another sleepless night. At least I made up my mind. I wake up, determined to find out why she’s ignoring me. If it’s Frank’s doing, then maybe it’s fixable, but if she made the decision, I can forget about her. Given how quickly she got me to where I am—losing my fucking mind—forgetting may be the safer choice.
After a quick shower, I call Spades, ignoring the ungodly hour: six a.m.
“Why the hell are you up?” he mumbles.
“I need to know when Layla starts classes. Call everyone who might know.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to ask her?”
“Call me back by eight. You better have an answer.”
“Okay, okay.” The bed creaks on his side of the line. “I’ll call you when I find out.”
He cuts the call, and I dial another number. This time it’s Rookie. His girlfriend, Jane, studies at the same college as Layla. After dragging two of my men out of bed, I call the rest too. What a good fucking idea that was. Neither Spades nor Rookie comes back with an answer.
Luca’s the only one who rose to my expectations within half an hour of receiving the order. “She starts at ten.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve got my ways. She’s usually there early. Burly’s with her at all times now. She drives a blue BMW M1.”
She got the car on Saturday, but he already knows what make and model. Looks like he has a spy up North he didn’t mention. I call Rookie again, so he’ll pick me up at nine, then drive to the nearby cafe for my morning caffeine fix.
At half nine, we park in the college parking lot. Time ticks by, but Layla’s car is nowhere to be seen. I light one cigarette after another, losing my patience at ten o’clock sharp. Either she slipped by me unnoticed or decided to skip classes today.
Luca calls when I’m about to do the same. “Boss, Layla’s in the dance studio on Michigan Avenue. She just walked in.”
How the hell does he know that?
“Thanks,” I say, looking at Rookie while shoving my cell back in my jacket pocket. “Dance studio on Michigan Avenue.”
He starts the engine, pulling out of the parking space. It takes us eight minutes to arrive at the destination and I enter the building with Rookie following suit. “One Way Or Another” resonates throughout the small reception area, sending a pleasant chill down my spine. I lean over the large desk, towering above a young girl wearing rimless glasses.
She glances up from a stack of papers on her desk. “Good morning. Would you like to sign up for dance classes? Modern Jazz, maybe?”
“Boss?” Rookie says behind me.
I shush him, raising my hand, focused on the snarky receptionist. “I’m looking for Layla Harston.”
“Oh… um, follow the corridor down, but—”
“Boss,” Rookie clips again. I turn to find him at the mouth of the corridor. “Burly’s here.”
“Exactly.” The receptionist folds her arms over the busty chest. “Layla came in with a bodyguard.”
I didn’t expect anything else. To be perfectly fucking honest, I’m glad she has security even if the idiot Frank chose is not fully equipped to take care of my star. I’m calmer knowing someone’s always watching over her. The music grows louder as we enter the long corridor.
I hope Layla’s not pole dancing.
Burly stands at the far end, but I stop once we reach a glass section of the wall.
Dance floor.
Mirrors.
Layla.
She looks like an angel in a white, loose dress. Closed in her own bubble, unavailable to the outside world, she glides across the dance floor, lighter than a feather, as if gravity doesn’t apply to her. Together with a tall, blonde guy, they dance something that resembles ballet, but it’s not standard ballet. It’s a game of seduction. Their movements; her movements ooze sexuality. He touches her, pulls her in, and pushes her away in a slow, flawless rhythm; a couple of lovers fighting for dominance. I let out all the air from my lungs. She’s captivating. Even though her dance partner is close, even though he’s touching her, I hope the song will never end. I could stay here for fucking ever, watching her dance. I like how my chest tightens every time she jumps, so graceful it’s almost like she’s flying for a second before he catches her with undeniable ease.
“You’re not getting in there, Carrow,” Burly says, his tone hinting unease, but he takes a broad, artificially confident stance. “You’re supposed to stay away from Layla.”
“Is that right?” I move closer, every step calculated, muscles in my back harder than stone. “Try and stop me.”
“I’ve got orders to shoot.” He reaches behind him, feeling the belt of his trousers to retrieve his gun.
Rookie’s faster. He pulls out his pistol with a laid-back, almost bored expression. He’s the youngest one in my main entourage, just three years Layla’s senior, but he’s the best driver I’ve ever had. I hired him a few years back when I attended an illegal race organized by one of our many clients. He wasn’t just way ahead of the competition, winning the race by a landslide, but he was also completely relaxed. No signs of stress on his face. He’s a natural.
“I’ll give you a valuable piece of advice, so try and keep up,” he says. “Don’t ever stand between him,” he nods in my direction, “and anything he wants.”
Burly stumbles back a few steps, pressing his back against the door leading to the dance room.
Determination worth applause.
Stupidity worth pity.
I glance back at Layla when the song’s about to end. She takes to the air, wrapping her arms and legs around her partner, and hides her face in his neck. A jab of envy pokes me right in the gut. He lets her go only to catch her thigh and arm, stopping her pretty face mere inches off the floor as the room falls silent. He lays her down, then offers a hand, helping her up. That’s when she sees me.
