What changed between the last visit and today?
“They’re not gang-related, are they?” he asks.
“Never been part of a gang,” I answer, swallowing my irritation, “so no.”
“Yeah. Right. Lost Kings are a club, I forgot.” His voice drips with surly sarcasm.
As I slide the shirt off, my gaze lands on a fist-sized dent in the drywall. Did someone aim for Hank’s head? The mental image curves my lips. Fucker sure deserves it. He give everyone this attitude, or am I special?
“T-shirt too,” he orders.
Jesus Christ. Give me a minute.
Twenty years ago, younger me would’ve cracked a joke about buying me dinner first. Or cracked him in the jaw. Depending on my mood.
I lift the shirt over my head and scan my immediate area for a place to hang the two pieces. Nothing. I lean over and toss ’em on the chair with my coat.
“Need to document the new pieces.” His voice grows closer. Every muscle in my body tightens, preparing to defend myself.
I point at one on my bicep. Bronze had done a decent job covering up the crude prison mark. I still wanted to add more to the design but at least I didn’t feel like a walking advertisement for the dregs of society. “This one.”
He stares at me too long for my comfort, then walks back to his desk and studies my file. “You cover something up?”
“Yeah.”
I watch him from the corner of my eye as he picks up the file and his camera, slowly returning to my side.
He glances at the photos inside the folder and again at my arm. A slow smirk curls his upper lip. “What’s the matter? Didn’t want your biker buddies knowing you made other friends inside?”
I grind my teeth to keep my mouth shut.
“Turn for me.”
Hating every second of following his orders, I shuffle around until I’m facing him. Chin up. Blank stare, straight ahead.
“That it?” he asks. “Do I need you to drop your pants next?”
I tap one by my neck and he gets way too close to snap a picture. “That’s it.”
“Plans for more?” His cheek twitches as he studies my chest and arms.
I touch the “Rosie” scrawled in black ink over my heart. “Planning to cover this later in the week.”
“Aww.” He pulls a taunting sad face. “What’s wrong? Wifey didn’t welcome you home with open arms?”
Done with this bullshit, I rest my hands on my hips and cock my head. “Tell me something, Grillo. If I get my ol’ lady’s name inked on my dick, you gonna stroke me off so you can get a nice, clear picture for your photo album?”
“Put your shirt on, Lock. We’re done.”
Thank fuck.
“Take a seat.” He points to the chair as if I’m too senile to locate it.
So much for being done.
I dress quickly and perch my ass on the edge of the uncomfortable metal-framed chair. Swear to fuck it sways under my weight. Must be one of Grillo’s mind tricks to keep his parolees off balance—literally and figuratively.
“Where’d you get the money for the ink?” he asks.
Seriously? That’s what he’s worried about? “Guy who did ’em likes to help ex-cons cover their prison ink. Does it at a reduced rate.”
“Got a name?”
I rattle off the name of Bronze’s shop—which does actually offer free ink to ex-cons. Doubtful Bronze will open up about his clients to anyone asking questions; I’m not worried about Grillo verifying my story.
“How’s the job?”
“Headed there right after we finish.” So, if we could speed this up, that’d be great. Not sure how the fuck I’m supposed to remain “gainfully employed” when I gotta take time off to deal with this bullshit.
“Keeping curfew?”
“Yeah. Not exactly lots to do in Johnsonville.”
“No socializing with other criminals?”
“No.” I don’t think of my family as criminals, so this isn’t a lie.
“No contact with anyone inside?”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
He shrugs. “I take it that’s a no.”
“Got no reason to talk to anyone inside. I just want to move forward with my life.”
He stares at me for a few beats too long for my liking. “All right. Go on. See you in a few days.”
“Can’t wait.” I grab my coat and get the hell out of his office.
As I pull into the parking lot behind Strike Back Studio, my gaze lands on Wrath’s royal blue GMC Denali 2500 with the star emblem in the center of its heavy-duty, matte black front grille.
Shit, he’s got his own business to run and he’s stuck sitting around here waiting on me.
By the time I gather my stuff, he’s standing outside my door.
“Thanks for waiting for me.” I step out of the truck and slam the door. “Meeting took longer than I expected.”
“Not a problem.” He pulls me in for a quick one-armed hug. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to, brother.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Everything go all right?”