Hunt and Prey (Kelsey's Burden Series Book 8) by Kaylie Hunter (novels to read for beginners txt) 📕

“Show off,” I muttered as I followed him. Passing the bar, I hollered over my shoulder. “Bring the other bucket out when it’s done filling.”

“You paid for water. Not all the rest of that stuff,” he said, waving a hand to the trash bags and soap.

“I paid you plenty. And I’ll pay another twenty if you find us some clean towels.”

“Forty.”

“Fine,” I said as I stepped outside into the bright sun. I took the bottle of vodka from Trigger again before handing him a garbage bag. “Strip. Put your clothes in a garbage bag.”

“Out here? On the sidewalk?” Trigger asked, looking around.

Ryan crossed his arms over his chest. “Now. Or we’ll leave your ass here.”

Trigger’s shoulders deflated. He stood and took off his shoes.

A light breeze floated by and Ryan and I stepped back as the smell of rotting food and sewage assaulted us. Trigger used his thumb and index finger to pull two wallets from his back pockets, tossing them both on the sidewalk. I retrieved sandwich baggies from my shoulder bag, securing a wallet in each.

When Trigger had stripped down to his tighty whities, I raised my hand up to stop him. “Really, Trigger?” I asked, motioning to his underwear.

“What?” A sly grin slid onto his face. “They’re comfortable.”

I rolled my eyes as I took a step away. Ryan, standing behind Trigger, dumped the bucket of soapy water over Trigger’s head. The underwear, now wet, forced me to see more of him than I’d ever wanted. I walked away, joining the prostitutes who were still leaning against the building.

Physically, the women were opposites. One was tall, bony, with big blonde hair, and wearing a shredded black t-shirt with a missing sleeve, and a short black jean skirt. The other prostitute was short, plump but not fat, had darker features, short clipped hair, and dressed flashier in a sequin green tank top and a yellow spandex skirt.

“The only men who wear dos ugly-ass drawers is either old, or ex-cons,” the tall prostitute told me.

The short prostitute giggled before calling over to Trigger, “Hey, little boy! Did yer momma buy you those big-boy undies?”

Trigger glanced over but continued smearing the dish soap over his body.

“That water cold?” the shorter prostitute called out again. “Or are you one of those turtle types?”

Ryan chuckled as he took the second bucket and poured it over Trigger’s head. Blackish-green water raced toward the curb. The white underwear—not so white anymore.

The tall prostitute flashed angry eyes at me. She was a foot taller and, based on the track marks, a whole lot higher than me. “Your man is stinking up our block.”

“Sorry about that. But while we’re all here, have either of you heard anything about prostitutes disappearing?”

“What kind of ho?” the shorter prostitute asked.

“Not sure, actually,” I answered.

“Well, you gotta narrow it down, honey,” she scoffed as she tugged at her skirt, tugging it up, not down. “You got your hotel girls, your motel girls, your drunk bar girls, your sober bar girls, your corner girls, your alley girls, your delivery girls—”

“If’n you ask me,” the tall prostitute interrupted. “Those delivery girls got it bad.”

The shorter one bounced her head up and down in agreement. “I like me a little street action, but those delivery girls never know what the hell they be walking into.”

“Or if’n they be walking out.”

“Damn straight.” They bumped fists before the shorter one continued, “But I could be one of those hotel girls if’n I had the clothes and shoes and stuff.”

“Bitch,” the taller prostitute said, placing a hand on her hip as she looked down at her coworker, “ya don’t speak or look anything like those girls. New clothes ain’t gonna to hide da fact you got no business being in one a those hotels.”

“Based on the information I have,” I said, cutting off their brewing argument, “I believe I’m referring to street or motel girls.”

“The morgue, baby. This life is hard,” the taller prostitute said. “And some johns are meaner than others.”

I shook my head. “No bodies ever turn up. Here today, gone tomorrow, disappearances.”

“You a cop?” the shorter prostitute asked.

“Nope. Used to be.” I pulled a business card for Silver Aces from my bag, handing it to her. “I was hired to find out what’s happening to the girls.”

“Who da hell gonna front money to track down a couple of missing hos?”

“I took the case pro-bono,” I answered honestly. “But it was a cop who asked me to look into it.”

The taller prostitute squinted at me. “What kind a cop?”

“The kind who’d buy you a lemonade on a hot day and never look lower than your face.”

“Not many of those around anymore,” she said as she looked around the block. After taking a beat, she sighed, answering some internal question. “I might’ve heard of a few girls taking off, but don’t know no details.”

“Ferrari?” the shorter prostitute asked her.

“I thought she moved?”

“Nah. Remember that gash of a roommate swiped all her shit? Said Ferrari didn’t come home, so she figured her stuff was fair game.”

“Yeah-yeah… You knocked that skank on her ass, then took the purse,” she said, laughing. “Shit. Forgot bout dat.”

“Ferrari’s purse?” I asked, trying to pull a few details.

“Not her regular everyday purse,” the shorter prostitute said. “Her ho purse.” She swung her oversized hot-pink purse out for me to see. “Flashy. But big. And got some weight to it. That’s a ho purse. Best weapon a girl can have on the street.”

The tall prostitute held her purse out. “I got a ten-foot chain in mine. Used to have a can of pepper spray. But you use them once, and they’re done. A chain lasts forever. It’s hell on your shoulder, but worth it when you get