Read Online Convict: A Bad Boy Romance by Roxie Noir - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Roxie Noir
Tags: Romance, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Action & Adventure, Crime, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Women's Fiction, New Adult & College
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me, my first instinct isn’t to argue. It’s to hit them right in the solar plexus, get them on the ground, and hurt them as much as I can before the guards step in.
I ride my bike for another hour, lost in alternating thoughts of my old life, the Syndicate, and the way Luna’s hips moved against me. It’s only when I see a sign that says SANTA BARBARA, 10 MILES that I realize how far I’ve gone.
* * *
T he next morning , I’m carrying groceries in from my car when my phone rings.
“Stone Williams,” I say.
“This is Detective Batali with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department,” says a very official-sounding woman’s voice.
“Hello, detective,” I say, even as my pulse starts racing.
It’s about the auto shop , I tell myself. That’s all .
“Sorry to call you on a Saturday, but I was wondering if you’d be able to spare a few minutes and come in for fingerprinting,” she says.
No , I think, pure instinct. I clench my teeth together so I don’t say it out loud.
“We’re processing all the prints from the vandalism case at Big Eddie’s, and we need yours so we can rule them out,” she goes on. “You’re not in any databases, Mr. Williams.”
My palms start to sweat.
Think of a reason you can’t do it. Not today, not ever. Something plausible.
Cooperating with cops, like we’re on the same side or something, goes against everything I’ve ever learned. Even if right now, we really are on the same side.
“If you’re not available, another time would be fine,” Batali says. I realize I still haven’t responded to her.
“Sorry, let me check my schedule for today,” I say.
Like I’ve got a fucking schedule, but I need a minute to think. To come up with a good reason that I can’t come in for finger printing today, or tomorrow, or ever . I’m pretty sure I’ve got a constitutional right about that, but won’t that just seem more suspicious?
Best to fly under the radar, always.
Call Tony , I think.
Then I almost laugh out loud. Of course I call Tony. That’s what he’s there for.
“Can I call you back later?” I ask.
My voice sounds like someone else, someone who didn’t just nearly have a heart attack in his kitchen.
“Just give your name at the front desk and they’ll get you taken care of,” Batali says, her voice still hard and businesslike. “Thanks, Mr. Williams.”
We hang up without saying goodbye.
You’re just another phone call to her , I remind myself.
I dial Tony. His number isn’t in my phone, it’s memorized. It goes straight to voicemail, just like always. I clear my throat.
“Hey, Tony, it’s Stone,” I say. “I’ve got two tickets to the ball game tomorrow and was just calling to see if you’d like to come with me. Go Kings!”
I hang up and pace back and forth, from my kitchen to my living room, over and over. This rental house isn’t much more than a one-bedroom bungalow, but it’s more space than I need.
Hell, I spent five years learning that anything bigger than six feet by eight feet is more space than I need .
My phone buzzes at last. I get four texts from an anonymous number in quick succession, all a string of numbers. Quickly, I sort them and plug them into my phone’s GPS.
It’s a parking lot, just off a two-lane road. I zoom out. It’s deep in Los Osos State Park, about thirty minutes away.
I’m already halfway out the door when I get the fifth text.
The Kings play hockey , it reads.
Shit.
* * *
W hen I get there , Tony’s already sitting at a picnic table, hands folded in front of himself. There’s a sealed bag of chips on the table in front of him. We’re the only people here.
“Stone,” he says, rising to shake my hand.
“Thanks for coming on short notice,” I say.
Tony just nods once. Every movement he makes is trained, practiced. He looks military from a hundred feet away, just from the way he carries himself.
Though his habit of tucking polo shirts into jeans doesn’t exactly help,
I ride my bike for another hour, lost in alternating thoughts of my old life, the Syndicate, and the way Luna’s hips moved against me. It’s only when I see a sign that says SANTA BARBARA, 10 MILES that I realize how far I’ve gone.
* * *
T he next morning , I’m carrying groceries in from my car when my phone rings.
“Stone Williams,” I say.
“This is Detective Batali with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department,” says a very official-sounding woman’s voice.
“Hello, detective,” I say, even as my pulse starts racing.
It’s about the auto shop , I tell myself. That’s all .
“Sorry to call you on a Saturday, but I was wondering if you’d be able to spare a few minutes and come in for fingerprinting,” she says.
No , I think, pure instinct. I clench my teeth together so I don’t say it out loud.
“We’re processing all the prints from the vandalism case at Big Eddie’s, and we need yours so we can rule them out,” she goes on. “You’re not in any databases, Mr. Williams.”
My palms start to sweat.
Think of a reason you can’t do it. Not today, not ever. Something plausible.
Cooperating with cops, like we’re on the same side or something, goes against everything I’ve ever learned. Even if right now, we really are on the same side.
“If you’re not available, another time would be fine,” Batali says. I realize I still haven’t responded to her.
“Sorry, let me check my schedule for today,” I say.
Like I’ve got a fucking schedule, but I need a minute to think. To come up with a good reason that I can’t come in for finger printing today, or tomorrow, or ever . I’m pretty sure I’ve got a constitutional right about that, but won’t that just seem more suspicious?
Best to fly under the radar, always.
Call Tony , I think.
Then I almost laugh out loud. Of course I call Tony. That’s what he’s there for.
“Can I call you back later?” I ask.
My voice sounds like someone else, someone who didn’t just nearly have a heart attack in his kitchen.
“Just give your name at the front desk and they’ll get you taken care of,” Batali says, her voice still hard and businesslike. “Thanks, Mr. Williams.”
We hang up without saying goodbye.
You’re just another phone call to her , I remind myself.
I dial Tony. His number isn’t in my phone, it’s memorized. It goes straight to voicemail, just like always. I clear my throat.
“Hey, Tony, it’s Stone,” I say. “I’ve got two tickets to the ball game tomorrow and was just calling to see if you’d like to come with me. Go Kings!”
I hang up and pace back and forth, from my kitchen to my living room, over and over. This rental house isn’t much more than a one-bedroom bungalow, but it’s more space than I need.
Hell, I spent five years learning that anything bigger than six feet by eight feet is more space than I need .
My phone buzzes at last. I get four texts from an anonymous number in quick succession, all a string of numbers. Quickly, I sort them and plug them into my phone’s GPS.
It’s a parking lot, just off a two-lane road. I zoom out. It’s deep in Los Osos State Park, about thirty minutes away.
I’m already halfway out the door when I get the fifth text.
The Kings play hockey , it reads.
Shit.
* * *
W hen I get there , Tony’s already sitting at a picnic table, hands folded in front of himself. There’s a sealed bag of chips on the table in front of him. We’re the only people here.
“Stone,” he says, rising to shake my hand.
“Thanks for coming on short notice,” I say.
Tony just nods once. Every movement he makes is trained, practiced. He looks military from a hundred feet away, just from the way he carries himself.
Though his habit of tucking polo shirts into jeans doesn’t exactly help,
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