Free Wanted: A Bad Boy Romance by Maya Hawk Page B

dirty
kitchenette.
    The landlord pushes past me and limps toward the wall, unhooking the Murphy bed and
showing me how it folds down. The fucking thing takes up the whole room,
leaving barely enough space for a walkway toward the kitchenette and bathroom.
A corner of the room hosts a small table and two chairs.
    This place is one of the few
places in town that will rent to people without doing credit checks, and
they’ll sign a month-to-month. It’s exactly what I need. I don’t know how long
I’ll be sticking around. The wind just might blow me far away from here, and I
just might let it.
    “Fully furnished.” He states the
obvious with a chuckle in his tone. “Could move in tonight if you wanted.”
    Jingling the keys in his hand,
his brows lift. I take another look around the place. It doesn’t have to be the
fucking Waldorf Astoria. Just need a place to rest my head until I get my feet
on the ground.
    “Everything works,” he says.
“Toilet. Sink. Stove. Microwave. Cable TV is extra of course.”
    The Hammerhead is across the
street. It’d be easy to sneak in the backdoor over there. Drinking is a
violation of my parole, so as long as I’m not seen strutting in the front door
like some moron and ordering a beer, I’m good.
    “I’ll take it.” I grab the keys
from his pudgy fingers and hand him the four hundred cash from my pocket.
    He pulls a folded piece of paper
from his back pocket and shoves it at me. “Fill out the app. Drop it off in the
rent drop box on your way out.”
    I take it from him and shrug.
Seems a little backwards, but I’m not about to argue with him. The guy waddles
out, pulling the door shut behind him. I take a seat at the table and pull a
pen. As soon as the app is filled out, I drop it off and head back to the house
to grab what few things I have and bring them back.
    The house is quiet. Dad must
still be at work. I don’t know nor do I care where Laticia is. Jordana’s probably hiding from me. Still haven’t seen her
since last night, but that’s on her.
    I have no problem fucking the
hell out of a beautiful woman and looking her in the eye the next day.
    I toss my things in a couple of
plastic sacks from the kitchen and hop back in Jerome’s Mustang. Still can’t
believe Laticia’s okay with me driving it, and to be honest, it’s kind of weird
driving a dead guy’s car, but I promised her I’d take care of it. I’ll fix it
up as soon as my cash flow improves, and she’ll be able to sell it just fine.
    Stopping at a big box store on my
way home, I buy a cheap bed-in-a-bag set and a small slew of paper plates,
plastic cutlery, and enough groceries to sustain me until I get paid again next
week.
    That night I pull a chair up to
my window for some people watching. Not much to do without a TV, and I’ve
already watched some porn on my phone and cranked a couple out.
    It’s getting late; late enough
that people are starting to leave the bar for the night. I watch like some
fucking vigilante. So help me if I so much as see a drunk peeling out of the
parking lot, I’m calling their plates in.
    Being a snitch in prison would
get your ass handed to you.
    But I’m on the outside now.
    The rules are different.
    Or at least my rules are different.
    If I can save another family from
getting the phone call we got the night of the accident, I’ll sing like a
goddamned canary.
    A handful of
car speed away. Nothing crazy. Nothing suspect.
    I rise up and grab my
bed-in-a-bag, yanking out the wrinkled sheets and pulling down the Murphy bed.
Five minutes later, I’m lying on the scratchiest sheets I’ve ever felt, staring
up at a water-stained ceiling.
    But I’m happy.
    Or, shit. As
happy as I can be.
    I slide my hands behind my head
and inhale, ignoring the musty scent that fills my lungs.
    From here on out, it’s just me
against the world.
    Fuck my pathetic, egotistical
father.
    Fuck the aunts and uncles and
cousins who couldn’t find the time to send one fucking Christmas