Page 2 of Hart of Vengeance
I clenched my fists. I would like to believe I had the patience to walk away, but my brother Dillon was the only Hart brother who won that award with flying colors.
The big-ass dude growled. “I could plan for you and me to tango later.”
I snorted. “I don’t swing that way.” I knew he was referring to a fistfight, but I couldn’t help myself, although maybe he was one who liked men.
The guy leaned over the table, pressing his big gut on the top as his garlic breath burned the hairs inside my nose.
“If you’re trying to pick me up, then you need some mouthwash.”
His dark eyes narrowed to slits.
Stew, the guard, cleared his throat. He was what the inmates called a good egg. If we needed something or wanted to hide something, Stew was our man. “Costa, back off.” Stew was also the guard we didn’t want to cross. The man was built like a sumo wrestler.
Costa cocked his head. “We’re talking.”
Stew’s uniform pants rubbed together as he came over. “Costa, back the fuck up.”
Costa straightened, gnashing his teeth. “Watch your back, Hart.”
If he thought he frightened me, he was mistaken. I was afraid of few things in my life, but the one thing that freaked me the fuck out was tiny, dark spaces. I’d learned that quickly when I’d been thrown into the hole, where light was a luxury and rats were my cellmates.
I pushed to my feet, curious as to how Costa knew my name. “Do we know each other?” I angled my head one way then the other. I didn’t remember seeing him around, not even in the chow hall.
Stew stood next to Costa, ready to intervene if a fight broke out. “Go, Costa. Farley will take you back.” He pointed to another broad-chested guard standing outside the library.
Smirking as though he knew a secret, Costa left without a backward glance.
“How did he know my name?” I asked Stew.
Stew shrugged. “He’s new. He just came in yesterday.”
“What cellblock?” I had a feeling Costa would be trouble.
Stew’s radio crackled. “Hart has guests. Get his ass down to the visitors’ center.”
“Copy that,” Stew said into his radio. “All right, Denim. It seems people love you after all.”
I laughed. “I doubt that.” The only person to visit me in the time I’d been locked up had been Dillon and his lawyer friend, Kelton Maxwell, who was now my lawyer.
My other family members didn’t give a shit about me, and my girlfriend… well, I’d ditched her a long time ago. She didn’t deserve to live in my world. She didn’t deserve to look over her shoulder whenever she went out alone. And she certainly didn’t deserve an asshole like me who sold drugs, carried a gun, and fought whenever the need arose.
Still, I wasn’t about to have a pity party. That wasn’t me. Besides, my family was as dysfunctional as they came. My mom had taken off when I was eight. My old man was a drunk. My baby sister had disappeared for years thanks to the Black Knights, a gang into sex trafficking. And my older brother, Duke, was being a dick.
I had no idea why he hadn’t taken the time to visit me. I wasn’t about to analyze the whys and why-nots. Maybe by some miracle or wake-up call, Duke had decided he wanted to see his baby brother, or maybe Dillon had lit a match under Duke’s ass. But my guess was probably Dillon. He made a point to visit me every couple of months.
Locks and doors clicked open as we navigated the prison halls until Stew ushered me into the visitors’ room a few minutes later. Cameras hung from the four corners. Walls that had once been white were now dull, almost yellowish. And empty tables were scattered around except for one.
Two men rose when I entered. Both were dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and black ties. One was shorter than the other. Both had government badges hanging around their necks.
Ugh, great!I had hoped that maybe Stew was right, and my guests were people who loved me. But then again, with the exception of Dillon, no one in my life loved me.
The shorter one with red hair stuck out his hand. “Denim Hart, I’m Special Agent Brock. This is my partner, Special Agent Travers.”
I looked at Stew for answers, even though I knew he didn’t have a clue why the FBI was here to see me. Maybe they’d found the real killer, and I was innocent and free to leave prison.
Hope bloomed quickly, like a spring day filled with the tulips, but I shut it down. I couldn’t go down that path again. I’d gotten excited two years ago when Kelton Maxwell found evidence tampering in my case. As it turned out, though, the loophole was an administrative error that didn’t make a dent in getting my case thrown out.
The news that day had hit me like a train barreling down the tracks at two hundred miles an hour, ramming me right in the gut. I’d feared I would die in prison. I’d come so fucking close a time or two. But after being thrown in the hole one too many times for fighting, I’d made it my mission to be the model prisoner. So far, I’d succeeded, and I prayed the parole board would agree.
