Counterfeit Love

But aside from the work, it wasn't that bad.

The basement had daylight even if the windows were barred. The sun was welcome even if the exposed brick walls made the whole space perpetually cold and damp.

There was no bed, but I'd always been a fan of firm surfaces for sleeping. Sure, I generally preferred a little more bounce than a cold, hard floor, but I could deal with some minor aches and pains when I woke up.

There was no running water, and I only got a couple trips upstairs to the bathroom a day, leaving me trying to do a makeshift whore's bath to keep things from getting too ripe.

I was fed.

Sure, only once a day and it always looked like a pile of sludge. But it was enough to keep me functioning.

There was the issue of my jailers, of course. Especially the one with a nasty gash on his arm. He was understandably put out about the whole situation. And he liked to take it out on me.

Ewan looked the other way with the warning that I needed my hands and my eyes, so he better not fuck them up.

I had a constant sharp pain in my ribs that said one of them was bruised, a wiggling molar, and a smattering of bruises on my face, chest, back, and midsection.

But still, you know, tolerable.

I'd been raised rough.

I was used to a little pain.

I would be fine.

Eventually, she would figure it out. Then half of Hailstorm would probably storm down the stairs.

I just had to sit pretty until then.

To be honest, I had imagined it would have happened by now.

I'd sent out the first batch of counterfeits with the code in them about a week ago. I guess I imagined every single member of Hailstorm in a room somewhere down in Louisiana with stacks of cash, and Chris standing over them with a whip.

It was a kinda hot image, I won't lie.

And kinda hot images of Chris had certainly helped keep my mind occupied while I spent endless hours in the same place, doing prison-style cell workouts just to make the time go faster.

On the plus side, when she saw me again, I'd probably have some even better indents in my chest and stomach.

You had to look to the bright side in life.

When thoughts of Chris threatened chapped body parts that didn't feel great when chapped, I switched my focus to less prurient things.

Like the future.

Like what it might look like without the ever-present threat of Ewan O'neal.

I could go anywhere.

Do anything.

Yet, there was no denying, the only place I wanted to be was Navesink Bank. And the only thing I wanted to do was watch shitty movies and eat takeout with Chris.

And, hey, it still fit in with my original plan.

Navesink Bank was close to the beach.

Chris was the most beautiful woman I'd ever met, with enough personality for five women.

I could retire young, knock around Hailstorm while my boss bitch woman ran the world. And maybe every so often, we'd take another little road trip, take out some more trash.

That sounded like a life worth living.

Maybe someday, we'd get a house to settle down in, put down roots. We could find a place directly between Hailstorm and the ocean--the best of both worlds.

And, hell, maybe someday she'd even be willing to throw a couple kids my way. She likely didn't think it about herself, but I knew she would make a great mother. And I would be a mostly good father who got a little too much joy in teaching my offspring to break some rules, raise some hell.

Lots of happy shit to keep my mind occupied while I waited.

I wasn't a model prisoner, though.

I'd be a fucking idiot if I didn't at least try to get away when I was brought upstairs. There was no escape from the basement. But there had been an unbarred window in the bathroom.

I'd gotten a whole ten feet out of the house before I was knocked down and dragged back. And, to be fair, the street this house was on was a complete shithole, so the neighbors didn't give a damn about people screaming outside in the middle of the night.

I'd bum-rushed the guard one afternoon when I'd heard the other two head out the front door, then the car roar to life out front.

That time, I didn't even make it to the back door, unfortunately.

Hands grabbed my ankles, yanking, making me slam forward, barely having a second to brace my fall.

That time, the guard didn't really heed the warning about my head, knocking it into the floor before tossing me back downstairs.

I took my shot when I thought I had one. But it wasn't looking like I would get away on my own unless the guys upstairs got complacent.

So I made do.