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She bites her bottom lip before answering me. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Hop in.” I move Pup to the floor between the seats.
The girl climbs into my rig, and her skirt rides up her thighs as she situates herself in the passenger seat. Pup stands on her back legs to get to the girl. She has this terrible habit of biting anyone who isn’t me, including Tobin. I open my mouth to scold her before she scares the girl off, but I’m stunned to silence when Pup licks her arm instead of sinking her needle teeth into her skin.
“What’s her name?” she asks as she strokes the fluff behind Pup’s ears.
“Pup.”
“Hello, Pup,” she coos, her hand disappearing beneath the long fur.
The girl looks toward my sleeper. A small galley stands in the middle, complete with a sink and microwave. Further back, there’s a flatscreen TV and a couch seat that turns into a tabletop for dinners. Dark cabinets hovering above the full-sized bed provide storage. I paid for all the bells and whistles, and it’s been worth every fucking penny.
“What’s your name?” I ask, drawing her gaze back to me.
“Aurora.”
“Kane,” I say, even though she didn’t bother to ask. “Why’s a pretty girl like you hanging out with truckers like us?”
Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “I go on dates with them.”
My eyebrow rises. “That kind of date?”
“Yeah,” she whispers.
She’s not a lot lizard. She’s much too young and pretty to be called that yet, but after a few more years in this line of work, she’ll fit right in. I’m glad I’ve gotten to her before her shiny veneer has been rubbed away.
“How much do you charge?” I ask. And why the fuck not? What else would I ask someone like her?
“The standard. Forty-sixty-eighty.”
“I don’t usually pick up girls like you, so I’m not sure what the standard means.” This is a lie. I pick up girls just like her all the time. And then I bury them. I’ve heard it all before, but I want to hear her young, sweet little mouth say those filthy words.
“Forty for oral, sixty for sex, or eighty if you want both. If you only want a hand job, I could do twenty.”
She speaks so transactionally, like a businesswoman. She’s not like the others, though. Instead of pawing at my lap to convince me to buy what she’s selling, she knows what she’s got and she doesn’t need to get pushy. Unfortunately for her, I have no use for her product, even though the outer packaging makes my mouth water. It’s like charging a toothless man for a roasted and buttered ear of corn; he’d love to eat it, but he can only slobber all over it and make a mess.
Her green eyes harden on me. “Did you want anything?”
“Nah, not at the moment.”
A look of rejection crosses her face. She doesn’t understand why I’m turning her down, and I don’t have the desire to explain myself. Even if I could get hard, I ain’t paying for it. Besides, I need to get a few more miles under my belt before I play with her the way I want to.
Her fingers move toward the door handle. My disinterest in fucking her seems to have made her suspicious. I’ll need to lower her guard again.
My head cocks as I eye her. I can’t do anything with her myself, but she’s pretty enough to sell. Considering I still owe The Nameless for the purchase of this truck, maybe selling her would be better than killing her. She’d fetch a higher price than some of the others I’ve sold.
Most of the girls I’ve taken aren’t worth The Nameless’ time. They’re too old or tired or unsightly, like knackered horses at the stockyard. So I get rid of them. On rare occasions, I run across a girl who’s still got some light in her eyes. Like this one.
It’s a double-edged sword. I’d prefer to kill all of them, but without my truck, I’m useless. I can’t work, and I sure as shit can’t continue my spree. This girl would knock down a good chunk of my debt, though, so I’ll have to make a decision soon. Once I’ve driven her around a bit, I’ll decide whether she’ll end up with them or in a hole in the ground.
Honestly, the hole is probably the kinder option. The Nameless aren’t cruel—wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise—but they send the girls to people who do far worse than what I put them through.
Her fingers tighten on the handle, so I put the truck in gear and head toward the highway. We bounce in the fancy air seats as we hit potholes littering the on-ramp.
“Where you headed?” I ask, trying to get her to release the damn handle and sit the fuck back so I can drive without worrying she’ll jump out of my truck. Women have tried before. Sheer desperation has a way of removing the fear of rolling across asphalt at seventy miles per hour.
“New York,” she says, and I release a silent sigh of relief as her hand returns to her lap.
