Page 11 of Convict's Game
“Breaking in, obviously. C’mon, open up.”
“Why should I?”
“I’m charming, slightly concussed, and there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll fall off and die. It’ll be character-building.” His smirk faded. “I promise I won’t hurt you, but they’ll kill me if they catch me.”
He braced his other hand to the exterior wall, and it was this change in position that allowed me a better view of him. Around his lower left leg was some kind of medical boot, strapped on, and with his dark jeans torn open to accommodate it.
This night was getting weirder and weirder.
That was my only explanation for why I muttered a swear word then flipped the window latch.
The man half fell into the room, landing lightly on his good leg and slithering down to sit on the bare floorboards with his back to the wall beneath the window.
He took a second to listen, presumably for any shouts of someone coming after him, then tilted his head at me. “Hey.”
I pointed at the door to the hall. “Exit’s that way.”
“Don’t need it. I came here to see you.”
Like hell he had. “You don’t know me.”
“That’s up for debate. What’s your name? I’m Convict.”
I blinked, entirely confused. “Is that a name or a job description?”
In the faint purple light, amusement flashed in his eyes. “Funny and beautiful. I like you. Let’s just say I lost a reality competition in jail and the nickname stuck. Do me a favour and take a good look at me. Recognise my face?”
I stilled and did as he asked, not because I was all that obedient, but for another reason. Convict, as he called himself, was very easy to stare at. He was a big guy, over six feet tall, and with obvious muscles under a close-fitting shirt. Not that I was checking him out. I dragged my gaze from a snake tattoo around his wrist to his face, taking in an expressive mouth and regular features.
He was pretty. The strangest, most inappropriate bright swell of attraction took over me until heat flushed my cheeks. I forced my expression to neutral.
“Never seen you before in my life.”
“How about my real name, Roscoe Locke. Familiar?”
“Nope.”
His shoulders slumped, and he scrubbed a hand through his messy dark hair. “Damn. I was hoping for different. Never mind.”
His movements revealed something else unexpected. Two things, in fact. A scar that led back from his hairline, and a flash of white bandage at his wrist.
I indicated from there to his leg. “Did you get hurt breaking into somewhere else? Is this a bad habit?” It explained his nickname, which had to be gang related, now I came to think about it.
“Wish I could tell you.”
“But you won’t?”
“Can’t, beautiful.”
I could’ve asked what he meant by that, but this was already an unexpected and unwelcome interruption to my evening. If he was discovered in here with me, I risked being thrown out. There was a very tentative trust with the organisers based on me being a clueless girl, and if they got suspicious, this would all be over.
I had to take back control. “Not to be rude, but could you please go? I can’t be found talking to a stranger.”
Convict’s focus lingered on me for a moment longer, then he eased up to peer out of the window. No shouts had followed his surprise entry, so I figured he was in the clear for whatever he was doing. The man passed me, heading to the door. After listening, he slowly twisted the handle and scanned the darkened hall outside.
But instead of leaving, he closed us in and flipped the lock.
Shit.I started forward, a hand out. “Seriously, you can’t stay. I don’t know what you’re running from, but being in here is going to cause me problems.”
