Dubious (Belle Argo Escorts #4)

Prologue

“It’s bad this time.” Troy’s voice shakes. He’s breathing in heavy pants through the phone. “He’s getting worse.” He sounds like he’s been running.

From his dad.

When the anniversary of Troy’s mom’s death rolls around, his father changes from a regular abusive dick into a fucking nightmare.

“Can you get out of there? I’ll come pick you up.” I drop my backpack on the bed.

My camping stuff is already in the car. My diabetes kit is in my backpack along with water, snacks, and a change of clothes. I hate how it slows me down. If I hadn’t had to get all this together I’d be out the door already.

I’m almost ready though. Soon as I grab my toothbrush.

“He took my car keys.” There’s thumping in the background on Troy’s end. Is that yelling? “But if you can get here, I can try to get past him. Maybe he’ll be passed out by then.”

I zip my backpack closed. “What’s that noise?”

“He’s throwing shit again. Don’t worry; I’m locked in my room. As soon as he passes out, I’ll be able to leave.”

I make a circle around my room. What am I forgetting?

My gaze lands on the pencil case sitting on my desk.

I unzip it, check to make sure the emergency cash I’ve been saving is still inside, and then I shove it in my pack with everything else.

Even though I’m the forgotten bastard, every once in a while my father decides to take an interest in my life.

I don’t trust him not to come in here and snoop while I’m gone.

“Hang tight,” I tell Troy. “Soon as my father leaves to check his warehouses, I’ll come and get you. We’ll head to the campground, and we’ll have a whole weekend of not dealing with our dads.”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a minute. “Can’t fucking wait until we can get out of here for good.”

“One more year,” I say.

“Two more.”

“Troy.” I go still. Are those footsteps I’m hearing out in the hall? “One year. When you go, I go.”

“You leave before you’re eighteen, your dad will report you missing, and you’ll be back home in no time. Mine’s threatened to do the same thing. As it is, we’ll still have to worry about him sending his goons after you. We need to ride it out until it’s safer for you.”

We’ve already talked this to death. “You’re not staying a day longer than necessary. You can’t.”

Yep, those are definitely footsteps. Not the quiet and unassuming steps of one of the staff, who are probably gone for the day anyway.

Not my brother’s quick thumps. These are a heavy thud, every other one followed by a quick scuffing noise, as if an old injury is affecting the smoothness of the person’s gait.

My father is coming. “We’ll talk about it this weekend,” I say quietly. “We’ll make a plan.”

“Yeah. Definitely.” But in spite of his words, Troy sounds so unsure.

The knob turns. “Gotta go.”

If Troy replies, I don’t hear him. I end the call and drop the phone into my backpack as the door opens. Last thing I need is my father asking who I’m talking to.

“Did I hear you talking to someone?” My father narrows his eyes.

“M-myself.” Dammit. Do not show weakness . “It helps me think. Mr. Reynolds at school says I’m a verbal processor.”

“So much bullshit they’re teaching in school these days. It’s past time to see about getting you transferred to St. Mark’s Academy. Should’ve done it a long time ago. The nuns will straighten you out.”

No. Absolutely not. If he moves me out of public school, I’ll hardly ever see my best friend. My only friend.

“You said it was a waste of money.”

What he actually said was that I wasn’t worth the money. Which is fine. There are plenty of times when my father’s lack of interest in me is to my benefit. This is one of them.

“You’re sixteen, Adam. It’s time to grow up. Time to stop spending time with that pansy-ass Ackerman kid. To prove yourself. Speaking of which, I need you to come with me.”

“Uhm.” Arguing with my father is a tricky thing. As in, he’s shot people for less. Still, I don’t like how he’s talking about me staying away from Troy.

“I’m getting ready to leave. I’ve got a study group.” I indicate my backpack on the bed, hoping he doesn’t notice it’s way too stuffed to only contain books.

If I tell him I’m going camping with Troy, he won’t let me leave. Our dads have some sort of business-related beef, and he never did like us hanging out. His dislike of Troy has only gotten worse lately.

“On a Friday night?”

“End-of-semester exams are coming up. They’re worth a high percentage of our grade. It’s important.”

“This is more important.”

He leads me down the polished stairs, through the marble entryway, and around to the kitchen.

A small Christmas tree perches on the counter, most likely put there by the chef who cooks for us five days a week.

My father has a general distaste for holiday decor, but he also doesn’t come in here much.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer, instead pushing open the windowed French doors that lead to the back terrace and heading across the grass through the yard. The crunch and swish of each of his steps echoes loudly in the quiet evening.

