Page 30 of Convict’s Game (Skeleton Crew #1)

M ila

Into rush hour, we exited the underground parking, Convict pushing into the nose-to-tail traffic in a way I’d never have the confidence to do.

He raised an easy hand to thank the driver he’d cut up, earning the blare of a horn. “Can you drive?”

“Yes, but I don’t have a car anymore.” The sporty little Audi I’d driven from ports to office buildings all around the country was mine no longer.

“What happened to it?”

“It belongs to the business. Like everything else, it’s unable to be used until the will is read. I’m lucky that the apartment is privately owned, though I’ve no idea if any bills are being paid. It’s possible that the electricity will get cut off.”

He twisted his lips. “All the more reason for me to find out if I have a place to live.”

We stopped at traffic lights. I watched him slyly, using my hair as a shield.

Convict in my home had been a devastating sight.

A big man with ink and dark hair, barefoot on my white floorboards and with a coffee mug in his hand.

Now we were in the car, I was back to ogling his confident sprawl in the driver’s seat, two fingers guiding the steering wheel.

I could get used to being a passenger princess.

His mouth curved into a smirk. “Keep staring at me like that and I’m going to get arrested.”

“For what?”

“Indecent exposure.”

I laughed softly. “Can I ask about your thing with pain? How does that work?”

He shrugged. “Wish I could tell you. All I know is how the nurses in the hospital talked to me about pain management, and I realised I felt nothing like what they suggested I should.”

“You can feel touch, right?”

I reached out and ran a finger along his arm, from his wrist to the line of his black skeleton crew branded t-shirt. Then I trailed it back down but with a lighter touch.

He shivered and adjusted his position in the seat. “I feel that just fine.”

“You’re hard, aren’t you?” I paused. “That’s rhetorical. I can see it twitching.”

“Check you out, all brave and talking about my dick when you think I’m too occupied to use it.”

A thrill ran through me. God only knew how I could still be hot for him after all we’d done together. Yet my mind was right there in the gutter.

Convict slid a look my way. “To finish what I know, touch is fine, hard hits do nothing, and temperature is wacky. If you say it’s warm or cold, I generally haven’t noticed. Unless it’s right before I go to sleep. Then I feel something. Fucked up, aren’t I?”

I shook my head, making a mental note to ensure the blankets were over him when we went to bed.

Another thought occurred to me. “By the way, on health matters, I have a contraceptive implant, and I’ve never…been with anyone like we’ve done.”

Something passed over his face. “I had every test known to man in the hospital, so you’re safe with me.

Well, safe-ish, because I’m having some pretty dark thoughts about your exes.

Also, I’ll be plotting ways to remove that implant, and searching up ‘sneaky pregnancy hacks’ like a man with a mission. ”

My jaw dropped. “You did not just say that.”

“Which part? Removing the fingers and eyes of anyone who ever touched you or the part about knocking you up? Happy to repeat it or go into detail.”

I hid my face and didn’t answer, reasonably sure he was joking.

We journeyed through the city and crossed the river to the Scottish side of Deadwater, entering an area of the city my grandmother would’ve turned her nose up at.

Convict used his phone’s navigation to locate the Hazard Place address the hospital had given him, and we followed the directions deep into the suburbs and to a run-down street beside a flyover.

He parked up adjacent to a terraced house.

The fact he’d needed directions to find somewhere he used to live hit me square in the feels.

I eyed the pebbledash building, noting how there were multiple bells for the different flats. “Anything familiar?”

“Nope.”

He climbed out then rounded to open my door, claiming my hand in his to cross the road. At the house, he took a deep breath then pressed the bell for 14B.

We waited.

Nothing happened.

I tried this time, pressing it twice. The filthy net curtain in the bay window a few feet to the left of us twitched. I waved to indicate we were friendly, then the window cracked open.

“What do you want?” a man asked against a backdrop of loud chatter from a television.

He was probably in his sixties or so and clutched a cigarette in his hand, the glowing end dangerously close to burning a hole in the curtains.

But all of that faded behind the stench of unwashed body that eked from the opening.

Convict squinted at him but didn’t speak.

“Is your flat 14B?” I asked.

“Might be. What of it?”

“My friend used to live here. Do you know if the landlord is around? We had a couple of questions.”

“Fuck off. The TV was already here when I got this place. It’s mine.”

“We aren’t interested in taking your television, only in knowing the dates my friend lived here.”

