Page 9 of The Convict

He glances down at it, eyes wide with fear, then faces the road. Quickly, he wipes his face and grips the steering wheel again. “I planned to go to St. Louis today. So, I guess it’s meant to be.” He doesn’t sound too thrilled about going with a gun aimed at him, but that’s his problem. Next time he’ll know not to go grocery shopping when escaped convicts are roaming around.

Well, he doesn’t know I’ve escaped. In fact, no one knows yet. I’ve been checking the news on Trenton’s phone. The only good thing about that shitty prison is how they treat the inmates in solitary. You get one meal a day down there unless you’re taken down after five. I was taken down at six, when Shane left, so dinner had already been served. The next mealtime for solitary is three pm today.

Another good thing? They didn’t care if you’re asleep at mealtime. They just slide your food through the cubby hole and expect you to have the empty tray ready for them to pick up the next day at three pm. So, I have a two-day head start. Hopefully, I can get back to my clubhouse and my brothers can figure out what to do with me.

I’m not sure how smart it was for me to run when I was almost halfway through my sentence before I’m eligible for parole. I didn’t plan to kill Trenton, or escape, but I was tired of his shit. And waiting for Shane to figure out if my appeal would be approved was starting to wear on my nerves. I hadn’t planned to kill Trenton, but I wasn’t going to let an opportunity like that pass me by. I also wanted to breathe fresh air outside the gates of prison, so escape it was.

Not like I can change it now. I’ll never go back. I’ll die first.

Coming back to the present, I look at the speedometer and see that this kid has a fucking lead foot. He’s good, weaving in and out of traffic, but we’re on the highway and patrol cars could be anywhere. I need to get to where I’m going without the cops showing up. “Slow the fuck down,” I growl.

Immediately, he takes his foot off the gas. “Sorry. I know where the cops are, so I know where I can speed, is all. I take this way often when I’m going to St. Louis.”

That doesn’t put my mind at ease. It sounds like he knows where to speed so he can get the cops attention. Not today. “Put on the cruise control and get in the right lane. Don’t be stupid or I’ll kill you and toss your body out of the moving fucking car.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, easing over to the right lane and setting the cruise control to seventy-five.

We’re silent for the two hours it takes to get to St. Louis, not even the radio on to fill the silence. The kid sniffles every now and then, but he doesn’t let more tears drop. I imagine he has to be tough, being a gay mechanic. Especially looking the way he does, all wide eyes, puffy lips, curvy body, and innocent looks. He doesn’t look feminine per se, but he looks soft. And not in a completely bad way.

“Take this next exit,” I say gruffly, making him jump. He takes the exit, driving around until we find a Walmart. “I need a burner phone. They still sell those, right?” I ask.

Finn gives me a long look. “You mean a prepaid phone?” I nod. “Yeah, they sell them. Why wouldn’t they?”

I shrug. Shit changes when you’re locked up. Technology waits for no prisoner. “I need to be in and out. Don’t try anything stupid or you will have the deaths of many people on your hands. Do you understand me?”

Looking stricken, he dips his head. I get out of the car and round the back, waiting for him to exit too. Shakily, he opens the door before I can yank him out. Just before we step inside, I grip is bicep. “Give me your phone.” His face blanches and his shoulders draw up, but he hands me the phone. I see there’s a call connected. I put the phone to my ear and hear the automated voice asking if he’d like to leave a message. I hang up before it rolls over.

With narrowed eyes, I look at him and immediately, Finn starts begging. “I’m sorry. I was just so scared. I won’t do it again, I promise. It was my mom and she rarely answers my calls. I just wanted her to know I was okay.”

“How? By leaving her a message of me talking to you? Nice try, kid.” His shoulders slump and he can’t control the tears now. I break the phone and toss it in the trash beside the door. “Wipe your fucking face,” I growl. A woman walks past and I want to glare at her, but I don’t want her to get a good look at my face. I pull my hair out of the ponytail and shake it forward to obscure my face further. There are already too many cameras around as it is. If I trusted Finn to come in here and get the phone for me and not alert the authorities, I would have laid low in the car.

This is a risk I have to take.

Grabbing his arm tighter, I shake him a little and say, “Get your shit together. Now.”

“I’m trying,” he whispers, wiping under his eyes quickly. When he finally gets his shit together, I motion for him to walk. I have the gun in my waistband just in case he tries something.

The phones aren’t hard to find in the electronics section, and I snap one up. I have Trenton’s wallet and he had a few hundred dollars in cash, so I’ll be good for a bit. I tossed out his credit cards, not wanting to even be tempted to use them. They leave a paper trail.

“Come on,” I say to Finn, grabbing his arm. Instead of leading him to the register, I take him to the makeup aisle.

I would be an idiot if I didn’t think my tattoos would be a beacon for anyone looking closely, especially the one on my neck. I pulled my hair over my shoulders, but there’s no hiding the part of my tat that’s on the front of my throat. When I got it, I knew it was big and loud, but I rep the Devil’s Mayhem. Until I get back to them, I have to hide it.

All these options for that foundation shit makes my head hurt. I want to grab something at random, but I don’t know what will match my skin. Since I’ve been locked away, I’m less tan than I used to be, owing to only having rec time an hour a day.

“You’re this one kinda,” Finn says quietly, reaching around me to grab something with a little flap. “Maybe if you blend it with this one.” Again, he pulls something off the shelf. He tries to give me a shaky smile and I feel like he’s trying to make up for his fuck up with the phone call. No matter. He didn’t get connected to anyone, so I won’t count that as a strike against him. If he fucks up again, I’ll start the tally.

Devil’s Mayhem don’t do three strikes.

I grunt a thanks and grip his arm to take him to the shoe department. I’ve been in these small pieces of shit for too long. My damn toes are screaming at me to free them from Trenton’s small-ass gym shoes.

Finding my size in a pair of off brand shoes, I slide them on, groaning in ecstasy when I can stretch my toes out.

Almost better than sex.

With that taken care of, I leave the box there with Trenton’s old shoes and we head to the register.

We check out at one of the millions of self-checkouts available. There were only one or two when I was a free man. This is a bit of a shock and I find myself looking around with hesitance at everything. Seven years isn’t a long time, but it’s long enough for shit to change drastically.

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