Free Hard Time (Hard as Nails #1) by Hope Conrad Page A

knob on the radio down before approaching the door. I level my eye with the peephole to see who’s knocking, and it’s the person I was expecting.
    My parole officer.
    I look around the room once more, trying to gauge if there’s anything I need to hide or clean up, but I don’t spot anything, so I push the deadbolt out of the way and swing open the door.
    “Hey,” I say, shoving one hand into my jeans and holding the door open with the other. “How are you?”
    “I’m fine,” he says deadpan and shifts past me onto my freshly cleaned carpet.
    I swing the door shut behind me.
    “Nice place,” he says, and I immediately think he’s being a jackass. Nobody would think this place is nice. It’s not the worst, but it’s in simple terms a dump.
    “How have you been, Thomas?” he questions as he turns to face me. He’s an older dude, fifty something and with a full head of hair. Slim and non-threatening, but anybody who isn’t behind prison bars doesn’t appear as much of a threat to me. Not anymore.
    His name is Edgar Rose, which is a ridiculous name and I refuse to refer to him as Mr. Rose, or even Edgar, which he’d invited me to call him when we’d first met. To me, he’s simply Bastard, which I know is unfair. He’s only doing his job. He does what he has to do to feed his family, and that means he has to watch after menaces to society such as myself. Still, to me, he’s simply Bastard.
    A bastard I wish I didn’t have to clean for. I mean, I don’t have to clean when he comes around, but I figure there’s an unconscious judging of sorts. The cleaner my place is, the more likely he is to believe I’m a clean man, living my life on the straight and narrow.
    I’m sure trying.
    And for the most part, aside from this sexual game of deviancy I’ve found myself engulfed in when it comes to Katie, I’m succeeding. What we did together in her car wasn’t illegal. What I want from her every second of the day—her body, her time, inside her head—isn’t either. What it is is an obsession. An obsession that sometimes seems as if it’s on the verge of spinning out of control, but it’s also an obsession that keeps me grounded if for no other reason than I’d never see her again if I manage to get my ass thrown back in prison.
    “Mind showing me around?” Bastard asks, and I immediately oblige. After all, I’ve got nothing to hide.
    I nod my head, directing him to follow me. I’m not certain why he needs to be shown around my place as if he’s interested in subleasing my humble abode, but maybe he’s just being polite.
    I lead him past a bar with overhead cabinets that separates the kitchen from the living room. I hate closed off spaces, and would much prefer an open kitchen, but when you’re spending less than five hundred a month, you can’t be too picky.
    Bastard comes to a stop in front of the unsightly sink and parks himself against it, nodding his head in approval.
    “You know,” he says with a shake of his finger. “You keep a clean house.”
    “And?” I question nervously, thinking he’s got me figured out to a goddamn T.
    “Nothing.” He chuckles and checks his watch. “It’s just a little surprising, that’s all.”
    I force a smile and shrug. “I’m a changed man.”
    “Uh-huh.” He straightens himself out and points to my bedroom, adjacent to the living room. “If you can just show me the bedroom, I think we’ll be good to go.”
    “Sure thing.” I turn and make my way to the door of my bedroom, push it open for him and flick on the light switch. It’s mid-morning, but I keep a thick, black blanket nailed around the windows. I absolutely cannot sleep unless I’m in pitch black darkness. Without sleep, Street is grouchy and a grouchy Street is a bad attitude away from going back to the slammer.
    “I have the same problem,” Bastard says, as if he can hear my inner thoughts. “The smallest bit of light, and I can’t sleep.”
    “It’s a worldwide