Prison Promise (Prison Saints Book 1) by Demi Vice (3)

I held my middle fingers in the air like a peace sign and woohoo’ed at the top of my lungs the second I got outside of the prison gates. I jumped and clicked my heels together like I was on the yellow brick road, moving toward my escape. God, the air in the courtyard had never smelled so fucking free. It was so fucking delicious I wanted to marry it and make babies with it.

I skipped toward the new sports car waiting for me behind the fence, wearing my old clothes from seven years ago that were a little too tight around my legs. My shirt was fine. I always went a size larger, but my jeans were suffocating my balls.

The guards let me pass, and I approached the sexiest, most exotic thing on earth. My fucking car. I bit my lip and trailed my finger across the glossy black hood, my cock tingling with pure joy. When I opened the door, I was greeted by the face of a man in his late-sixties. One of Wallace’s men, I could only assume, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass who he was.

“Are you Mr. Baron? Jack Baron?”

“Nah, I’m fucking Patrick Bateman,” I growled happily, showing him all my teeth. Pulling his collar, I yanked him out of my car. I didn’t need any old man smell mixing with my new car scent any longer. I looked inside my baby, red interior as promised. Everything inside was polished and high-tech.

I began to strip out of my tight clothes, exposing my black boxer briefs to the stranger behind me. I was utterly comfortable with all my tattoos and scars, masking my whole body. I’d always been proud of my body, especially my beautiful cock. That sucker could make any girl orgasm in less than five seconds, tops.

“You going to stare at my damn ass all day, old man, or are you going to tell me where my fucking clothes are?”

The old man jumped, popped the trunk, and grabbed a duffle bag. Inside it had everything I’d asked for: my jacket, shirt, and ripped jeans, which were all the same shade of black—a fucking rarity. It matched my black raven hair, oh so perfectly.

I rolled the hem of my jeans and slipped into my Doc’s. The same beat up, old, and fucking comfortable Doc’s I’d had since I was eighteen and started my little kiss tradition. Biting my whole bottom lip, I slammed my foot into the ground and moaned like I just came.

“Tell me I look fucking good, old man!” I howled.

“You-you look very good, Mr. Baron.” He let out a nervous smile.

I laughed.

Picking up my Marlboro pack, I lit three cigarettes and took a drag so deep I thought I would pass out. I had cigarettes in prison, but it was a whole different story when I didn’t have to go through Blue, the smuggler, to get them.

I tossed the cigarette pack in my passenger seat and puffed a cloud of smoke before I checked my wallet. Credit cards, Massachusetts license (expired), apartment key card to my penthouse, and five grand—bonus spending money. I clicked the silver chain on my belt loop and shoved my wallet in my back pocket. The sound of my silver chain rattling with each movement I made never sounded so free. Ironic.

I wiggled the duffle bag, trying to get the last of what was inside…air? Well, that’s not right. My eyes dashed through the air, looking the old man dead in his dark green eyes.

“My phone? Where the fuck is my phone?” I snapped, my attitude high as could be as I threw the duffle bag at the man’s feet. He flinched backward, patting down his pockets until he fished out a sleek black phone. All touchscreen.

“Oh, la la, come to Daddy.” A wild grin slapped my face as I snatched the phone out of his hand.

“Yeah, phones look a little different. They’ve got everything on them. They're mini-computers—”

“Shhhhhhhh.” I pressed my fingers on the old man's lips, turning his voice off while I blew a cloud of smoke into his face. “Shut up. Don’t ruin this moment.”

I leaned on my car, playing with my new phone, and getting the hang of it real fast. I’d only had burner phones or no phone at all for obvious reasons. But I took no time at all adapting to my sexy new gadget. I toyed with it some more until I realized five minutes had passed and I was still in front of the dump.

I tossed my three cigs on the ground, got in the car, and slammed the door shut. The new car scent hit me hard. The slick red interior was looking as fine as the Mona Lisa. If I wasn't ready to cream my pants from my smokes and my new phone. I was ready now.

A knock interrupted my thoughts. I rolled the window down, to see the old man eye level with me.

“Can I get a ride?” he asked.

“Nah. I’m good.” I gave him a kissy face and sped off.

I left the old man and my old clothes where they belonged; the past. I fumbled with driving. Not handling a car for seven years could do that to a person, but I quickly got the hang of it again. I blasted the radio, lit up a new cigarette, and drove down the road without a care in the world. Inputting Birch Park into the GPS, I was ready to go.

Wazowski Bakery.

Polish bakery number two. There was another Polish bakery down the street, but it had no apartment floor upstairs. Easy elimination.