“Ring the CHP, love. Don’t fucking bother me.”

He slammed the window shut.

Convict’s eyebrows drew together. “I know what the CHP is. Community Housing Project. It’s ex-prisoner accommodation. I must’ve stayed here after coming out of jail one time.”

He said it casually, but his fingers curled around mine. Like he was trying to hold on to something solid while the rest of him slipped back into shadows.

“Not recently, judging on the new occupant.”

He gave a short laugh. “Agreed. I think we can move on.”

We returned to the car, and he plugged in the second address, Linnet Road, back on the English side.

“It stands to reason that my crew would have the up-to-date address. I just wanted to check both out anyway.” He drove out of the suburb. When we came to a halt at lights, he darted a look my way. “Is it weird for you to be shacked up with an ex-con?”

“You introduced yourself to me by your nickname. It’s not like this is new information.”

He rolled his shoulders and tore his gaze to the road instead of me. “There’s a nickname and then there’s seeing a guy like that. The alternative version of me in four decades’ time.”

I recoiled. “Why do you think you’d become like that?”

He shrugged. “He triggered a memory. Not of him specifically, but of broken men stuck in the same routine, day after day. I think I’m remembering my jail time.”

“Then don’t go back to jail again.”

The glum expression lifted. “Thanks, heir-to-an-empire girl. I’ll be sure to remember that.”

He reached out for me, this time landing his warm hand on my knee. For the jaunt out, I’d chosen a plaid skirt and cream wide-necked jumper, overjoyed to have my wardrobe back.

Convict inched his fingers under the skirt’s hem.

He didn’t go any further, just stroking and indenting my thigh, but by the time he parked up at the second house, I was fixated on his touch.

Again, he climbed out and opened my door, that knowing gleam in his eye when he helped me out. It faded when he took in the building.

“What will be behind door number two?” he quipped.

The place was a block of flats, four storeys high. A long path to the front door crossed a concrete patio, and two old gents rested on a bench to one side, the cool early evening clearly not bothering them.

Convict raised a hand to them as we passed. Both stared back, then one gave a wheezing laugh.

“Convict. Thought you were dead, boy.”

Convict blinked then forced a smile. “Rumours of my death are exaggerated. How’s it going? All good around here?”

The man chuffed. “Aye, but I’m surprised to see you back. Ma won’t be pleased. The lass a human shield?”

‘Ma’ as in his mother? He hadn’t been sure if he had family.

Convict stiffened. His hand tightened around mine. “Is Ma in now?”

The front door swung open, and a woman marched out. Aged probably in her forties, she had dark-red hair and ruddy cheeks. Anger marked her stomp down the path. “You’ve got some nerve.”

We turned to face her. Convict didn’t speak.

“Two months running. Then you show up like nothing’s happened.”

She didn’t look anything like him, but genetics could be weird.

“He’s been in hospital,” I defended him.

The woman ignored me. “Explain yourself.”

His gaze travelled over her features as if searching for the same recognition I had. “Sorry, Ma. I was in a coma. Hard to make a phone call when you’re asleep.”

“Don’t ‘Ma’ me. That’s reserved for my tenants. And you’re not one anymore since I re-let your flat.” She spun on her heel to walk away, calling back over her shoulder, “I kept your deposit. You still owe me a month in hand.”

“She’s not your mum,” I whispered. “She was your landlady. Only that.”

My words seemed to unlock him.

He stormed after her. “I nearly died, but sure, charge me for being unconscious. What happened to my stuff? My possessions?”

“I slung it all. It’s in the terms and conditions of your tenancy. You never answered my messages, it was my right to do with it as I pleased.”

She’d reached the door and went to slam it.

Convict grabbed it and planted one foot on the doormat. “All of it? When and where did you throw it away?”

He didn’t believe her. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but from her expression, he was right.

The landlady pouted. “There might be a few things hanging around in a storage cupboard. I’d have to check. Come back in five to ten business days.”

“How about you check now and I’ll make sure your rent is paid.”

She glared at him. He stared back, not menacing her, but not moving either.

“The money first,” she countered.

I lifted my chin. “You said you kept his deposit. He was only in hospital for a month. If you’ve already rented out his flat, you can’t be out of pocket for more than a week or two.”

“Yeah, but what about all the hassle of finding a new tenant and cleaning the space?” She curled her lip. “Fine.” She spat a figure.

Convict nodded and found his phone. He dialled a number. “Manny? Can I ask a favour?”