Body Movers Books 1-3

“I don’t have one.”

“Well, come back when you get one,” he said, disgust in his voice. “If people just walk up and start talking to me, my boss is going to get suspicious, got it?” He walked away, shaking his head, leaving Wesley feeling like a fool.

Cursing under his breath, Wesley walked off the lot, dialing his buddy Chance Hollander’s number.

“Yeah?” Chance answered.

“Dude, it’s Wes.”

“I thought you’d died or something, man. Where you been since you got out of jail?”

“Working.”

Chance laughed. “Working? You flipping burgers?”

“No, man, I’m moving stiffs to the morgue.”

“You’re fucking with me, man.”

Wes’s chest expanded. Chance wasn’t easily impressed. “No, I’m serious.”

Chance guffawed. “That’s righteous.”

“Listen, dude, I need a gun.”

“What kind?” Chance said, instantly all business.

“Handgun.”

“You in trouble?”

“A little.”

“You can borrow one of mine.”

Wesley’s shoulders dropped in relief. “You sure, man?”

“Absolutely. Come on over.”

“I’m on foot. I’ll be there when I can.”

“Oh, right, you don’t have a license.” Chance’s hearty laughter sounded over the line. “Man, you should’ve taken care of your own speeding tickets, too.”

“I know,” Wesley said, hating to pretend that he was dumb.

“Where are you? I’ll come and get you. I’m bored as shit anyway.”

Wesley told him where he could pick him up, then walked to the corner and waited. A few minutes later, Chance’s black BMW coupe came into view. He stopped in traffic and gestured for Wesley to get in. When a car horn sounded behind him, Chance gave the guy the finger and swore out the window.

“Fuckers need to chill,” Chance said. His chunky body was dressed in Tommy Hilfiger and sprawled in the driver’s seat. He smiled behind his Oakley sunglasses, but even without seeing Chance’s eyes, Wesley knew he was stoned.

“Did you bring the gun?” Wesley asked as they pulled away from the curb.

“Glove compartment,” Chance said happily. “In the black case. It’s a .38 special, easiest gun in the world to fire. There’s a half box of shells in there, too.”

Wesley opened the case and removed the small revolver to heft its weight in his hand. His heart beat faster as he stroked the cold metal. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Chance said. He was always generous when he was high. “Just find a good hiding place.”

“Is it registered to you?”

Chance snorted. “No way. It’s practically untraceable.”

Wesley nodded, thinking that his friend was pretty street-smart for a frat boy. He put the revolver and the shells in his backpack, then asked, “So how’s school?”

“Sucks a big, hairy one. You’re lucky that you don’t have to go.”

“Yeah,” Wesley said, thinking that Chance didn’t realize how lucky he was that his parents provided the means for him to go to school, have a great apartment and car, and all the spending money he wanted. They would’ve paid for an Ivy League school if Chance could’ve gotten accepted, but as it was, he’d barely scored high enough on the SAT to get into a state college.

“So tell me about this body-moving gig,” Chance said.

“Oh, it’s cool. We go to hospitals, people’s houses, anywhere there’s a stiff, and transport them to the morgue or to a funeral home.”

“Worked any traffic accidents yet?”

“A couple.”

“How bad was it?”

“Not pretty,” Wesley said, bracing himself against the car’s dash as Chance zigzagged through traffic and wondering if some day he and Coop would be peeling his buddy off a guardrail.

“So you got probation in your case, huh? You must’ve had a kick-ass attorney.”

“Yeah, she was great, not bad to look at either.”

“Did you fuck her?”

“What? No. She’s a woman—she’s not interested in me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Chance said. “And trust me, older women are great in bed.”

Wesley smirked. Chance had more women than he could count. The guy was legendary in his conquests, and bragged that he’d once bedded four women at once. Wesley didn’t doubt it. Girls loved Chance’s money and his parties and to hear Chance tell it, his dick.

The guy had it made, Wesley thought, shaking his head. As his friend guided the little sports car down the street toward the town house, he said, “Thanks for the ride home, man. And the piece.”

“Call it a bonus for taking care of the speeding tickets.” Chance laughed. “I pretended to be an employer doing a background check and called to see if the tickets were gone. My record is clean as Clorox.”

“Great.” Wesley jerked his thumb toward the town house. “Want to come in?”