I slip them off the hook and clutch them in my hand, shivering as I venture outside. Winter in Belle Argo would probably have someone from up north thinking it’s perfectly pleasant, but I’ve never liked the cold. Growing up in Tallahassee, we got snow only a few times in my entire childhood.
I don’t think there’s ever been snow in Belle Argo. Honestly, I wish I got to see it more. Is there a way to see snow without being cold?
The grass here is getting overgrown, which is a stupid thing to care about right now. Except maybe it’s better than the alternative. That someone wants me dead. That the person hired to do it also feels like my best chance at survival.
How did my life come to this? Not too long ago, I had a plan. A path. A family.
Now I’m alone with nobody but a bearded dragon and a mercurial killer. Oh, and a pimp. I could probably call Brennan. But at what cost?
“Jesus, this is really bad.” A splash out in the lake is my only answer. Fuck, there are a ton of alligators out there.
They’d probably leave a guy my size alone. Doesn’t stop me from slowing my steps, proceeding cautiously lest one of them get riled up or overly confident.
A tour of the backyard doesn’t turn up much. A stone-paved patio with a couple of deck chairs and a heavy table that’s seen better days. A large storage shed. No cars or golf carts. Though the nearest house appears to have… Is that… Did they turn an old school bus into a pontoon boat?
“Probably built by a Florida Man,” I mumble to nobody in particular.
One key in my hand turns out to unlock the shed door. Inside, I find a rickety-looking fishing boat, a jet ski, and the worst smell I’ve ever encountered. Something coppery and musty that has me tugging my shirt up over my nose. Something I’m trying to tell myself isnota mixture of dried blood and mold. There’s a small solar powered light by the door, but given the time of night, it’s about out of juice. Which is fine. Better I don’t look around too much.
“This place is creepy as fuck,” I murmur. The packed dirt under my feet seems suspiciously dark. A shiver runs through me when I think of what Brennan might have done to people in here.
I’ve heard enough to know my pimp is probably involved in more shady dealings than simply renting out people like me. The less I know about the rest of it, the better. God forbid he decides to have me shoved off his dock.
Nothing in here I might use to get away. No way I’m getting in that lake.
After I switch off the light and lock the door, I make a slow trek across the grass. Once I get back inside, I feel like I need to decide what to do next. Still don’t have any kind of clue.
Or maybe I just don’t like the answer I’ve come up with. The more I think about it, the more my only viable options are to run or trust Milo. Neither feels safe or sane. My body keeps screaming to stay with Milo. Is that because deep down I know I can trust him, or am I letting my judgment get clouded by how I feel when we fuck?
The decision’s taken out of my hands when I enter the cabin.
“There you are.”
Air rushes out of me, and without meaning to, I flinch. “When did you get back?”
He raises his eyebrows. “A couple of minutes ago. I thought maybe you’d run.”
I clutch the keys in my hand. Even though I came up with nothing, I’m reluctant to let them go.
With a heavy heart, I slide the keyring back onto the hook by the door. “I’ll be honest; I thought about it.”
“I would find it surprising if you hadn’t.” He plunks a couple of paper bags down on the small table in the open kitchen. “What changed your mind?”
“Aside from the fact that I couldn’t think of a safe way to do it so you wouldn’t be able to find me?” A deep breath tells me at least one of those bags has food, and my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten in a while.
Milo nods toward the key hook. “Looks like a key for a jet ski.”
I take a breath. “I’ve never ridden one. And…you know. Gators.”
“Well.” He clears his throat and drops a duffel bag as well. “Probably best. You’re right. I’d have had to track you down again, and neither of us would’ve been happy.”
“Because you might still have to kill me.”
It’s not a question, and he doesn’t answer. Not really.
“Here.” Another throat clear. “I brought food.”
In spite of the thick tension in the air, I raise one eyebrow. “Did you make it yourself?”
