Page 14 of Property of Stone
Her chin jerked into her neck. What kind of question was that? Besides a rude one. “No. Do I look like one?”
“No particular look for a whore. But if you ain’t, then you don’t belong here. Best you leave.”
Just like that?“I’m looking for someone.”
He planted a hand on his hip and shook his head. “Ain’t we all?”
“His name is James Conrad.”
Patch—even though he never confirmed that was his name, she might as well call him that—spat a stream of dark juice onto the ground, barely missing his own boot with the splatter. “James Conrad, huh? Nobody here by that name.” He jerked his chin toward her Honda. “You tryin’ to sell that ride?”
“What? No.” She would need it to escape this paradise.
“Then, you got no business here.”
That was his opinion. Taryn didn’t agree. “I actually do.”
“What?”
“What, what?” she asked.
He shook his head. “What fuckin’ business you got here?”
“I need a word with Mr. Conrad.”
“Mr. Conrad,” he repeated in an amused mutter. “Jesus fuck.”
“Does he not live here?”
“Like I said, girly, nobody here by that name.”
Bullshit.“This came up as his address.”
“That fuckin’ so?”
“Yes, but if he doesn’t live here then I’m sorry if I disturbed you.” She wasn’t. If he was going to lie, so was she.
One shaggy eyebrow rose. “He know you?”
What an odd question to ask if the man didn’t live here. More proof he did. Or at least spent time here.
“Yes.” Sort of.
She had no idea if James Conrad knew her name or if he would even remember her. The incident with Vic happened over a year ago. She did know James went to prison for his unfortunate part in it. As soon as she discovered he’d been freed, she began to search him out.
And here she was. But according to Patch, not at the right address.
“D’you even have any fuckin’ clue where you’re at?”
Another odd question. “A school?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, girly, what used to be a fuckin’ school. Ain’t that now.”
“I figured it was no longer a school solely by the amount of empty beer and liquor bottles. Plus, I can’t imagine aschool cafeteria would serve up food from”—she flipped a hand toward the nearest halved steel drum—“one of those DIY grills.”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with those grills.” He rubbed the part of this gut that extended past the leather vest. “Makes some damn good eatin’.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” She glanced to her left and eyed up the building. “So if it’s not a school and not a residence, what is it?”
