Bait: A Novel Read Free

Nash’s attention. Its movements were compulsive, unhinged, suggestive of a mental patient or victim in shock. Nash feared both.
    “Who are you?” he asked, taking a step back.
    The figure snorted and spat. It flew like a bullet, making a dent in the sand. Nash took it as a warning shot, but cared little. He challenged with his own gob, planting it between them.
    “You got a name?”
    He considered tagging
bitch
onto his question, but decided against it. Puffing chests felt premature, and judging by the situation so far, he thought it unwise to make enemies. It was becoming clear that the squatting figure was a woman, albeit an ugly one. The high voice implied a chick, but the fearlessness in the tone made Nash unsure. He looked closer and saw the curve of breast under her dirty Harley-Davidson T-shirt. She examined a clump of tangled hair hanging in her face and didn’t reply. Nash raised his voice.
    “Hey, I’m talking to you.”
    Phlegm rattled in the woman’s throat and she spat with more menace, this time in Nash’s direction, the gob missing him by a foot.
    “Name’s Nunya,” the woman said.
    “Nunya?”
    Nash knew he’d stepped in it as soon as the word left his lips. He rolled his eyes before she replied. He’d used this one himself countless times.
    “Yeah, Nunya fucking business.”
    Nash laughed. He didn’t know why. The woman turned and regarded him with a scowl. Nash stopped laughing at the sight of her. Calling her ugly was a mistake. She might have been a looker if she bothered to clean herself up. Disheveled, reddish-brown hair hung in near dreadlocks alongside her dirty face. She looked battle scarred, war weary; ripe for early retirement. Nash’s tongue perused a few gaps in his teeth, reminding him that he was no spring chicken either.
    “Well, pleased to meet you, Nunya,” he said with a smirk. “I’m Nash.”
    She let out a haughty breath at the introduction and turned away. She was in no mood for pleasantries, evidenced by her third spit in as many minutes.
    “Ah, Christ, man,” she said. “I’m not having you call me that for the rest of whatever. My name’s Ginger. Don’t forget it. I ain’t telling you again.”
    Nash was sure he could remember. “Ginger. Okay, got it. Is that a nickname or something?”
    Ginger leaned back and stretched out on the sand, already tired of his questions. Behind her, Nash noticed a set of footprints trailing off into the brush. There was at least one more person around.
    What have we gotten ourselves into?
he thought.
    He looked back at the three unconscious bodies. They all looked like inner-city trash: worn clothes and bad complexions. Nothing respectable about any of them and no question they were all from the same bracket of society. The one found around the rim of Miami’s asshole.
    I wonder who the worst of this bunch is. . . .
    The worst what, Nash wasn’t even sure. Ginger scratched her arm savagely. The action cued Nash to do the same. The itching was just beginning.
    “Don’t suppose you got a clue about any of this?” Nash asked.
    Ginger sat back up, flinging dreadlocks out of her face, thin frame rigid with attitude. She simply stared at him. Nash’s annoyance grew at her lack of an answer.
    “What the fuck is happening here?”
    Ginger shrugged nonchalantly. The smile she gave was surprisingly sweet and might have fooled others, but Nash caught wind of the bullshit behind it. He recognized her type, little liar playing mind games. Nash had banged broads like her throughout his music career: aspiring actresses and singers with habits to feed, wading into the party scene, hoping to suck or fuck for a foot in the door before fading away or burning out.
    “Maybe we’re sweepstakes winners,” she said finally.
    Nash sighed. “You got no idea, do you?”
    He gave her his most unimpressed look, but she didn’t notice. She couldn’t have been less interested in him or his opinion of her. Instead, she turned to face the