The plan?

Find Ahri, give her the letter, and leave. It’s that simple. Shouldn’t take long. That’s why I came here first.

And the possibility that Ahrianna Lore was hot as hell and I could get a long overdue fuck.

I parked in front of the closed bakery, got out of my car, and took a short walk between the alley behind the bakery and a fabric store to get to the apartment door. I knocked, hard, on the black door with chipped paint and three brass locks on it. Nothing. I waited patiently under a bipolar light, flickering on or off until I knocked again. No response. I checked the door handle. Locked. Two rusty locked mailboxes next to the door caught my eye; one addressed to no one and the other to an A. Lore.

Bingo.

My girl was here.

The idea of dropping the letter in the mailbox crossed my mind, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn't curious to see what Ahrianna Lore looked like.

And again.

Sex.

I went back to the front of the bakery and scanned the neighborhood. Decent. Not safe. Not dangerous. A place where it would be best to carry some pepper spray or a pocket knife at all times. Just in case.

In the far corner of the street, a neon red sign, Diablo’s Bar, caught my eye. The memory of alcohol stung my taste buds.

Diablo’s Bar was large, tinted red from the neon lights, and had an old school vibe. Packed with a handful of people, maybe ten or twelve people. It felt cozy. A place where people knew each other by name.

I scanned the place in a blink of an eye. All the women in my sight were either too old for my liking or merely distasteful. Drunk off their asses. No fucking thank you. The alcohol in the bar was in the middle behind a cherry red round counter, guarded by a Hispanic man wiping down a beer glass.

“What do you want, esé?”

“Give me two Guinness’.” I slapped a fifty on the table.

Never done that before.

I chugged the first beer but took my time with the second, checking out my surroundings again. A few neon signs of fire ‘burning’ (blinking on and off) or a bikini girl taking off her top. Graffiti on the walls, one of a devil sticking out his long, pointy tongue, giving the finger, and the other of customer’s names written on the wall. Red fake leather booths, wobbly old bar stools, and mysterious stick counters. The smell of stale vomit, alcohol, and cigarettes in the foggy air.

At least bars hadn’t changed in seven years.

“Where you from? Haven’t seen you around here.” The bartender loudly spoke over the music and crowd of drunks getting louder.

The Hispanic man was tall, no taller than my six-foot-four ass, but tall. He was built like a brick, and his thick black mustache was the only hair on his whole head.

“Originally? Whole Park.”

He nodded. “What brings you here?”

“Some black beer and a girl.”

“Oh, a girl.” He raised his eyebrow or where his eyebrow would have been if he had hair on them. “What’s her name?”

“Ahri. Ahri Lore.”

“Ahh, so you must be the apartment guy.”

No…?

But I could be.

I blinked a few times and just went along. “Yeah…I’m the apartment guy.”

I scanned the bar again. The faint color on my cheeks was showing off my excitement and curiosity. Or was it my first beer hitting me? My tolerance for alcohol had gone to shit while I was in prison, but I’d never been a huge drinker. I rotated in my seat taking in my environment once more, trying to find Ahri. There were a few guys in a booth sharing a pint, and in the far corner people were playing pool and placing bets.

“Yo, Twinkie? Twinkie?” Mustache man cleared his throat and yelled again. His voice boomed Ahri’s nickname a few more times until he gave up and went around the mountain of booze and I couldn’t see him anymore. He came back a minute later with a sour face.

“She’s in the back booth. Try not to piss her off some more.”

Piss her off some more?

I chuckled.

I hopped off the wobbly stool, took a long sip of my beer and made my way around the counter. I spotted a small little thing sitting alone at a booth with her back toward me. Her hair a wavy blonde mess, just like her brother’s, except her dark brown roots were showing. Unlike Fidget, Ahri wasn’t a natural blonde.

Ahri's legs were crossed, and she wore loose high waisted mom jeans rolled up at the ankles, displaying her white and red polka dot socks like a trophy. Her classic pair of Adidas were worn out to the bone, making my Docs look brand new. I took a seat across from her, but she didn’t waste any of her time to lift her eyes. She glared at the notebook in front of her that looked like a schedule.

A schedule for the bar?

The girl wore a forest green Space Jam sweater pulled up to her elbows, exposing three cigarette burns going down her forearm like Orion's belt. My body tensed up at the deep burns which looked like mine. I swallowed my curiosity, avoiding the question, ‘What happened?’ like it was Pandora’s box.

