Something Real (Exile Ink Book 3) by Skylar Hill

Author:Skylar Hill [Hill, Skylar]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-04-26T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

James

James rented a car at the airport, driving the three hours down the 5 with the radio off, his throat tightening with each mile. The scenery around him—acres of farmland and rolling yellowing hills rising behind them—blurred as he drove.

He’d told Cam he had to go up to his mom’s for the day and would spend the night. He didn’t like lying, but he did plan on stopping by his mom’s on the way back, so maybe it was more like a little omission.

But he needed to know. He pulled through the gates of the prison, heading to the visitor’s parking lot, darkness churning inside him.

The prison was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by miles of dust and tumbleweeds in a flat, cracked expanse that stretched out as far as the eye could see. It was bleak and hopeless even without the razor-wire topped fences and long, flat windowless buildings.

James headed to the visitor’s center, picking up the badge that was waiting for him, letting them pat him down before a guard began to lead him through a maze of hallways. He was silent as the guard unlocked a tiny room and walked him through the process.

“Panic button’s here,” the guard said, pointing to the red button on the wall. “Chairs and table are bolted to the ground. He’ll be cuffed, but not to the table. I’ll be right on the other side. You call or hit the button if he gives you trouble.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” the guard said meaningfully.

James nodded. Most of the time, he didn’t like to take advantage of the fact that enough money could buy almost anything—even something like this—but in this case, he was just going to be grateful.

He sat down, folded his hands in front of him, and waited. The room was small and windowless, with cameras tucked in the corners, a steel table and chairs the only furniture in the bare, depressing space.

He didn’t feel scared or nervous. Instead, he felt a dreadful, steely sort of anticipation as the minutes ticked by. Finally, the door swung open, and the guard marched the prisoner into the room.

James leaned back in his chair as Keith shuffled into the space and at down across from him, the table between them.

“I’ll be right outside,” the guard said.

And then they were alone.

James stared him down, taking in the bastard that had caused so much pain. Keith’s thinning hair was slicked back, his deep-set eyes a dark brown that glittered meanly under the harsh fluorescent lights. There were prison tats sprinkled up his arms, which bulged with muscle, and a long scar curving down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his khaki jumpsuit.

There was a part of James—all animal protectiveness—that just wanted to lunge for him. Close his hands around his throat and squeeze until there was no going back. He wanted to beat the shit out of him, to break every bone in his body that he broke in his daughter’s bodies, and all the other bones too.

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