Page 20 of Hart of Darkness
7
Dillon
Isat at a table in the visitor’s room, waiting for the guard to get Denim, as I replayed the night before, or hours before, in my head. I hadn’t been able to sleep a wink, not with Maggie on my brain. I’d snapped about twenty imaginary shots of her from the time she’d sashayed into the shelter until the time she’d driven away. I’d bitten my tongue when she walked to her car. I’d been a second away from asking her to stay the night. All those visions of her I’d had as a teenager paled in comparison to my thoughts of her now and what I itched to do. We were no longer enemies. She no longer had Lou watching over her. We were adults and had free rein to do as we pleased.
My lack of sleep, however, was from more than a blonde with long wavy hair and a body that made me harder than stone. My gut was signaling to me that something big was about to happen. I couldn’t pinpoint what yet. I believed that every person I came into contact with played a role in my life somehow.
Maggie was going to play a role, maybe to test my resolve not to get serious with anyone. Or maybe she would be essential in leading me to Grace. Or maybe I was in her life to help her slay her demon named Cory Calderon. I certainly wanted to cut the fucker’s head off for what he’d done to her, and the same went for the asshole who had taken his hands to Nadine, who had still been tucked into a bed when I’d left at the crack of dawn that morning. I’d made a point to check. Maggie and I both knew she would go back to her pimp, but I was praying she wouldn’t.
Aside from all that, those snapshots in my head had Maggie and me beneath the sheets, her soft skin against mine. Man, I didn’t know what had come over me when I decided to touch her scar. I hadn’t been prepared for the jolt of electricity that fired through me either. The heat was unbearable and in a good fucking way.
All I knew was that I had to get close to her. I hated that she was self-conscious about her scar. The more my finger had traveled down the length of her scar, the more my groin had pulsed. I’d been ready to explode when my eyes landed on her large, round breasts. I wanted to suck, lick, and play with them as well as her wide hips, her toes, and everywhere in between.
Focus, man.You’re at a prison to talk to your brother, not to get a boner over a woman who all but ran from you.I did like how she’d squirmed and her breathing had ramped up and how goose bumps had popped up on her arms the more my finger danced along her skin. She wasn’t running from me, but herself. I had no doubt she wanted me as much as I wanted her.
Sadly, thoughts of Maggie vanished when the door to the room squeaked open. My brother sauntered in, wearing his normal cocky grin. Nothing seemed to bother him. Even as a kid, Denim used to laugh at our old man when the bastard had lashed out at him.
“Give it your best shot,” Denim would say to dear old dad before he broke out in a fit of laughter. Our father would stumble toward Denim, waver, then swing his fists, at times missing his mark, which was Denim’s face.
Duke and I had gotten pretty good at shielding ourselves after years of taking his beatings, but we hadn’t been laughing. We would seethe and spit fire at the man we couldn’t believe was our kin. I made it my mission to never ever become the man he was.
I stood up to give my brother a hug. The last time I’d seen him was a week after I’d spoken to Duke, which was eight months ago. I tried to see Denim on occasion, but once I’d purchased the shelter, my time had been limited.
Denim and I went in for a manly hug until the guard piped up. “No touching.”
My brother rolled his eyes before he dropped his big body into the chair across from me.
The guard said, “You got fifteen minutes, Hart.” Then he took up a position at the door he and Denim had emerged from.
I slid back into my seat.
A beat of silence stretched around the empty room that was filled with other tables and chairs.
I swept my gaze over my brother, who was wearing a white T-shirt and an orange jumpsuit folded down to the waist. His blond hair was tied back in a low ponytail, his blue eyes were bright, and his jaw was littered with stubble. He seemed happy. “You look well.”
“You look like shit. What brings you here? Did you find a crack in my case to get me out of this fucked-up hell?”
I’d never believed my brother would murder anyone intentionally. Self-defense was a different story, and the potential of dying came with being in a gang. But Denim had been accused of murdering a notorious member of the Southside Creepers. It had shocked the hell out of me when I learned he’d been arrested for killing someone.
“How many times do I have to tell you, a lawyer won’t touch your case?” I’d spoken to an attorney right after I returned home from the merchant marines. The high-priced lawyer wouldn’t touch Denim’s case for all the money in the world. The man was into winning, not losing.
Fucker.
“Didn’t you tell me you’re friends with a lawyer? A Maxwell or some name like that?”
I laughed at the notion that I would bring Kelton Maxwell into the picture to retry Denim’s case. Not that I was laughing at Kelton. He was sharp as a whip and was studying criminal law. “Kelton is in law school.”
“So? He can take a look at my file. It would be a good learning experience for him. Maybe he knows a good lawyer. Look, the public defender I had was worthless.”
We were getting off track, yet I couldn’t help but feel my brother’s pain and frustration. “Bro, I’m here because I need your help.”
He smirked. “I can’t imagine how I can help you. Remember, I’m in prison.”
“Do you remember Maggie Marx from the Bloodhounds?”
He let out a low whistle. “How can I forget her? You had a major boner for that chick. Have you finally got her in the sack?”
I had no reason to turn red. I was talking to my brother, the same one who had asked about sex nonstop when he was going through puberty. Hell, most of us in the house had had to take cold showers and not because we’d been jacking off. But Denim had been.
