Read Online Hard Time by Cara McKenna - Free Book Online

infatuation that kept me awake nights might be this man’s only reason for getting up in the morning, for all I knew.
    No. I was giving myself way too much credit.
    Just read what he wrote.
Could prove the creepiest thing I’d ever laid my eyes on, and all this energy I was spending, writing him into some redeemable script, would prove a complete waste.
    I slammed my door and eyed the bar. Though I lived two floors above it, I’d only been in for a drink once. After I’d finished unpacking from my move I’d gone down, hoping maybe the place would prove more charming than it looked, that I’d forge some friendship with the bartender or magically run into a fellow displaced Southerner. Nope. Lola’s was a dive, frequented by dead-enders and career alcoholics, folks with too much free time, few-to-nil prospects, and just enough cash to drink themselves insensate for a night.
    I used to drink a little in college, at parties. Then Justin had ruined all that for me. Alcohol wasn’t fun anymore, wasn’t the socially acceptable vice it had been. Slurred words weren’t funny. Shots didn’t punctuate a good time—they counted down to detonation.
    But tonight . . .
    I walked past the side entrance that led to the apartments, heading for the front door.
    A Friday at Lola’s looked like any other night. Almost all the seats at the bar were taken, but I wanted privacy, anyway. I stood behind a vacant stool until I caught the bartender’s eye. He was young, maybe thirty, with tattoos on his arms and a pristine white Tigers cap over his buzz cut.
    “Do you have iced tea?” Or what passed for it, up here.
    He checked an unseen fridge below the bar. “Yup.”
    “Iced tea with lemon and ice with a shot of bourbon, please.”
    He looked skeptical, but filled a pint glass with a can of Nestea and mixed it all the same. I paid and took my drink to a two-seater booth in the quietest corner. I didn’t want any people or windows at my back, no possibility of anybody reading over my shoulder. I was acting an awful lot like a criminal, I thought, settling into my spot. I took a sip and winced. Goddamn. And I’d thought my grandpa mixed these strong.
    I hadn’t eaten since twelve, and I felt the drink almost immediately. Felt good. Tasted like family barbecues, not all those nights I wasted with Justin.
    I waited until my blood was hot, then drew my notebook from my bag. I smoothed my fingers over the folded paper, felt the lines where Collier’s pencil or pen had pressed. I peeked inside, just enough to see blue. I pictured him pinching the ink stem of a stripped Bic—the staff removed the outer plastic tubes because the cons could use them for God knew what. Collier’s big fingers around that skinny implement, carefully transcribing his thoughts from the word processor’s screen.
    What on earth had he wanted to say to me?
    I got a plan to bust myself out of here, but I’m gonna need your help. There’s twenty grand in it for you—I got profits coming to me from my buddy’s meth racket.
    Please no. Though that certainly would scare me straight.
    Just read it.
    What was I so terrified of? Everything. That he’d seduce me further. That he’d prove me an idiot for getting drawn in so deep, so fast, with so little bait.
    No. That he’d somehow wreck this infatuation I’d come to treasure far too much. That he’d take away what he’d given me, these past couple of weeks—that thing I’d thought I’d lost. My ability to crave a man.
    I took a deep drink and unfolded the paper.
    His writing was as stiff and mindful as a grade schooler’s, peppered with dark patches where he’d scribbled words out to fix or replace them.
    Darling,
    I took another deep drink, sweat breaking out under my arms and between my breasts.
    You probably read lots of books. With way better words in them than I could ever write. I don’t know how to make the stuff in my head sound good. But I’ll try.
    You don’t know me. I don’t know you