My breath puffs in front of me as I walk.

It’s rare to see temperatures this cold in Miami. In history class our teacher mentioned we were seeing near-record lows. My khakis and threadbare T-shirt aren’t made for this weather.

“If I’d known you wanted me to come outside, I would’ve grabbed my jacket.”

“We’re going to have to do something about all your sensitivity, Adam.”

“I’m adjusted to the usual climate here. It’s biology.”

“You won’t freeze walking across the yard, so shut that smart mouth of yours.”

It’s funny how him calling me smart is never a compliment.

We’re heading for a large garage at the back of the property. The one where he keeps his boat. And where I’m usually told to stay the hell out of. “What are we doing out here?”

He steps inside and flips on the light. The smell hits me first; musty and moldy. Something nauseatingly coppery crawls down my throat and into my stomach. The boat is gone. In its place is a man who’s been tied to the large racks where cleaning supplies and equipment are kept.

He’s bleeding.

“What’s going on?” I look around before turning to my father. “Where’s Santi?”

My older brother usually handles situations like this alongside my father. He’s the “real” son, after all.

“Your brother’s handling something for me out of town.” He gestures to the man. As if a switch has been flipped, the man goes from silent and wide-eyed to babbling.

“Sir, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She didn’t do anything wrong, though. You don’t want to make a name for killing innocent people, do you? That’s not—I was protecting your interests.”

“You were making a mess,” my father replies. “I don’t tolerate messes. I don’t tolerate weakness.”

I’m not sure what’s going on here. Not entirely. Is this guy one of my father’s employees? Guess he didn’t do whatever he was supposed to.

“She was innocent. You can’t call me weak because I won’t kill an innocent woman.”

I’m too busy trying to keep my nerves under control to wonder who “she” is. Smart or not, I can tell where this is going. My stomach lurches.

“I gave you an order. One you didn’t follow. That means I can no longer trust you.” He pulls out a gun.

Wait. “You’re going to kill him?”

Here? Now? He never involves me in this stuff.

“No.” My father holds the gun out. “You are.”

Already freezing, my body goes numb. “I—I can’t.” No. No, he won’t accept me saying I can’t. “I’ve never fired a gun.”

“Point and pull the trigger. It’s close range. You hardly need to aim. Even you can’t mess this up. Just don’t do it point blank. Might get his brain on your hands.”

Jesus.

The man begs me with his eyes. We both know I don’t want to kill him. We both know I won’t have a choice.

I try to raise the gun, but my hand shakes. “Why are you making me do this?”

“Come on, Adam, you’ve got straight A’s, and you can’t figure this out? Trial by fire. Sink or swim.”

“Why me? Why now?”

“You’re old enough now to contribute to the business.”

Okay. Now I get it. The “and if you don’t, you’re no use to me” is implied.

“Shoot him. Now.”

The numbness has spread to my hands. My fingers. I can’t make them tighten.

“Goddammit. You see? This is what happens when you spend too much time with that fag kid from school.”

“Troy’s not?—”

My father huffs impatiently and grabs my wrist with a gloved hand. The one holding the gun. He raises it to aim at the man tied to the storage racks, puts his hand over mine, and squeezes the trigger.

The man slumps forward, unmoving.

“There,” Father says calmly. “Not so difficult, was it?” He lets go and grabs some painting tarps from a different shelf.

Dizziness washes over me. My gaze keeps straying back to the man in front of me. A neat hole in the center of his forehead, blood oozing into his face. Sightless eyes looking at the floor.

There’s a heavy hammering in my ears. It might be my pulse. Or the sound of a trap about to close on me.

“ Yes, it was fucking difficult, ” I want to yell. I don’t think I’ll ever get this out of my head. Instead I say nothing, because I don’t want to be the next one my father shoots. I’m not stupid enough to think he cares for me as anything but another person he can control.

“Clean this up.” He tosses the pile of cloth at me. “At least you can do that much.”

You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I’m still frozen. Still holding the damn gun. I can’t even make my fingers let go.

“Adam.” His sharp tone echoes around us, bringing me out of my fog. “Give me the damn gun before you shoot yourself with it.”

Oh. Right. It’s pointed practically at my feet. I lift it a little, still shaking.

“Jesus, I really am going to have to knock some sense into you. You’re not even holding it right.”

He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, reaching out with the cloth spread over his fingers. “Come on. Hand it over.”