Page 79 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
“You can’t tell me that Grainger doesn’t screw hookers?” I growl out, and Fem stiffens up, lowering his head like he’s getting ready to take a bite out of Sin’s deliciously tight ass. I hug the dog just a bit tighter, closing my eyes as I press my face into the side of his neck. Three months away, believing that I was never coming back here, and this goddamn husky was one of the things I missed the most.
“Why would he need to? He goes out and meets people. Goes dancing, I think.” Sin turns back around and makes his way over to the side of the bed, giving the dog a healthy bit of space. Smart move. He meets my ruddy eyes with his gray ones.
“Grainger dances?” I laugh, but Sin is already leaning down toward me, putting his hands on his thighs. His blue faux hawk is all mussed up, strands of color splayed gently across his brow. I pretend not to notice.
“And no, Beast doesn’t fuck hookers either. At least, not to my knowledge. I’ll be honest with you, Gidget: I thought Beast was like, too much inside his own head to give into something as basic as sex. I’ve never seen him sleep with anyone, date anyone, look at anyone.” Another pause, a sigh. “Except for you.”
He stands back up and then heads for the door, his shift coming to an end with the chime of the clock on the wall. Like a prince, descending from his princess’ tower.
“You four are some of the only people in this club who haven’t slept with Nellie,” I say softly, thinking about my mother, about her strange confession to me a few days ago, the one that makes a surprising amount of sense.
That gives Sin pause. He reaches up a hand and grabs a book from the shelf at random, coughing at the dust and waving his hand to clear the air before he absently cracks the cover.
“Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call,” he reads, frowning and then turning back to me. “Sounds like you.”
A shiver of pleasure races across my skin, these electric tingles that make me wonder if I shouldn’t put Fem in the bathroom for a minute so that Sin and I can be alone.
“Sylvia Plath,” I say, because I might not be well-read, but I know some things.
“I’m not going to tell you that we’re saints, Gidge,” Sin says, still absently flipping through the pages of the old book. “But we’re not evil either. Stop looking for things to hate. You’ve already got enough ammo as it is.” He tucks the book under his arm which I find amusing, and then gives me a look, one that smolders, one that burns. I shift desperately beneath my blankets and grab the dog’s collar, seriously considering the moment.
But then I think about Reba.
I have to stay focused on my friend, no matter how much my mind tries to shy away, a horse that’s smelled a cougar. No bucking. No running. Just a slow, steady pace.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about other women. You have enough shit to stress over.” He reaches for the door and gives me one, last studying look. “I’ll set up a video chat when I go talk to the girls—if I talk to any of them. If I don’t see any patterns worth my time, I won’t bother.”
I exhale sharply, nodding and closing my eyes until I hear the door close, Sin’s boot steps loud on the stairs. I’m not sure who’s next on duty, but I settle back into the pillows anyway, opening the Jane Austen book and letting my mind spin.
The Palm Motel. A key. Room two.
There’s a pattern here all right; I just have to find it.
Sin manages to get together a list of girls who’ve frequented room two. Apparently, that’s the room favored by most of the DBD members when they want a night out with a call girl. It’s the only ‘suite’ in the motel, with one of those tacky whirlpool tubs in the room that I want to hate but am secretly interested in trying out. It’s also free for club members to use and often left vacant so that it’s there when they need it.
The names listed on the room are of the girls only—either for safety reasons or because some of the club wives wouldn’t like the idea of their husband’s um, shall we say, extracurriculars getting around the clubhouse. If their men are there, they’ve likely given their permission, but permission from a place of submission is often just coercion at its finest.
There are three girls in particular that stand out. Not because of their frequency in the room—most all of the girls have at least three or four visits in the last month—but because of the names they give us when we ask about their clients.
