Free Shooting Scars: The Artists Trilogy 2 by Karina Halle

beat her up. I was in the process of stealing her money, “child support” she was saving, when she called for her brothers to help. One of the brothers was in serious condition in the hospital with a broken larynx (and nose, I was sure, since I busted that fucker up), while the other escaped unscathed. Sophia told the police that I was driving a green ford Mustang but she had no idea what the plate number was. In fact, I was driving an olive green Pontiac GTO with racing stripes. Not at all like a Mustang, not to most people anyway. I was more than grateful for her lack of interest in cars.
    The next thing that saved me thus far was the fact that the picture of me was one of hers. It was from a few years ago, taken at a friend’s picnic. My hair was surfer shaggy and dark brown, no glasses. At that I quickly took my contacts out, flicking them out the GTO’s window and slipped my glasses back on. This wasn’t a Clark Kent thing. The fact that the article stated I had black hair now and I was covered in tattoos was enough to bust me. Most people would be looking at that picture of me, smiling, dimples, younger, so maybe they wouldn’t notice. They’d be looking for him, not clean-cut nerd, not until they got really close and hopefully by then I’d be gone and it would be a case of them shaking their heads in my wake saying, “nah, it couldn’t be.”
    Of course, other than those two little glints of luck, I was screwed. My name, Camden McQueen was out there, in the paper. And perhaps I was even on the news, being pumped into the minds of every citizen of this fair fucking country.
    Camden McQueen. Wife-beater. Thief. The worst of the worst.
    My mind reeled back to seeing Audrey the other day. She would have put two and two together really fast. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was calling the news now to tell them about her escape from Camden McQueen, the bad, bad man who tattooed asses and kidnapped wives and children.
    As if on cue, my phone rang. I looked at the display and sucked in my breath. It wasn’t Audrey. It was my father.
    He knew.
    My father knew I was a wanted criminal. That could be the only reason he was calling.
    I expected to feel ashamed or guilty or something along those lines. But for some sick and twisted reason, I felt defiant. Like I’d actually committed it and I did it to prove a point. I secretly felt that way during the whole money laundering operation, like somehow I was sticking it to the jackass. Now, I wasn’t just sticking it, I was driving in a stake like the biggest fuck you.
    Too bad none of it was true.
    Too bad I knew my father would not accept this without a fight. And that was something I couldn’t even let myself think about, not at this stage.
    So, obviously I didn’t answer it. I just watched it ring and ring and ring again. Then I put it on silent and continued cruising up the coast until the idyllic shores of Pismo Beach appeared.
    Gus’s house was a little ways from the beach, down a winding road that barely had room to fit one car. It was a lush and strangely idyllic area, as pretty as I thought it would be and not really fitting for the man I was about to meet.
    His house was small, the size of a cottage, but well-kept. The garden in the front was overgrown but still tidy, like organized chaos. It was like he could bully the plants into behaving even though he probably weeded the place once a year. My rock garden was easy to maintain but it didn’t have the same kind of beauty. I think I’d been in the desert for too long.
    I rapped on the door and could hear a shuffling on the other side. I knew he was peering through the peephole which was one step better than I thought he’d do. After I’d picked up the newspaper I was so damn certain that he’d pull out of the whole deal. I think he thought I wanted Connor’s social security numbers and that alone was aiding and abetting a known felon.
    In fact, the longer I stood there on his steps, a young girl on a