Chaos Bound (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #4)(42)

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.

“You look tense.” She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his throat, twined her arms around his neck. “I don’t bite.” Her lips curved up. “Unless you want me to.”

He slid his hands down her body. Christ she was tiny. Usually hookers that thin were druggies, forgoing food in favor of their next fix. He cupped her jaw, tilting her head back and his thumb slid through a layer of makeup, revealing a bruise on her soft, plump cheek. Too soft.

“How old are you?”

Her eyes widened, flicked to the ceiling at the corner of the room, then back. “Twenty-one.”

Naiya was twenty-two, and this girl looked much, much younger than her. He flicked on the light and stared at the smooth lines of her face, the rounded cheeks, the small perfectly white teeth nibbling at her lip. Then he looked up at the corner, spotted the camera. Her pimp was watching, protecting his girl.

Just like he should be protecting Naiya.

What the hell had he been thinking leaving her alone? The Jacks were in the area and Viper would stop at nothing to find her. A woman as beautiful as Naiya wouldn’t be able to hide for long. But more than that, he ached for her. Needed her. Maybe it was some kind of psychological shit since she’d helped him escape. Maybe he’d imprinted like a f*cking baby chick because she treated his wounds, and looked after him. Or maybe she was the first woman he’d met who needed him—really needed him—although she couldn’t admit it. Broken. But still strong. Just like Tank had been when they first met. And just like Tank, she understood him in a way no one else did.

Unlike this girl in front of him.

Holt pulled the weapon tucked under his shirt behind his back. Before the girl could even gasp, he shot out the camera. When she shrieked, he slapped his free hand over her mouth to muffle her scream.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, streaking the makeup on her face. Christ. Now she looked her age. Like a kid playing dress-up.

“Any more cameras?”

She shook her head and Holt took his hand away. “You choose this life, sugar? Or were you forced into it?”

“You can’t interfere,” she whispered. “Davy will find me. He says I owe him for taking me off the streets. Last time I tried to run, he beat me so bad I almost died.”

“If you could get out, would you?”

Her eyes dropped and she nodded. “It was a big mistake. Huge. I ran away from home ’cause there was all sorts of bad shit going on, but I ran out of money, and I couldn’t find a job. Davy found me. He was so nice at first. I thought he loved me. And then he locked me in a room and…” Her voice broke. “This.”

“Where is he?”

Her eyes widened. “Two doors down.”

“Wait here.” He yanked open the door and strode down the hall. At the second door, he didn’t bother testing the handle. He just kicked it in.

A tall, bald dude with an ear full of rings jumped up from behind a table full of screens, pulling one hand out of his sweats while he aimed a high performance .357 at Holt with the other. Fucking pimp got off watching the girls. He was also making a lot of money off them considering the size of the duffle bag of cash on the table beside him. Holt didn’t waste any time. He shot the bastard in the chest, and blew out all the monitors.

Not one to waste an opportunity, Holt made a quick search of the apartment. Dude had some nice clothes, and they were about the right size. He’d left too much evidence at the lake and it was time for a change.

Holt stripped off his Bolton Beaver shirt and threw on a plain black T-shirt before stuffing a handful of clothes into the duffle bag, along with the cash, a box of ammo, and the pimp’s weapon. He kicked off his shoes and squeezed his feet into a pair of the pimp’s cowboy boots—f*cking pointy toes. Christ. If Tank ever saw him, he’d never laugh it down.