Page 21 of The Escort

“Hi, is this Dana?”

“Who’s this?”

“Jane asked me to call.”

“Oh.” There’s a long pause. “You, ah, help get women out of shit, right? Like if they’re being abused?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“My brother, he’s being abused, and I need help.”

“Your brother?” Yep, Willa was right. This is definitely a little different.

“Yeah. He was in a motorcycle accident two years ago. He has a TBI, that’s a—”

“Traumatic brain injury, yeah, I know what it is.”

“It really fucked him up. He’s not the same. His brain. It’s been damaged. I’ve been in jail for the past year. I got out a few weeks ago and found out he’s been living with this guy Bert. My brother thinks Bert is his friend, but the asshole has been stealing money from him. The last couple of times I saw my brother, he had bruises on his face and a broken arm. Now, Bert won’t let me see him. The asshole is hurting my brother. I need to get him out of there.”

“Did you call the cops or adult protection?”

“I did. No one will do anything. I’m an ex-convict. I went to jail for credit card fraud. I’m trying to make things right but can’t get into any more trouble. I know he’ll come with me if I could just get to him. I have a job lined up in Texas. I just need help getting him out of there. He’s my big brother. He’s always been there for me. I need to be there for him. Please, will you help me?”

“Where is he?”

“Sun City.”

“Send me the address. I’ll meet you there in twenty.”

“Thank you.”

The line goes dead, and my cell dings. I hit the address and glance around to be sure Chosen isn’t lurking somewhere in the darkness.

I head out to the road and reach the address, confident that the sexy news reporter didn’t follow me.

I get out of my SUV.

A woman with straight blond hair in a T-shirt and jeans, maybe in her thirties, rushes toward me.

“Dana?”

“Yeah, hi. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“You don’t need it. Come on, let’s go get your brother.” I head to the apartment building with Dana.

“This guy Bert, do you know if he carries?”

“Like a gun? No. I don’t think so, but—”

“Okay.” I nod. “What’s the number?”

“Second floor. Apartment 8.”

We reach the door. “Did you see the asshole’s car outside?”

“No.”

I rap my knuckles on the door. A big fucker, twice my weight and over a foot taller, opens the door. His lost, sagging eyes stare down at me.