Bad Moon Rising (13 page)

There was no way of denying her past now. Funny how
all the old instincts came rushing back. The way of walking and talking. It
all came disconcertingly naturally, which was a good thing at the moment, she
supposed. If she was going to find out any information about Melissa from the
girls, she would have to become one of them again. They wouldn’t trust her
otherwise.

Still, the charade had gotten her nowhere—yet. She had
been fortunate so far that she had avoided running into anyone who might have
recognized her from the past. All new girls. Most of them very young. All
hardened. And fearful. She had recognized it in their eyes when speaking of
Melissa. No, no one had seen her in days. Holly had known better than to
question whether Melissa might have mentioned leaving town. A hooker working
for Tyron Johnson didn’t advertise to others her plans to ditch Tyron. Too
many of his girls, looking for a way to win points with him and a few extra
dollars, would gladly snitch on their best friend.

Holly lit a fresh cigarette and stood for a moment,
looking up at the sky where clouds raced across the moon’s face, white light
briefly dappling the brick street, glistening phosphorescently upon the hoods
of parked cars.

Due to the approaching storms, the streets were virtually
empty. Tyron would be pissed. Ninety percent of his take was due to tourists,
and without the tourist trade, the girls would be hard-pressed to meet their
nightly quotas of Johns. If the hurricane did slam New Orleans, he would force
them to move into cities farther north for a while. Baton Rouge and Shreveport,
where business was getting better since the influx of casinos such as the
Horseshoe and Harrah’s enticed high rollers away from Vegas.

Silence pressed down on her, all the more intense because
it lacked the presence of the usual traffic hum or the distant wail of music
from Bourbon Street. It was as suffocating as the humidity, which made her feel
as if each breath was inhaled through a damp, wool blanket.

A sound came from behind her and she turned, catching
a glimpse of movement at the end of the street. No car. The brief flash of
moonlight somehow contorted the shape of the image in the distance so she was
forced to squint to make out that it was a biker, his feet planted on the
street as he straddled the ten-speed and watched her.

A college brat, no doubt. His old man’s money burning
a hole in his pocket. As she watched, he turned the bike away, sailed down the
street in the opposite direction, took a right at the corner, and disappeared.

Releasing her breath, Holly flipped the butt of her
cigarette into a drain and continued walking. Her feet hurt like hell and she
looked forward to peeling herself out of the skintight, indecently short dress
she had taken from Melissa’s closet. She no longer felt comfortable in the
revealing clothes. Not that she ever had, but she could hardly pass as one of
the girls dressed in her own garb, which made her look more like a
schoolteacher.

Another clue that Melissa hadn’t simply walked away
from the life: Her clothes were still in the apartment. Then again, had she
chosen to escape Tyron Johnson, she could have left behind any and all
reminders of the life, as well as leaving behind her personal items to throw
him off for a few days. It was a trick the girls often used when they wanted to
buy enough time to get clear of his far-reaching tentacles. God, she prayed
that was the case this time, but the fear that continued to squirm in her
stomach refuted that hope.

Too quickly, the moon disappeared behind a bank of
clouds that bathed the street in shadows. She was forced to carefully watch her
footing, her spike heels catching on the occasional crack in the sidewalk. She
glanced up briefly as, engine purring, tires whispering, a car crept by her,
the indistinguishable features of a man peering out at her. She looked away
quickly, averting her eyes and keeping her head down, an indication to the
potential john that she wasn’t looking for business. The car moved on,
tail-lights like red demon eyes winking back at her.

When she looked up again, the biker was back, ahead of
her, just far enough from the intersection that the streetlight only backlit
his form, one foot braced on the street, the other still resting on the bike
pedal. A sluice of uneasiness flashed through her. It was almost as if the
creep was stalking her, playing games. Thank God she was nearly home.

Reaching the alley leading to the courtyard of Melissa’s
apartment, Holly slipped her shoes off and picked up her pace. The bricks felt
cool and damp and she made a wide arc around a scattering of broken glass.

She knew without looking that he was behind her. She
felt him. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him parked at the end of the
alley. A cat toying with a mouse. Instinctively, her hand went to her purse.
The weight and feel of the gun there reassured her, yet when she reached the
wrought iron steps, she took them two at a time, the squeak of the rusty iron
sounding extremely loud in the quiet. By the time she reached the door, she had
the keys in her hand and fumbled them into the lock as she continued to glance
down at the shadowed courtyard, expecting to see the biker appear at any time.

Slamming the door behind her, she slid the bolt into
place, lay her head against the door, and tried to breathe evenly, her heart
exploding in her ears and her body shaking. Puddin’ ran to greet her and
slinked round and round her ankles while she continued to listen, eyes closed,
for the sound of the grating steps outside the apartment.

Eternal minutes ticked by. Nothing.

At long last, she managed to breathe evenly. She was
being paranoid. The biker was nothing more than some Tulane student trying to
work up his courage to approach her.

She had every right to feel paranoid, of course. Not
only was there a killer at large, but she had been forced, when leaving Damascus’s apartment, to resort to moving into Melissa’s place. What else was she to do?
With no money, she couldn’t check into a hotel. She was risking Tyron showing
up, or one of his goons, to check on Melissa. But again, what choice did she
have? She wasn’t about to go back to Damascus. Not after he’d rubbed her past
in her face with such blatant disgust.

