Page 7 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

ME:

-I knowww. Tell your dad I’m still working on it!

So, yeah. Mr. Rogers is the father of my best friend. Also, the man I consider my father since my real one died when I was ten years old in some fire.

His name is really Mr. Rogers. He’s not the friendly neighbor type, though. Mr. Rogers always tells me to call him by his first name, Drake, but I can't get over how he's literally called Mr. Rogers. So, I keep using that instead, much to his annoyance.

He took over the infamous group now known as the Charons after some complicated history with his uncle. I'm not entirely sure of the family details, but Mr. Rogers didn't want to be part of the group initially. However, years later, he changed his mind and revamped the organization, including its members and name. So, is it even the same group anymore?

My best friend, Natalie— I call her Nat— is the daughter of Mr. Rogers, so she’s the princess and gets treated like one.

I'm part of this infamous group. I'm their adorable secret weapon. Insert winky face here. I was supposed to get some info from our target, James, here but I’m getting bored.

James starts crying, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“Why does the sound of your crying grate on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard, James?” I inquire with a sigh.

He cries some more, muttering random shit here and there. Probably calling me a bitch again because that’s my name, apparently. I focus back on his phone and grin when the page refreshes.

I show him his phone and confirm that the payment was now on Mr. Rogers’s account. “It went through, James!”

I shove his phone back in his pocket and turn around to leave.

“Wait, wait! The poison!” James hysterically shouts.

I blink and show him the small bottle. “Oh, this? Yeah, no.”

“What the fuck! I gave your boss what he wanted! Let me go!”

I shake my head, “Yeah, but then Nat told me about your questionable tastes in women. Or… girls, I should say. What happened to that 13-year-old girl last seen with you on your private island?”

James is now full-on ugly crying. Like, snot and puke and shit.

“Ssshh!” I snap, calling Mr. Rogers.

He answers on the first ring. “Hey, little one.”

I scowl. He always calls Nat and me “Little ones.” Yes, I’m 5 foot 2. I’m not short. I’m fun-size, thank you very much.

“Hey, Mr. Rogers! Did you get the munnies?” I ask, shutting the door, and James continues screaming weakly behind me.

“I did, thank you, Briar. Has James been taken care of?”

“He’s slowly dying as we speak.”

“I’ll have someone pick up the trash for you.”

“Thank you! I have to get ready; Nat should be here soon.”

“Have fun, girls. Oh, I deposited your percentage to your account. Plus more. Please enjoy yourselves, and don’t get too drunk.”

I make a mocking, offended noise, “Are you talking about me or your daughter?”

“We practically raised you, Briar. You’re like my daughter, too.”

“Stop.” I sarcastically say. However, I can’t help but feel a warmth spread through me. “I’m so touched,” I add with sarcasm.

“You little brat.”

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