Page 30 of The Dearly Departed

“How much are you getting paid around here?” he asked, raising his eyes back to mine.

So, this was about money.

It usually is.

“You’re not getting a penny from me.”

He frowned and gave his head the slightest shake. “I’m not asking for your money, boy. I’m asking how much you make.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking you to come work for me.”

“Work for you?” I barked an incredulous laugh. “You mean like all the other times I’ve worked for you? Where I pull your weight, do your dirty work, and you run away with all the cash? No, I don’t think so.”

But he was shaking his head, holding my gaze.

“Real work. Real money.” He offered a little shrug then and added, “Dirty, sure, but nothing you can’t handle.”

I stood my ground, not speaking, and continued to hold the knife to his throat as I considered what he was saying.

My father was one of the least trustworthy people I’d ever had the displeasure of knowing. He took advantage until there was nothing left to take, and then he disappeared to become a ghost until you had something to give again. I understood that was the reason he never wanted to take Isaac and me in after our mother had died. What the hell could we offer him then, as a baby and a toddler, other than a couple of extra mouths to feed when he could barely manage to find food for himself? But the moment we’d been old enough to boss around, there he was, and he hadn’t stopped.

Every bit of logic in my head told me to kick his ass to the curb, to give him a taste of his own medicine. But, like him, the promise of money was as tempting to me as a quick hit was to an addict.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? It’s a good opportunity, the situation I’ve found myself in. It’ll take a little time, but—"

I held up a hand and demanded through a tight jaw, "Shut up."

I needed to think about this. I needed to—

No … no! It was a terrible idea. Getting tangled in any of his business was a terrible idea. Yet …

The door flew open behind me.

"Bram, are you in—" Shawn entered the room, his words dying in his throat at the sight of me. My father. He swallowed audibly. "Leonard is looking for you," he said, his tone flat and unfeeling.

Without lowering the knife from my father's throat, without looking over my shoulder at my best friend, I nodded. "Tell him I'm finishing up in here.”

"He's pretty pissed."

My eyes met my father's as I said, "I bet he is."

Then I directed the blade toward the door and, without taking my hardened glare off the weaselly man in front of me, ordered, "Get out."

"You never answered my proposal."

"That's all the answer you're getting," I said, deciding to stand my ground despite the temptation of trouble dangling right in front of me. "Now, leave."

“Are you sure?” he asked, seeking my eyes and holding my gaze. “I don’t think you fully understand what I’m offering here. If you’ll just let me—”

“Go!”

He feigned disappointment and forced a sigh as he shrugged. "Oh well. Your loss." He smoothed his hands over his front as his gaze landed on Shawn, still standing behind me in the doorway. "How about you, Shawny boy? You want to make a lot of money?”

"Wha—" Shawn began to speak before I cut him off and barked, "Out!"

There had been a point in my life when I would’ve cowered under the eyes of my slimy, strung-out father. I would’ve felt the threat within those eyes, the sting of his backhanded swing. But I was bigger now, and though I lacked the weight of muscle, I still knew I would beat him in a fight. And so did he, apparently, as he held both hands up in condescending surrender and headed toward the door with a cool swagger.