At the memory of his verbal assault, anger sluiced
through her. She scooped up the cat, tossed her shoes to the floor, and turned
for the kitchen. She heard it then, the squeak of the flimsy steps, and she
froze, cold dread working up her spine. Slowly, allowing the cat to slide from
her arms, she turned back to the door and withdrew the gun from her purse.
Staring at the doorknob, barely breathing, her senses expanding to the point of
pain, she waited.

A knock.

She swallowed and whispered, “Go away.”

Louder, more insistent this time, the knock
reverberated through the room. She lifted the gun and pointed it at the door. “Go
away,” she said more loudly, the tone surprisingly strong and steady.

“Holly? It’s Damascus. Open the damn door.”

She closed her eyes, relief flooding her. Not just
relief, she realized as she lowered the gun that felt as heavy as an elephant
in that moment. A thrill sang inside her as she moved unsteadily to unbolt the
door. Stepping back, allowing the door to swing open, she stared up into J.D.’s
eyes.

He looked down at the gun. “Women with guns turn me
on, FYI.”

“I’m not amused, Damascus. You scared the hell out of
me.”

As he stepped into the room, she risked a look down
into the dark courtyard.

He glanced at her. “Looking for someone?”

She closed the door and relocked it before shooting
him an annoyed look. He was dressed in faded jeans and a gold and black Saints
T-shirt. No shoulder-holstered gun tonight unless he’d somehow stuffed it into
his jeans, which was doubtful considering how tightly they lit him, showing off
every hint of his masculinity. “I was followed, for your information.”

The condescending smirk returned to his lips as he assessed
her. “I’m not surprised. I like the blond wig, but I prefer your own.”

The wig. She had totally forgotten about it. As she
yanked it off, her own dark hair fell in a wave over her shoulder. She tossed
the blond mop onto the bed.

“So where did you get that?” Damascus grinned. “Frederick’s of Hollywood?”

“Right. Along with my crotchless, edible panties,
thank you very much.”

“Hey, I didn’t come here to fight with you again.”

“Just insult me.”

“I wasn’t aware that old Frederick was insulting.”

“He’s not. It’s your tone I find insulting.”

She returned the gun to her purse, shoved it under the
bed, then sat in a chair and crossed her legs. The short dress barely covered
her crotch. She smiled at him spitefully. “If you came for that blow job, you’re
out of luck, J.D. I’m off-duty.”

He sat on the bed. Puddin’ jumped in his lap. As Damascus proceeded to scratch the purring cat between the ears, he looked Holly up and
down, his expression dark, his eyes slightly narrowed.

“What are you doing here, Holly?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You look like a tramp.”

“FYI, I am a tramp, or so you so blatantly reminded me
three nights ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

She looked away from his eyes.

“What you did with or for Tyron is no business of
mine. I don’t want what I said to—”

“Undermine my resolution to put the life behind me?”
She flashed him an incinerating glance, refusing to acknowledge the emotion
crawling up her throat. “You must really value your opinion, Damascus. I don’t
care what you think about me. Now what are you doing here, really?”

He dragged one hand back through his hair and looked
around the room. “Hell, I don’t know. I told myself that I was going to run to
the store and somehow I ended up here. Figured this is where I would find you.
I take it you haven’t found Melissa.”

“What do you think?”

“I think your being here is stupid. I think your
walking those streets looking for her is even dumber. There’s a murderer out
there, Holly—”

“Just what am I supposed to do, Damascus? Forget my
best friend is missing and go back to Branson?” She laughed. “I couldn’t do
that even if I wanted to. I’ve barely got enough cash in my wallet to buy a
hamburger, much less the gas to get me home.”

She pushed up from the chair and began to pace. “God,
I had almost forgotten what it’s like to be so damn desperate. Walking those
streets, it all came rushing back to me, how easy it would be to earn a quick
fifty bucks. Sell out for a little security.”

She turned on Damascus and narrowed her eyes. “It’s a
sorry thing when the greatest achievement of your life is just how good an
orgasm you can supply a john.”

He looked away, color staining his face.

“What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you haven’t come across
one of your hooker clients that you wouldn’t mind spending a little quality
time with. Don’t tell me you haven’t looked at me since figuring out my past
and not toyed with the idea of laying me. Maybe that’s why you’re really here.
You’re less concerned about my welfare than you are curious about whether I’m a
good lay or not.”

“The thought has crossed my mind, but that’s not why I’m
here.”

“No? Maybe you’re just fooling yourself.”

She approached him, her gaze holding his, and moved
between his spread knees, her thighs nestled between his, the rough material of
his jeans brushing her flesh.

Running one finger along the line of his jaw, she whispered,
“Maybe you told yourself that you were lonely in that hot, cramped apartment.
Feeling sorry for yourself over the loss of your family. Maybe you were
thinking about Beverly, tempted to invite her over to discuss Patrick, in the
back of your mind thinking this might be the one time you conveniently let your
resistance slip. Or maybe you needed a diversion from your hatred for Tyron.”

She forced herself to smile, to ignore the sensation
of pleasure she experienced over the touch of her finger on his stubbled jaw. “There
are a great many reasons why a man searches out the company of a hooker, Damascus. Mostly self-denial. They want to take a walk on the dark side and need to justify
their behavior to themselves.”

She teased his ear with her fingertip, and he grinned.
“You’re toying with me, Holly. Besides
...
”—he
eased his hand up the inside of her thigh—”that pin knife you have strapped to
your leg could do a lot of damage.” His fingers brushed the thin scabbard on
her leg as his grin widened. “Then again, maybe you’re more in the mood to get
laid than you are to cut off my privates.”