“Hey baby, you lookin’ for a good time?”
Holt pulled his bike over to the side of the road and gestured the hooker closer. Except for the bright red dress and matching heels, there was nothing to make her stand out from the other prostitutes on the street, except that she happened to be standing near the traffic light when he slowed the bike. He’d dropped Naiya off at the nearest town and then headed into Missoula to stock up on supplies and do something about the fucking ache in his balls that just wouldn’t go away.
His stomach clenched, and he pushed away the memory of Naiya outside the cheap motel in Trenton, wearing her Bolton Beaver T-shirt, the red neon motel sign flickering on and off behind her. She’d refused to take the weapon he offered her or any of the money he’d taken from the Sinner cache, saying Ally had loaned her some cash to tide her over until she could figure out how to access her bank account without her ID. Her face crumpled when she said good-bye, but it was nothing compared to the emptiness he felt as he drove away.
By the time he’d reached Missoula, he’d thoroughly cursed his damn luck at always hooking up with people who abandoned and betrayed him. He resolved never to trust anyone again. After he got his revenge, if he was still alive, he would spend the rest of his life as a nomad, riding from town to town. Just him, his bike, and the open road.
“Man like you. Girl like me. I think we could find a way to spend the next hour that would make us both happy.” She slid her hand down his arm, her fire-red nails glinting in the streetlight.
Naiya didn’t wear nail polish. Or makeup. Or at least he thought she didn’t. He supposed she wouldn’t have dressed up to go to her mother’s funeral, and makeup wouldn’t have been her first priority once they were on the run. He couldn’t imagine her in makeup, not with that fresh, natural beauty. And damn, she’d looked beautiful standing in the kitchen at the cabin, her hair damp, feet bare, chilled and relaxed after fucking drugging him to save him from his own stupidity. He wanted to see her smile again. Hear her laugh. It didn’t make any sense. He’d only known her for a few short days.
“I’m doing a hot-guy discount tonight.” The hooker had a high, thin, childlike voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “And you look like a hot guy in need of some loving.”
Maybe that’s what he needed. These confusing feelings, unfamiliar emotions, were a need for release. He hadn’t been with a woman for over three months. If he just got back in the saddle, he would stop thinking about Naiya, and how soft she felt in his arms, and how desperately he wanted to unlock the passion he only glimpsed when he kissed her.
“You got a room?”
She smiled and flicked back her long, blonde hair. “Just down the street.”
Holt parked the bike and grabbed the packs. He wasn’t worried about the Jacks calling in the plates—bikers didn’t involve the police no matter what the situation—but leaving two bags filled with weapons on the bike was just asking for trouble.
He followed the woman to a low-rise, stucco apartment building and then up one worn flight of stairs. He dumped his bags near the door once they entered the bachelor apartment. Typical hooker hangout. Old, run down, sparsely furnished except for a bed, couch, and TV, no doubt owned by her pimp and rented out for use by his stable of girls. She reached for the light and Holt shook his head. He could see well enough with the streetlights shining through the cracks in the curtains. He wanted only one thing, and he didn’t need the reminder that he was getting it from the wrong girl.
“How much?”
“Sixty for oral with a condom. One hundred without. One hundred for sex with a condom. One fifty without. If you want something else it’s an extra fifty per act. You want me to call you ‘daddy,’ I’ll throw that in for free.”
Holt pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and threw three twenties on the counter beside him. Last thing he needed was her commenting on the marks all over his body. Naiya had given him the first-aid kit and instructions on how to care for his wounds, as if he would do anything about it. His groin tightened at the memory of her gentle hands on his body, and the soft press of her lips on his skin.
Fuck. Stop thinking about her.
“You want to sit?” She gestured to the bed.
Holt shook his head, his nose wrinkling at the sharp scents of sex and sweat in the claustrophobic apartment. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Now that he was here, he just wanted to get this over with.