“Ah, yeah. Good call about the cream. You’re so sma—”
I hung up before he could finish.
I slipped the car back into Drive.
Today was for my grandma. Opening gifts. Eating cake, surrounded by family. She deserved it.
After that, I’d work my night shift at the hospital. And the moment my shift ended, I would get right on it.
I would find fucking Myers.
Chapter 39
Dylan
I drove behind the abandoned gas station on Essex Street, heading north.
The area had turned bad a mile or so back. Houses sagging into themselves. Peeling paint. Boarded-up stores.
When my dad’s Porsche rolled up to the group of waiting women, they all moved at once. Short mini-dresses. Bare legs despite the chilly evening air.
I tugged my baseball cap lower and pulled the COVID mask higher over my face. The brim shadowed my eyes. The mask hid the rest.
My gaze landed on a short woman. She was thinner than the others. Not young, not old either. Her face was blank. On her chest, right between her barely covered breasts, shiny blisters stood out against her pale skin.
She noticed my stare and tugged her dress higher, trying to hide what she could.
I pointed at her and leaned across to push the passenger door open.
She didn’t hesitate. She slid in quickly as the others turned away without a word, already drifting back into their waiting positions.
Neither the mask nor the cap seemed to throw the woman off. Men hiding their faces was probably something she was used to. Perverted married guys. Cops. Worse.
“You got a room at the Seacoast Inn we can use?” I asked.
Everybody knew what the women behind this gas station were doing. Where they went. Prostitution was just amisdemeanor in Massachusetts. Not exactly a deterrent. Not for the buyers or for the women who didn’t have better options.
“Yes,” she said, pointing up the road. “It’s right there. Ten minutes. Near the woods.”
I nodded.
We drove in silence.
When I pulled into the Seacoast Inn parking lot, it looked exactly how I expected. A filthy old place beneath a gray sky. Paint chipped everywhere. Curtains were permanently drawn. The place smelled like urine and smoke.
As I put the car in Park, I could almost feel my grandmother sitting here all those years back. Looking for Myers. Same cracked pavement. Same shithole.
She had been stubborn and strong. But she was too kind to go as far as I would.
“We going in, or should I blow you here?” the prostitute asked. “I only do blow jobs right now. Personal reasons.”
I glanced around.
A couple of shitty cars sat scattered across the lot. An older man stepped out of one of the rooms, pulling cash out of his pocket. A young woman followed him, eyes darting left, then right, before she slipped back inside and shut the door. With his cash, of course.
Everybody knew what the Seacoast Inn was for. Drugs. Prostitutes. If you could imagine it, it happened here. Most of the women waited behind the old gas station on Essex Street. Customers picked them up and brought them here for a quick fuck.
“Do those work?” I asked, nodding toward one of the security cameras mounted crookedly on the side of the building.
