“Thanks.”
A last-minute attack of conscience has me pulling out my money clip and dropping the contents on the dresser by the television. An apology to whichever poor sucker is going to be traumatized when they come in here to clean.
“Oh, and, Milo?”
I stop in the middle of turning the doorknob with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “What?”
“Don’t fucking make me regret helping you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Then I slip out, keeping my head down to avoid any cameras.
3
Notes:
Sorry this chapter is late. I developed Heated Rivalry psychosis. There’s no cure.
Rowan
When my shitty apartment building comes into view, the relief makes my shoulders sag and my eyes sting. Not wanting anybody to see me all cut up and bloody, I’d slipped out the back entrance of the hotel and avoided public transport. Walking all the way from the beach in dress shoes though? Even my blisters have blisters.
Never noticed before, but the street I live on is unnervingly dark. The lack of streetlamps has me casting nervous glances at all the shadows, especially after a stranger with a gun waltzed right into my expensive hotel room. My building has less security than an upscale beach hotel. And by less, I mean none.
It’s a sad-looking pile of cinder blocks on the East End, where some of the other escorts told me I’d be able to lie low until I can save up enough to get farther north. The landlord takes rent month to month, and he takes it in cash. If you look at the building from a certain angle during the day, I’d swear it leans a little.
After what happened tonight, I’m going to have to call it. Time to buy a bus ticket and disappear. Might need a day or two to get things together, make sure the bleeding’s stopped and I’m bandaged up well enough to not draw attention. I’m a big guy with red hair. As it is, I stand out. Bleeding on innocent bus passengers will only make things wor—
“You know what’s super fucking dumb? Coming back to the place you live when people are looking for you.”
“Fuck.” I’ve only heard that voice once, but once was all I needed. Now it’s seared into my brain.
When I turn around, I’m not surprised to find the guy from the hotel staring at me with his full lips twisted into a cruel smile. Once again, he’s aiming a gun at me.
“You here to kill me?” I’m oddly calm, considering. My heart thumps hard but steady, a sort of slow-motion glug-glug-glug that echoes in my ears. I’m almost outside of my body, watching things play out, telling myself to stop being an idiot and just run. But the me I’m looking at somehow believes this entire thing is a misunderstanding and that a conversation can surely clear up everything. Unfortunately, that’s also the me that’s in charge of my tongue.
“Where the hell else was I going to go?”
It did occur to me, on the long trek from the Premiere hotel, that I should’ve called my pimp. Or sent an SOS to the group chat I’m in with the other male escorts in town. Maybe someone could’ve helped. But what was I supposed to say? My client died on top of me? Someone wants me dead? Honestly, it seemed better not to have anyone else involved.
Now that I’m face-to-face with this guy again, I’m having second thoughts. Too fucking late, but, hey.
He holds out a hand. “I’m Milo, by the way. We didn’t get properly introduced.”
“Is there a proper way to introduce yourself to someone you’re here to kill?” I stare at his hand, but I don’t take it.
A sheepish look takes over his face, and he drops the gun to his side. But he’s still holding it, and something tells me that if I tried to run again, he’s not exactly slow. I really should have called someone. Or just gotten the hell out of town.
But I had to come back. Some things can’t simply be left behind.
“How the fuck did you even find me?” I’m whipping my head around as if some answers are going to step out of the shadows. Or, I don’t know, another hit man.
Is Belle Argo, Florida crawling with killers and I had no idea?
Asshole has the audacity to laugh. “You’ve been leaking blood all over town. The bigger question is how more people didn’t find you.”
“I’m not—” I glance down to check. “I’m not leaking blood.” I can’t figure this guy out. One second he’s offering me a piece of fruit, the next he’s all Judgy McJudgerson.
