“Thanks,” he said. The word didn’t feel big enough for the feeling in his chest.
“Yeah, thanks,” Donovan said. “Could I get one of those sunscreens too? And some bug spray, while you’re at? My boy’s all bit up.”
“Yeah, o-okay.” With an awkward turn, she went to fetch the items. But she handed them to Benjamin, not Donovan, when she returned.
“L-let me know if you need anything else,” she said to him.
He issued another thanks that didn’t feel nearly big enough, and then there were no more excuses to linger. He had to leave with Donovan.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Donovan said in a high falsetto as soon as they were out of her earshot. “Good idea flirting with the mission director’s uggo daughter. We’ll be able to get whatever we want all summer.”
A pang of guilt tightened his chest. Uggo?
Part of him wanted to defend her. Point out all the great things about her Donovan hadn’t seen when he dismissed her with one glance for not looking exactly like the composite hockey girlfriend they all dated.
But there was another part of him…the same part that pretended to be richer and more emotionally stable than he was in order to fit in with all the guys at his posh private school.
That part of him was older than the new feeling in his chest. Embedded in a concrete foundation of shame and desire not to be who he really was. And that part of him wouldn’t let him speak up for her.
“Yeah, good idea…” he agreed, his voice weak.
Donovan clapped him on the back. “You know what? I’m going to get you transferred to my cabin. I can’t believe they stuck you with those Southie guys….”
A week ago, having their popular team captain look out for him like they were best friends would have thrilled him.
Not now.
Now, he just felt sick to his stomach as Donovan made plans to talk to the mission director as soon as she returned with Benjamin’s bag.
CHAPTER 9
STEPHANIE
“Alright, ma belle. Death it is.”
His silken declaration iced my blood. And my impending death thrummed in my ears the same as the bass of the club banger playing in the distance.
“Time of Our Lives” by Pitbull and Ne-Yo. How ironic. I’d danced to the then fairly new song with my sorority sisters at our last party before winter break. That now felt like years ago.
Strange. I’d never thought of myself as a particularly prideful person. But I tamped down the strong, life-preserving urge to simply submit.
Instead of taking it all back for the relatively simple price of sucking his dick, I kept my head down with my eyes glued to the shadow my bent form cast across the old wooden floorboards.
I still didn’t quite understand how I’d gotten here. Or why. How had Swamp Boy—the sweet, ever-helpful kid Mama Fairgood told me about—turned into this monster? And how did my harmless father come to owe him a blood debt, of all things? Much less agree to pay it with his own daughter?
Was Dad really involved in illegal activities I knew nothing about? And had he really tried to cover up Mama Fairgood’s death to keep the identity of his clients hidden?
My head was still spinning with all the new information I’d received. But I suppose it didn’t matter.
This man was going to kill me. That was the only thing that mattered now.
As if to confirm my conclusion, there came a rustling sound, and then something cold and metal pressed into the top of my forehead. My belly cramped and a bitter taste flooded my mouth.
“Your father tried to shoot me with this gun when I made a surprise visit to his home office five years ago. It’s a family heirloom. A Colt Detective Special. Apparently, your grandfather received one as a gift after helping the then chief of police out with some legal troubles.”
I was going to die. I was going to die with a bullet from my father’s own gun. Oh, God…
Swamp Boy was going to kill me.
