Convict: A Bad Boy Romance Read Online Free PDF Page B

does, I’ve never heard it. When I open the door a large, bearded man in a bandana stands from his stool near the door, looks me up and down, nods, and sits again.
    I nod back.
    I didn’t go looking for this place. I didn’t want to find it, but my whole life, trouble’s had a way of finding me and I’ve never exactly minded.
    A few months ago, a guy came into Eddie’s with a busted transmission on an nearly-new car. It was pretty obvious from half a glance that he drove like an asshole, probably drag raced, and definitely wasn’t very good at it.
    We fixed him up, and as I was giving him his keys back, he finally asked.
    “You know anything about putting nitrous oxide in cars?”
    “I know it’s illegal for street cars in California,” I said.
    “Oh, right,” the guy said. He was pretty young, and everything about him screamed rich parents . “That must be why I’m having a hard time finding someone who likes money enough to do it.”
    “Most racers do it themselves,” I pointed out. What I meant was, most racers know something about the cars they drive, which you obviously don’t , but I didn’t say that out loud.
    He just shrugged.
    “I never got into that part of it,” he said. “But take my number and give me a call if you know any mechanics who need a few thousand extra under the table.”
    I took the job and the money. Then I took another one, and another, and before I knew it, I was the guy who’d soup up any car, no questions asked.
    Yeah, I fucking knew better than to do illegal shit only six months out of prison with a newly-clean record and all that. But it felt good to work on those cars. It felt good to hang out with people who weren’t always on the right side of the law, who didn’t mind getting their hands a little dirty. Who weren’t always upright citizens.
    Besides, it was just some car mods. A slap on the wrist at worst.
    But the thing is, rich kids who like street racing aren’t the only ones who want fast cars. Plenty of people have reasons for wanting to get away from the cops, and it wasn’t long before those people came calling. Still just mods, but like I said: trouble’s got a way of finding me.
    In the bar, I order a beer, sit down on a stool, and wait. Sylvie usually comes in around this time of day, and true to form, it’s not long before she darkens the door.
    She takes her time making her way from patron to patron, even though there’s only five or six of us right now. If her life had turned out different, she’d have made a great politician, because she remembers names, faces, all that shit.
    Sylvie gets to me last.
    “It’s been a while, Stone,” she says, sitting next to me on a stool, glass of red wine in one hand. “You need a job?”
    She’s got steel-gray hair that curls past her shoulders, ice-blue eyes, and a pleasant-yet-no-nonsense attitude. I’ve never seen her wear anything but a leather motorcycle vest over a button-down denim shirt.
    “I need something else,” I say.
    Sylvie waits.
    “I need a gun.”
    She sighs and looks at her drink.
    “Oh, Stone,” she says. “Are you in trouble?”
    “No,” I say. “I just like to be prepared.”
    Sylvie narrows her eyes, then nods once, briskly, and asks about a few particulars.
    As she stands to leave, she turns back to me and gives me a long, appraising look.
    “I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but you’re a nice kid, Stone. Don’t get too far into the shit,” she says, and then leaves.
    I nearly laugh. She has no idea.
    The next day I get a call. I meet a guy I don’t know in the parking lot of a mall. He hands me a Glock, I hand him a wad of cash, and we leave. It’s over in two minutes. Sylvie knows how to take care of shit.
    You’re backsliding , I think as I drive away.
    You got one chance to reset your life completely. You got a new name, a new city, a clean record. And you’re going to fucking blow it.
    I glance at the glove compartment where I’ve stashed the