Page 39 of Haunting the Hunter
I trail after her into the kitchen as she makes coffee. She opens the book, pulling out a stack of little tabs. She has been carrying it around but hasn’t seemed to finish it in over a month.
“Are you savoring it, or are you just a very slow reader?” I ask, leaning over the counter.
“I like to annotate, so I like to reread the same book. I’m actually quite a fast reader, thank you. Now leave me be.”
Then… in struts Jack. He’s got that skip in his step that makes my skin crawl. He pours himself coffee and seats himself next to her. Her eyes quickly bounce from me to him.
“Last night was fun,” he says, overly upbeat.
I lean back in the chair and cross my arms, flashing her a smirk.
Her tired eyes scan my face then quickly jerk away.
“Mm-hmm,” she agrees, taking another sip of her coffee.
CHAPTER 15
CADE
After driving for almost fourteen hours, the road ahead has started to blur. I check my phone one last time to verify the last ping from Allen White: a shitty motel outside Goodsprings, Nevada. Knowing I won’t be relying on Jack this time is almost exhilarating.
This is gonna be fun.
I should get there just in time to check in for the night. If he’s smart, he’s long gone, but I’ve learned not to put anything past desperate men.
The gravel lot of the run-down motel somehow looks even worse than the pictures online. Peeling paint, a busted neonMotelsign blinking against the dark sky.
The place looks abandoned despite the lot being full and folks lounging outside in fold-up chairs, smoking shit that’s definitely not legal.
Inside, the front office smells like week-old sweat. The clerk is a balding, greasy little man glued to a soccer game on a box TV. He barely glances at me.
“Excuse me,” I say, rapping my knuckles on the counter to get his attention. “Can I get a room, please?”
“Yep,” he grunts, eyes never leaving the screen. He tosses the keys to room 13 onto the counter. “Fifty bucks a night.”
I set the cash down and swiftly make my exit. I head down the sidewalk, passing cracked doors, when two women catch my eye—both looking disheveled, wearing too-tight clothing, makeup smudged from long hours of wear and their heels kicked off beside them.
“Evenin’, sugar,” the redhead says, her voice husky with cigarette smoke. “You look like a man who’s had a long day.”
The brunette eyes me, lips curling into something lazy and sharp. “Damn,” she murmurs, looking me over. “You’re tall as hell. Love the ink. I would love to see where all those lines go.” If I had a dime for every time a girl hit on me for my tattoos, I’d be an even richer man. Too bad I have enough money to last me a lifetime, and no need for it. The lines reach across my chest, up to my neck, and down my arms. I’ve always been fascinated with smoke—being an assassin, you learn to be one with the shadows; it comes with the territory. So, yeah, tattoos.
I pull out my phone and hold up the screen, showing them a picture of Allen. “Have you seen this guy?”
They share a look.
“Maybe. Depends on who’s askin’… and what he’s offerin’,” the brunette says, tilting her head.
“I’m not here to waste your time,” I say, pulling out a hundred-dollar bill and passing it to the redhead. “I just need a direction.”
They exchange another glance, brief and silent. An unspoken language.
“Yeah, we seen him,” the redhead says finally, sliding the bill into her bra. “Little weasel left earlier. Kept his head down. Real twitchy-like.”
“Which way?”
“South. Toward Primm.”
“Appreciate it.” The brunette steps closer, fingers brushing my forearm. “You sure that’s all you want, gorgeous?”