Ahri’s hair went past her shoulders and covered her forehead with an uncooperative wavy fringe. She was listening to an old-school iPod, one earbud violating her eardrum at its highest volume, the other on the table letting me hear a muffled bass. She smoked a cigarette. From the look of it, smoking her third cigarette.

Marlboro, good girl.

“You Ahri?” I smirked, already liking what I saw.

“What time is it?” She puffed her cigarette, shielding herself in a cloud of smoke, but keeping her eyes fused to the schedule. She tapped her pen aggressively.

“Why don’t you tell me, Twinkie?”

“Nine, it’s fucking nine o’clock. I told you to be here at six o’clock sharp,” she snapped, lifting her eyes to meet mine and giving me a small double take. She kept her sexy resting bitch face on me as she slowly bit the inside of her lip. Her eyes narrowed as she asked, “You’re the guy?”

“What, you don’t like what you see?” I winked, and for a split second, she blushed under her warm skin tone.

Fidget was right. They do look alike, but Fidget…Fidget was pretty.

And Ahri?

Well, she was real.

From the cigarette burns down her forearm to the small bump on her nose. From the dark circles under her eyes to the faint scar on her cheek going up to her brow. From her front tooth with the slightest chip in the corner to her wearing absolutely no makeup. This girl was the set-in-stone definition of a hard worker with a life that pushed her to the limits.

And my God was she fucking gorgeous.

She had a bottom lip shaped like half a moon, and all I wanted to do was suck and bite on it or trail her lips along my cock. Both of those options sounded amazing right now. Her nose was a little upturned and pierced on both sides; one with a hoop the other with a stud. And her eyes were black buttons I wanted to be sewn onto my flesh.

Oh, Jack likes.

“You’re fucking late. If you can’t make it on time to see the apartment how the hell can I trust you’re gonna pay rent on time?” she growled through her cigarette and looked back down to her schedule, tapping her pen in frustration.

“I can pay with my body. I’m sure you can get some good use out of it.” I bit my lip, but Ahri didn’t budge.

Damn, she was a stubborn little thing. She ignored me like I wasn't even here, scribbling black circles at the corner of her paper. Ahri became unsatisfied with her song and changed it.

“Whatcha listening to?” I hummed, stealing her iPod to see an artist I had never heard of before. I’m sure this was going to be something I had to get used to. I barely tolerated the music on the radio on my drive here.

“Oh Devil” by Electric Guest. It’s like she knew I was coming. I laughed to myself, which must’ve rubbed Ahri the wrong way. She snatched her silver music brick out of my hand, giving me a steely glare. A mixture of anger and curiosity.

“What the hell are you waiting for? Leave,” she demanded.

I sucked on my tooth and looked at her meaningfully. Dragging my eyes purposefully over her face and body. My bad intentions were written on my face as clear as day. I didn’t want to hide them.

Why don’t you let Jack help you with frustration, Ahrianna? I know the perfect cure for all that stress.

I plucked the cigarette out of her kissable lips and took a drag. “Something tells me you don’t want me to leave since you’ve been waiting for me for three hours. Even though I think you work here. Why don’t you show me that apartment and I can make it worth your time, Ahri.”

With her chin down to her chest, she looked up at me from under her thick brown lashes. Her eyes were full and wide with rage, curiosity, and a touch of fear and lust. I coughed through the smoke like it was my first, my cock going rock hard in record time.

Oh yes, baby girl.

Look a little scared.

Look a little curious.

Look like you're on your knees, ready to worship my cock.

Oh, Jack likes.

Jack likes a lot.

Ahri tapped her pen on the table a little harder and muttered, ‘fuck’ under her breath. She rolled her earphones around her iPod and started to get the rest of her things ready.

“I never caught your name.” She shoved everything into her brown worn out satchel bag but kept her keys and phone out in her palm.

“Jack. Jack Baron.” I finished Ahri’s cigarette and blew the smoke in her face. She didn’t flinch or blink. She really wasn’t one for showing a lot of facial expressions, while, I, on the other hand, loved to express myself.

“Ahrianna Lore,” she said, sliding out of the booth.

Oh, I know, baby girl. I know.

Ahri tossed her bag over the bar counter for safekeeping and flipped her phone open. I chugged the rest of my beer into my body and went near Ahri. She was pixie size next to me. Granted, most girls were, but Ahri easily stood a foot shorter than me.

Her figure was small, no ass or tits from what I could tell under her baggy clothes. Girls like her weren’t my type. I liked to be a little rough with my toys, so I always went with the girls I knew could handle me. But Ahrianna was my exception.

There was something about her face, those eyes, and her overall presence that did something to me.

Hell if I knew what it was.

I just wanted a good fuck.