There was nothing quite like the rush he’d felt when he had tried to kill his father. It had been like a charge running through Rainier Fitzgerald, shooting up from his toes straight through his body and escaping in one ill-advised and perfectly placed punch. One hit, one single punch had cost him more than three years of his life, thousands of dollars and nearly all his relationships.
There were times he wished he had really killed his biological father. Just a little bit harder or just a few more punches and he could’ve watched the life slip from the man’s body. If he had died, maybe then Rainier could’ve felt guilty about what he had done to him; as it was, the only regret he held was that he hadn’t punched him sooner.
The prison’s chain-link gate vibrated; metal ground against metal and made an ear-piercing squeal as the gate opened. Rainier had been dreaming about this day, the day of his release, since the moment he’d entered this hellhole.
He took in a deep breath. The cold air carried the heavy and earthy scent of concrete, dirt and broken dreams, but he didn’t care—for the first time in years, he was free.
The only hint it was nearly Christmas was the thick layer of snow on the ground and the black sedan in the parking lot complete with a set of felt reindeer antlers poking out of its passenger’s-and driver’s-side windows.
They looked ridiculous, but a hoarse chuckle escaped him, the sound so foreign that it caught him off guard.
In the corner of its windshield, the car had a parking decal for the Montana State Prison. Whoever it belonged to must work at this place, or was here enough that it was deemed necessary for them to have quick access—which made the Christmas fare seem even more asinine and somewhat obscene. It was as if the owner celebrated the fact that they could enjoy their freedom, even if it meant buying cheesy holiday decorations and displaying them from their cars for the inmates to see—and hate them for.
He looked around the parking lot, hoping to see Wyatt in one of their father’s ranch trucks or maybe his patrol vehicle. Rainier smirked as he considered the irony of being picked up from prison in a squad car. Only in his life would something so ridiculous be possible.
But the only truck was an old beat-up Dodge at the far end of the parking lot. The pickup was empty and a film of ice covered the windshield as if it had been parked there for days.
His brother had left him in the lurch. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but a promise was a promise.
Rainier sighed, rubbing his hands together as he tried to stave off the cold; though, if someone would have asked, it wasn’t the chill of winter that caused him to shiver but rather the icy reception from his family.
On the other hand, he could hardly blame his brother for not coming here to pick him up after everything he’d put the family through. It was the same reason he hadn’t asked his mother to come get him—he hated her seeing him in this kind of place. All she’d ever done was take care of him and shower him with love, and yet he repaid her by being sent to a place where meals were given on a tray and people told him what time he could take a shower. In some ways, he felt like the bastard child he’d always been—thrown into foster care and finally picked up by the Fitzgeralds. They’d always made him feel like one of them, just another one of the adopted sons. Yet now here he was, alone and adrift again.
The door to the black sedan opened, the reindeer antler on the driver’s-side door jiggling wildly, like a hand waving him down, as a woman stepped out. To say she was beautiful was an understatement. No, she was far more than that. Her ashy-blond hair was pulled tight into a no-nonsense bun, a pair of tortoiseshell-framed glasses teetered on the top of her head and her legs were long, and he couldn’t look away from the round contours of her luscious hips. She turned, bending over to get something out of her car, forcing him to stop midstep as her pencil skirt hugged the curves of her ass. His mouth watered as he stared at the diagonal lines her panties created as they pressed against the fabric.
Maybe he had been imprisoned too long, but she might just be the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. She was dignified, classy and clearly the kind of woman who wouldn’t have a damn thing to do with him. She was a far cry from the type of women whose pictures decorated most inmates’ cell walls within his unit, as most of the pictures had been ripped out of men’s magazines.
She stood up and patted her jacket pocket, searching for something. He was pretty sure he saw her mouth form a collection of profanities, which seemed in direct opposition to the lines of her skirt and the straight-edged look on her face. It made him only want her that much more.
Yep, he had definitely been behind bars way too long. He’d never have a chance at a girl like that, not being the man he was, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t the kind who wouldn’t swing for the fences.
She reached into her purse, rifling through its contents as he made his way toward her.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked. “You lose something?”
She jerked as though she hadn’t noticed him. She lifted her hand, motioning for him to stop. “I’m fine. Just fine,” she said, then cleared her throat as though she were trying to collect her nerves. In fact, from the way her eyes widened, she looked almost scared of him.
He should have anticipated that this was what his life was to become when he got out—people fearing him, the feral Fitzgerald.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. Just thought, ya know...” His voice came out hoarse and tattered, befitting the man he had become. He turned to walk away.
“Wait.” The woman’s heels clicked against the pavement behind him as she rushed to catch up.
He swiveled back, and for a split second he could have sworn her gaze had been locked on his ass—or it could just be wishful thinking.
“Yeah?” he asked, cocking a brow.
“You’re Rainier Fitzgerald, correct?” She lifted a phone he hadn’t notice she’d been carrying, and was met with his mug shot from the day he’d been booked.
He stared at the picture. His green eyes looked nearly black. The only thing that gave away his fear over heading to jail was the slight quirk of his lip. He always looked like he was about to smile when he was nervous. Reaching up, he touched his lip and realized he was making the same face now—except, unlike in the photo, a new set of fine lines surrounded his mouth, thanks to his years of hard living.
“Is this you?” she asked, flipping the phone so she, too, could look at the picture.
“Did Wyatt send you to be my welcoming committee? If he did, I’m going to have to thank him.” The words came out wrong, sounding far more crass than he had intended.
“Excuse me?” she asked. “I don’t know what you’re implying, Mr. Fitzgerald. And while I’m sure you would love a warm welcome, I’m far from being someone who is available or willing to supply you with such a thing. Plus, it might be in your best interest to steer clear of women who would be interested in welcoming you.”
He hadn’t been out of prison for five minutes and he was already in trouble with a woman and, in an upper-crust way, being told exactly where he could stuff his feelings for the opposite sex.
About right.
“Hey, I’m sorry for thinking maybe you were here to welcome me to the real world. I guess I just hoped, you being as beautiful as you are and all...”
It could have been the cold, but her