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Reed’s smile is packed with pride and adoration. If I didn’t know he was such a kinky fucker, I’d swear the boy is a giant marshmallow when it comes to Ainsley Davenport. Regardless, it’s apparent the guy is head over heels, which makes me incredibly happy for my friend.
Kingston nudges Reed with his arm. “I saw a few people I wanted to say hi to, but I don’t want to bore Jazz. You cool if she hangs with you for a bit?”
“Of course.” Reed gives a stern nod.
“Duh,” Ainsley adds, swinging her arm around my shoulders. “What do you say we go find the booze?”
Kingston and Reed have a silent exchange before Kingston yanks me into him and plants a kiss on my mouth.
“I’ll be back soon.”
I wave him off. “Do what you need to do.”
I watch as Kingston weaves through the crowd. He has his eye on someone in particular, but Ainsley tugs on my arm to get my attention before I can see who he’s after.
“Jazz? Did you hear me about the booze?”
“That sounds like a great idea.” I could use something to take the edge off from my encounter with her father.
“So... what’s up with the weird vibes I was getting earlier?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean...” She stretches the last word out. “Why was my dad acting like a total creeper? And he knew your mom?! How crazy is that? What did he say after I went to talk to the dean?”
“Uh...” I look to Reed for some help.
“Babe.” Reed puts a hand on Ainsley’s lower back, guiding her to the bar. “Let’s get those drinks. I’m thirsty as hell.”
Ainsley giggles and presses up on her toes to whisper something in his ear. Reed’s hand flexes around her hip, leading me to believe that whatever she said was filthy. Whatever he says back to her is likely even filthier because she’s turning beet red.
Diversion successful. God bless teenage hormones.
After she disengages from the dirty talk, Ainsley’s hazel eyes, identical to her brother’s, roam the room. “Is it just me, or are there an awful lot of girls our age here?”
I noticed that, too, but I wouldn’t exactly know what’s considered atypical with these types of gatherings.
“And that’s odd?”
Ainsley nods. “Totally odd. Usually, the only women present are freshly Botoxed wives or girlfriends. At least in the parties my dad has hosted at our house. They must be dancers, too, here to meet the dean.”
Reed is scanning the room right along with me and based on the wary look in his eyes, I’m guessing the same thoughts are running through his brain. Could these girls possibly be trafficking victims? My recent online research has taught me that sex trades can take on many different forms. On the surface, victims could look like your average happy, healthy person.
But sometimes, beautiful women are used as high-class escorts in wealthier circles. Or they work as masseuses—not to be confused with massage therapists—through seemingly legitimate day spas or likewise establishments. You just never know because things aren’t always as they seem. They even have task forces during the Super Bowl, whose sole job is to raise awareness or provide an opportunity for victims to escape during the massive influx of travelers.
Sadly, it’s not always easy for a victim to leave, even if they had the chance. The traffickers keep them compliant with threats, blackmail, drugs, material things, or pretty much anything they can use as leverage. One recent study said that girls in foster care are particularly vulnerable. Is that how my mom got sucked in? Is this what she was subjected to?
Ainsley’s right—a lot of these women are in their late teens, maybe early twenties. Kingston once told me that you can usually spot an interested buyer by watching how closely they observe others. Pay attention to their body language as they track a young woman or, even more disturbing, little girls. As I attempt to do that, I think I spot one.
The man isn’t even that old—maybe thirty at best—but he’s giving off strange vibes. The redhead he’s talking to flattens her palm over his chest, before lifting up on her toes to whisper something in his ear. When he pulls back, he nods and watches her walk away. Another woman—this one blonde and closer to his age than mine—comes up to him with fire in her eyes.
I’m guessing this may be his wife or girlfriend who just happened to witness his interaction with the other woman. The man’s face flushes as she presumably rips him a new asshole before stomping off. With slight hesitation, looking down the hall the younger woman walked down just moments ago, he chases after the blonde. I look down the hallway and spot the redhead disappear behind some French doors. My gut’s telling me something’s not right. I need to make an excuse to step away so I can follow her.
“I need to pee real quick.”
“Okay,” Ainsley says.
“Hold on a sec,” Reed adds.
