2
Max
It’s takenme one week to find the fucker who last saw Lila. One week—that’s it. And the damn police couldn’t be fucked with it. Prostitutes, they pay more attention than you’d think. They have to. Three of the girls I spoke with all described the same man, said he always showed up in a different car, exactly two weeks apart. He uses a girl twice, then she disappears.
One said he was her regular. That he’s been coming to her for over a year. Two hundred bucks—that’s all it took for her to agree to set him up. These men tend to put too much trust in these women. If they’ll suck your dick for money, guarantee they’ll fuck you over for it, too.
Trisha is sitting on the edge of the motel bed smoking a cigarette. She keeps changing which leg is crossed over the other and her foot is bouncing up and down. She anxiously glances over at me, eyeing me. “You better not kill me.”
“Not going to,” I say as I light a cigarette myself. I actually quit smoking a few years ago, but fuck it, something’s going to kill you.
“What’d Travis do to you?” she asks.
I glare at her. “You don’t find it odd that most of the women he fucks end up missing?”
“I mean…” She shrugs and takes another drag. “Shit happens. You learn to ignore stuff in this world or else you’ll drive yourself crazy, you know?” She laughs. “And I’ve found if you learn how to give an incredible blow job, most men won’t kill you. It’s my defense mechanism.” She jabs the butt of the cigarette out in the motel ashtray just as there’s a knock on the door. I stand and make my way to the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
I hear the door open and she greets him. Rage quickly mounts in my chest, the pressure nearly unbearable. After a few minutes, the door to the bathroom creaks halfway open and Trisha slinks through the crack. Her face is damn near white, horror flickering behind her eyes. I nod and squeeze past her, pulling the gun before stepping out into the room. The man’s got his back to the door, pulling his jeans from his left foot. The click of the gun cocking makes him freeze.
“Turn the fuck around,” I say, my voice shaking with anger. “Move after that and I will blow your motherfucking brains all over the wall.”
Dragging in a deep breath, he holds his hands up like he’s surrendering as he slowly spins around. My pulse bangs behind my eyes when my gaze lands on his face. He’s young. Maybe twenty-five at best. He’s built like a linebacker; his face is rugged looking with a long scar slashed across his right cheek. “You her pimp or sumpin’?”
“No.” My jaw clenches. “Let me ask you a question. Do you like living? Do you enjoy each fucking breath you drag in? Because if you do, you better fucking answer every question I throw at you, and I meanwithouthesitation.” I close the gap between us and press the gun beneath his chin. “Hesitate and this bullet goes through the back of your fucking throat.” Arching a brow, I tilt my head. “Understand? I don’t play motherfucking games.”
“Yes.”
This is the thing, in the crime world, there are only two types of people: those who know how to survive and those with too much pride. To make it in this world, you have to know when you are beat and let your pride go by the wayside. This fucker seems to understand that. There is no fighting back in a situation such as this.
“Those women you take, what do you do with them?” My hand trembles, the barrel of the gun digging deeper into his skin. “Do you kill them?” I ask.
“No. No, I don’t. I don’t kill ’em.”
I inch my face closer to his, my nostrils flaring. “Then”—my finger twitches over the smooth curve of the trigger—“what do you do with them?” He swallows and when he does, the tip of the gun moves ever so slightly. Attempting to control the animalistic urge I have to beat him into a pile of mangled flesh, I stare into his eyes. “You’re hesitating.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he says.
“Try me.” I use the pistol to tilt his head back.
“We sell them.”
A slow heat creeps through my veins. “Sex slaves—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “We train them to love.” He laughs. It’s not a condescending laugh, it’s one close to madness. Like he really believes what he is saying, as though he feels what he is saying is something incredible. “Love. We selllove.”
“Well, you piece of shit. I’m gonna need you to tell me who you sold my little sister to.”
He attempts to drop his chin to his chest, but I lift it back up with the tip of the gun. “Tell. Me.”
“I wouldn’t know. I just train them. I don’t handle transactions.”
“Then you fucking tell me who does.” I laugh and shake my head. “Actually…Trisha?” I keep my gaze trained on this fucker. “Trisha!”
I hear the door to the bathroom creak open and her sniffling as she approaches us. His eyes drift over to her for a brief moment.
“I’m not gonna help you—”
“All I want you to do,” I cut her off, “is grab his phone from his pocket.” She does as asked, handing his phone to me. I take it and stuff it inside my jean pocket. “You can leave now, Trisha.”
