Chapter 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.
“Kidding. I had a local contact help track you down.”
When I open my mouth to call him a dick, he stops me with a jerk of his chin toward my building. “There was somebody watching the place, though. Any idea who that would be?”
He may as well have slapped me. When I try to speak all that comes out at first is a choking sound. Why are my arms numb?
My gaze cuts to my building. The shitty little place that I thought was safe, in spite of the peeling paint and the shady landlord.
“Hey.” Milo steps forward. “It’s all good. Took care of ’im. No ID on the body though, which isn’t surprising. Also not great news.”
And the fact that Milo already “took care of him” is supposed to be? I can’t suppress my shiver. My vision swims. “You’re sure it was my place? I’m not worth looking for.”
“The price on your head would beg to differ.”
The reminder chills me. “I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything.”
“Well, that’s what I aim to find out.”
“What the hell do you care?” And here I am back to eyeballing the gun in his hand. It’s not aimed at me at this moment. But it’s there.
“The thing is, I actually believe you. You don’t have the vibes. And I don’t kill innocents.” It’d be a nice thing to say if I couldn’t hear the sneer in his voice.
“Then why do you sound so pissed?” For that matter, should I be relieved or terrified that the man sent to kill me runs on vibes?
“My friend, this situation is a fucking cluster. And I don’t like mess.
In the meantime, consider me your babysitter.
I’ve got a line on a safe house, so go up there and pack your shit.
We need to leave five minutes ago.” He gestures with the gun, as if I’m simply going to follow because he said so.
Now we’re friends? I don’t think so. What’s he going to do if I don’t follow him? Kill me? He already threatened to do that.
“I’m not going with you.” Then I give him my back and cross the darkened street toward my building’s entrance. There’s a moment where I flinch and freeze, waiting for a bullet in the back that doesn’t come. Did my new “friend” clock it though? Something tells me he did.
On the corner, there’s someone smoking a cigarette; its orange glow flares in the shadows next to the building. My heart stutters as I pass, bracing again for some sort of attack.
Someone already tried to kill me tonight. Technically, two someones. If I can believe Milo, apparently there’s a damn waiting list.
It’s eighty degrees tonight, but reliving the past few hours has me shivering.
Seriously, who did I piss off? It makes no sense. After I spent four years as a rich man’s kept pet, he got tired of me, and then I came here. My life is the world’s most boring sad story.
Until things went south with that client earlier, the idea of someone hating me that much never would have crossed my mind.
Thankfully, I make it into the building without trouble. Except for the part where there are still heavy footsteps following me.
“I told you I’m not going with you,” I say again over my shoulder.
“That’s just great,” Milo says. “You want to turn around and say that to my Walther PPK?”
Ugh. How was I scared shitless of this guy an hour or two ago? Now I’m ready to drop and all out of give-a-damn.
We reach my apartment and I unlock the door, not even caring when he follows. He’s had ample time to shoot me in the back, and he hasn’t yet.
“You said you don’t kill innocents,” I remind him.
“I forgot to add ‘unless they piss me off.’”
Great.
In my temporary shithole, the few items of clothing I own are basically separated into two canvas bins.
One for clean, one for dirty. I strip off, noting that I’ll have to send Dean an apology for his ruined suit.
Aside from being one of my only sort-of friends, as a former basketball player he’s the only person I know tall enough for me to borrow anything from.
Milo wanders in behind me and stations himself against my door. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest. Thank fuck he holstered the gun. Ignoring him, I shuck my pants and head for the shower, needing to wash off everything about this day.
This week.
This life.
A low wolf-whistle follows me as I head for the tiny bathroom, and I give the man as jaunty a fuck-you gesture as I can manage under the circumstances.
“That an offer?”
Will it keep you from killing me?
“Sure.” I shrug without making eye contact. “Why the fuck not?”
Footsteps follow behind me, quieter ones, leading me to believe he’s taken off his shoes. I’m under no illusions that he actually wants to fuck me. Probably wants to make sure I don’t run off. While I’m bare-ass naked. I don’t know.
He’s nice looking though. Platinum hair and a sharp jaw. The thoughts I’m having about his mouth are the opposite of respectful. The way his lips are all red and swollen, it looks as if he bites them.
He’s annoying as fuck though. There’s the inconvenient problem of him coming to kill me. He saved me earlier, too, and despite my exhaustion, I’m startled to realize that underneath the anxious buzzing and the “holy shit, I almost died,” is a ton of unspent adrenaline. Utter relief. And horniness.
Because I almost fucking died. More than once, if you believe the professional killer.
But I’m still here.
I turn around and confront the guy who supposedly was sent to kill me.
The guy who saved me.
In my experience, nobody does that kind of favor without expecting something in return. Maybe I should go ahead and say thank you.