Her cheeks blush, and her body freezes in surprise. It takes one heartbeat before she regains her composure, gesturing to the door Burly protects with his life. I stand there, completely frozen, waiting for my legs to start working again. Layla’s dance partner drapes a small towel over her neck and hands her a water bottle.
Using a second of my inattention, Burly takes a chance at getting to Layla before me. He stops at the sound of safety being flipped on a gun.
My gun.
“You think you can take her away from me?” I hiss, aiming at the back of his head. “Don’t fucking touch her, or I’ll skin you alive.”
Two sleepless nights and the long hours spent thinking about Layla kicked my possessiveness up a notch. There’s no way I’ll let him anywhere near her right now. I’ll kill him, risking the silent war between Frank and me turning into something much more sinister.
Burly steps aside, resting against the wall, hands in the air and the gun pointed at the ceiling.
Layla’s partner exits the room when I enter. I cross the dance floor to where she stands, cheeks heated, breathing on the quick side. My hands disappear in her hair, and I close the distance that parted our lips too long. She slips her tongue in my mouth with a quiet sigh, clasping her hands over my nape. Warmth radiates off her when our mouths work in sync, mimicking the rhythm of their dance.
“Good morning to you too,” she says, stepping away. “How did you find me here?”
“There’s no place in this city where you can hide from me, Star. Your phone’s switched off.”
She takes another step back, so I can’t reach her. The desperate need to feel connected to another person, satisfied by my touch, means she doesn’t trust her reason when I’m close. “You should stop stalking me, Dante.”
The last thing I expect after she just fucking kissed me like there’ll be no tomorrow is rejection. I push away the surprise, watching the tone of my voice. “I want you to trust your gut, not listen to your father.”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“No. You’re not. You’re doing what Frank wants.”
She hugs her frail frame, lifting her head in a fake display of courage. “And I should do what you want? I don’t trust either of you, but if I take someone’s word, it won’t be yours.” She’s not shouting. She’s calm, and that scares me most because I know she means every word. “You have too many reasons to hurt me. Frank has none.”
In theory, it’s true. Mercy was a foreign concept to me until recently. I used all means available to get my way, but Layla’s an exception. She’s untouchable. Off-limits. Swapping her for North would take less than half an hour. It would eliminate Frank from the picture without killing him. The flaw in the otherwise perfect plan is that there’s no way I’d use Layla as bait. I’m not sure what I want from her, but I crave her like a starving man craves food. Still, imagining our relationship with her constant need for closeness is beyond my capability.
“You should do what you feel is right. It’s not quantum physics, Star. You either want me, or you don’t.”
She stands there, silent, eyes on me but not seeing me at all. My hands grow damp for the first time in years.
“It was the best weekend of my life…” She inhales deeply, biting her lip, “…and we’ll leave it at that.”
Thirty seconds ago, I wasn’t sure what I wanted from her. Now I only want her.
My jaw ticks while I fight paranoia.
She crosses her arms over her chest, the feistiness acting as a defense mechanism. “I don’t trust you. I want to, but I have no reason to. I don’t believe you could be interested in me. Not so fast. You don’t even know me.”
I expected many things, but this? This is fucking bullshit. What does time have to do with any of this? Since when does attraction have a set timeline? Why do people think ‘too soon’? Why? Because it’s not socially acceptable? Because people won’t approve?
Fuck people.
Fuck caution and scavenger hunts.
Fuck the three-date rule.
Five minutes talking to Layla, and I wanted us to talk for hours. One kiss and I wanted to kiss her every day. One missed call, and she’s all I can think about. I want her. I want to know what she likes, what makes her smile, and what makes her frown. I want to find out if there’s a best before date on the intense attraction. Who cares that we met three days ago? If I haven’t gotten bored yet… she’s extraordinary.
“Your self-esteem is too low. I know you well enough to have a dozen reasons why I want you close.”
Layla moves her weight from one foot to another, toying with her bracelets. “One of those reasons might be my father.”
“No.” I curl my fingers under her chin, tipping her head so she’ll look at me. Her eyes swim with uncertainty laced with sadness that bothers me more than I care to admit. I dip my head, stealing a short, sweet kiss. “Baby, I wasn’t looking for you. You came over to Delta.”
Her face tells me everything I don’t want to know—my words won’t change anything. Frank brainwashed her like the pro he is. The manipulative bastard stops at nothing. He knows Layla, so he knows exactly where to push for the desired result.
And even though she’s strong, she’s fragile.
“I don’t trust you,” she utters, her voice small, defeated. “Don’t make this harder than it is.”
There’s no changing her mind. At least she answered the question that kept me awake for two nights. She doesn’t need attention as much as I thought she did.
Otherwise, Frank’s arguments would’ve hit a wall.
And now I can’t care less if she wants to be kissed and hugged all the time. I want to do it but can’t because she won’t give me a chance. She won’t take the risk.
Human nature is fucking ridiculous.
When she was mine to take, I hesitated… and that hesitation possibly cost me the only thing I ever wanted this badly.
