Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 63895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
A son?
“Yes, thank you,” Roman said, returning the plate back to the receptacle. “Nice tattoos, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Aimee grabbed the plate and tossed it in the garbage just down the way. The prisoner nearest the garbage can started to howl as Aimee crossed in front of him. Turns out, solitary confinement wasn’t all that solitary. There weren’t many prisoners being held in this wing, but the ones that were already seemed to have lost most of their marbles, if not all. The howling man sounded like he was the furthest gone, but the man chanting bible verses twenty-four seven was giving him a run for his money.
“Alright,” Aimee said as he unclipped a pair of handcuffs and held them up. “Time for your meeting.”
Roman put his hands into the same receptacle that had been used to transfer the swampy broccoli. Aimee opened the other end and grabbed his hands, tugging them toward her. His fingers brushed against the fabric of her brown shirt. There wasn’t much space at all to maneuver, but if he pushed forward, he could get a fistful and slam her against the bars, and—and he’d still be fucked. It wouldn’t work, and he knew it.
Instead of putting up a futile fight, Roman gave in and allowed the cold steel to clamp against his wrists, his skin pinching where the cuffs closed.
The heavy door unlocked and slid open. Roman tasted freedom like a dog tasting bacon stuffed inside a Kong toy. Nearly impossible to get and still enough to make him salivate.
“This way.” Aimee closed her grip around his elbow and walked him down to another set of heavy doors.
“What’s his name?” Roman asked, gaze aimed down at the tattoo.
Aimee paused, narrowing her eyes and keeping her lips sealed as tight as the door she was currently unlocking.
“It’s a beautiful tattoo,” Roman continued, testing the boundaries of what he could and couldn’t say. “Reminds me of my little brother. Back when he was barely able to crawl. Good times.”
That was a completely fabricated lie. Roman was the spoiled product of being an only child, but the bait he tossed seemed to have snagged on something.
“It’s my son. Arty.”
“He’s got your eyes. Wild how I can tell that from a tattoo. Seriously, whoever did it is talented as fuck.”
Aimee answered with a sideways stare. There was a clear calculation in her eyes as she appeared to be adding up all of her interactions with Roman, trying to figure out what his angle was. She muttered a slightly annoyed “thank you” before leading Roman into another room, this one furnished with a single table and two of the most uncomfortable-looking chairs Roman had ever seen in his life. It looked like they were bought from a swap meet, owned by someone with a kink for seated torture.
Roman sat down, surprised spikes didn’t erupt from the rusted back. Aimee connected the handcuffs to a chain in the center of the table before making her leave, tossing a curious glance over her shoulder before shutting the door.
Only a couple of minutes later and the door opened again, this time letting in a sharply dressed man with short dark hair and a pair of thin-framed glasses that appeared to be just as expensive as the gold Rolex glinting on his wrist. He set a leather suitcase on the table and offered Roman a hand to shake.
“Roman Ashford, sorry to meet under these circumstances. I’m Garret Jackson, the lead attorney on your case. How are you holding up?”
“As well as I can be,” Roman said, leaning forward so that the bumps and ridges in the chair didn’t poke at his back. “Glad I’ve got someone on my side, at least.”
“You’ve got me and my entire law firm on your side.” Garret sat down, adjusting himself in the chair in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position. He quickly gave up and took the same leaned-forward posture Roman had adopted. He clicked the clasps open and pulled out a thick binder from inside the suitcase.
“It’s not going to be an easy fight,” Garret said as he flipped the binder open to the first page. “But I never like things to be easy. When something is easy, then it means it wasn’t even worth my time getting out of bed.”
“I think this case will have you getting out of bed with a smile on for the rest of your life.”
“It very well might.”
Roman gave a self-deprecating laugh. “So how are you going to prove that me and my friends had nothing to do with the bombing?”
“First off, I’m getting you out of solitary. Let’s start there.”
Roman sat back in the chair, the legs creaking loudly underneath him. “Seriously?”
Garret nodded, smiling as he ruffled through some papers before pulling out a set of photos. One of them was surveillance shots of the night when the bombs were planted, and the other photo depicted the actual Rainbow’s Seven walking into the museum the next day. Side by side, the figures appeared nearly identical, even though Roman had no idea which Pride members were underneath the black ski masks.