Read Online Convict: A Bad Boy Romance by Roxie Noir - Free Book Online Page B

and neither does the fact that he’s probably fifty years old but still pure muscle, his neck nearly the width of his head.
    If you look up Federal Marshal in the dictionary, Tony’s picture might be there.
    We couldn’t be more different, but I like him. He takes this shit seriously.
    “What’s going on?” he asks, pulling open the bag of chips and turning it toward me.
    I raise my eyebrows at the chips.
    “We’re having a picnic,” he explains.
    I guess that’s our cover, so I take a chip, even though I’m not hungry.
    “The place where I work was vandalized,” I say.
    I tell the story, though I leave out the Syndicate’s symbol. I don’t want to involve anyone but myself with that.
    I’m not supposed to say specific names out loud, just in case someone’s bugged the pine trees here, so I’m vague — “The place I work,” “The town where I live,” “My boss,” that sort of thing.
    Tony listens carefully. He eats one chip. This is the least convincing picnic that’s ever taken place.
    “You’re asking whether you should allow the San Luis Obispo Sheriff to obtain your fingerprints,” he says, his hands clasped in front of him.
    “Yes,” I say.
    “Well, you do have a constitutional right to privacy, though several court cases have been waged over to what extent this right exists in private individuals,” he says. “If you refuse, it’s unlikely that anything will come of it.”
    I’m silent. He usually gets around to his point.
    “However, if you’re asking whether volunteering your fingerprints might compromise your current status, it would not,” he goes on.
    “I’m not in a database somewhere?” I ask.
    I know I used to be. I probably used to be in every database.
    “No,” Tony says. “Not unless your fingerprints have been collected elsewhere in connection with a crime since your entry into the program. Which they haven’t, right, Stone?”
    He fixes me with a slightly stern look. I think it’s supposed to be fatherly, not that I’d fucking know.
    “I sure hope not,” I say, and try not to smile.
    Tony stands.
    “You want my advice?” he asks.
    “That’s why I called,” I say.
    “Get fingerprinted,” he says. “Cooperate with the police. I know it feels strange, but it’s good practice.”
    “Thanks, Tony,” I say, and stand.
    As he walks past me, he claps his big, beefy hand to my shoulder.
    “Most people who give up and go home or get found do it in the first six months,” he says, keeping his voice low. “You’re past that hurdle. You’re doing okay, Stone.”
    If only you fucking knew, I think.
    Then he walks back to his car.

    * * *
    I drive straight to the station. I tell the receptionist my name, and a uniformed officer comes out and takes me into the back.
    Luna’s not there, even though I keep craning my neck around, hoping for a glimpse of her curly deep gold hair. I’m somewhere between relieved and disappointed, because being in a police station again is bad enough, even if this time the officer is making polite conversation and I’m not in handcuffs.
    He takes his time getting my prints, carefully rolling each finger through the black ink pad and placing them precisely onto the paper. I’m perfectly cooperative and pleasant, even joking with the officer.
    God, my life has changed.
    I can still remember the first time I got taken into custody, the memory perfectly clear, like it happened this morning. I was seventeen. The guy who arrested me was a Floyd County Sheriff’s Deputy, a fat old man who had teeth stained from chewing tobacco and called me son in the most patronizing way I’ve ever heard.

    * * *
    M y hands are behind my back held in place by plastic ties, not even handcuffs. My shoulders are screaming in pain, but I grind my teeth together and try to ignore it, because I know he wants this to hurt. This good old boy is pushing me too hard between the shoulder blades, nearly shoving me over.
    He walks me through the station like