Page 11 of The Convict

He growls after a bit, picking up the other container. “What?” I ask gruffly.

“This is dark,” he grumbles, motioning to my neck tattoo. “Your tattoo artist was heavy handed with the black, is all.”

I grin, thinking about Rooster, our Treasurer, who works as a tattoo artist. I told him I wanted it dark and bold and he fucking delivered.

“Can you cover it?” I ask impatiently.

“I just did.” He turns my face to the mirror and I take a look at his handiwork. If I didn’t know it was there, I wouldn’t think there was a tattoo under the thick layer of makeup. It feels cakey, like if I sweat, it’ll start running, but it’s not a bad job.

Looks like Finn will live through this after all.

Chapter 5

Finn

Rax makes me drive all through the day. We stop once to use the bathroom and get food, but otherwise, we’re on the road. As I’m driving, I kick myself for telling Sy I’d be in St. Louis this weekend. She knows I only go that way to look for a new place and to troll for some cock. She doesn’t usually go with me, since she has a boyfriend that gives me the side eye.

I should have told my mother, but she’s inattentive as fuck, so she probably wouldn’t have remembered anyway. She doesn’t pay attention to me, so she won’t even notice I’m gone. She doesn’t care about my comings and goings.

Fucking hell, where did I go wrong? I always shop that early in the morning, so it’s not out of my routine. What was out of my routine was chatting up a handsome stranger in a small town. I’d never seen him around before, so I should have known he was up to no good.

Again, I chide myself, this time for being judgmental. I’ve seen plenty of big ass, tattooed men with long hair and beards in St. Louis that worked in pet stores and had a house full of kittens for God’s sake. Judging someone based on their appearance is a mistake I shouldn’t make.

Especially when people do it to me. No one expects a long haired twink that wears make up and likes wearing thongs and cheeky panties to be as good under the hood as I am on my knees. I’m the best mechanic my shop has, most people coming to see either me or Gordon, my boss, to get quality work done.

But this is probably a time I should have judged someone. He has to be some kind of ex-con. Most men aren’t built like that and have those tats without having served some time. I want to ask him more questions, like where the hell we’re going, but I keep my mouth shut. I’ve rambled enough as it is.

When we get to Delong County, Tennessee, my eyes feel like sandpaper and I gotta pee something awful. I’m so tired I could sleep for a week. Rax is wide awake beside me though.

“Pull over here,” he says after not speaking for over three hours, since our last stop.

The sun set about two hours ago, and where he indicated for me to turn is in a bunch of trees along a dirt road. My breathing comes out choppy and my hands shake as I make the turn. Oh fuck. This is it. This is where he kills me and leaves my body.

“Please, Rax. I did everything you asked. I—”

“Stop talking,” he says in a bored tone. “Stop here and put the car in park. And for the love of god, don’t fucking speak.”

I clamp my lips together, though my teeth are chattering. I watch as he reaches into his pocket and I flinch, throwing my hands up. I saw him put his gun there when we left the airport parking lot.

When the shot doesn’t come, I lower my hands and see Rax staring at me with an amused expression. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t dump your body for no one to find. I’m quite proud of my kills.”

That sends a shiver down my spine. I’m not sure if he’s joking or not. I don’t think he is. His eyes tell me he’s not lying. He would as easily dispose of me as he would change his clothes.

After he’s done staring me down, he reaches into his pocket for a second time and makes a show of pulling out his phone, his eyes sparkling with the need to taunt me because I’m afraid of him. I almost forgot he had it. He broke mine back in Missouri, making it impossible for anyone to track my location and he tossed the one he had.

He dials some numbers quickly, then puts the phone to his ear. “Thirty seconds,” he barks into the phone, followed up with, “Life is good on the other side of the fence. I’m coming in. Open the gates.” He says a clipped yes, then hangs up. “Drive,” he says to me.

“Here?” I look around at the dirt road, not seeing anything in sight. There’s even a log up ahead that looks to be in the middle of the road.

“No, on fucking Jupiter. Put the car in gear and go.”

Doing as he says, I put the car in drive and start up the winding dirt road. Up ahead, the dirt road veers, the log not even in its path.

The lane winds deeper into the woods until there’s a break in the trees. I gasp. This is a fucking compound. There are ten foot retaining walls all around with a large gate directly in front of me. Outside, there are a few bikes, but they don’t look like they’re functional—just parts to be used in case they’re needed. A sign above the gate says, in big, ominous letters, “Devil’s Mayhem MC.”

He’s in a fucking motorcycle gang.

I’m fucking dead.

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