Hard Time Read Online Free Page B

printed words.
    I tried to keep my face down, but knowing he was there, knowing exactly where his body was in this room, in relation to mine, knowing those dark eyes were trained right on me . . .
    I looked up.
    That stare. That unreadable expression, an impossible mix of apathy and fascination, coldness and searing seduction.
    Wait—what? I escaped back to the page, mouth moving on autopilot.
    Cold seduction.
Yeah, right. Surely there was a better word for that quality, like oh, say,
sociopathic.
    I was mindful to make eye contact only with the other side of the room for a few pages, but his gaze . . . it stuck to me. Clung like the heat left by a lover’s palm. It made my cheeks warm, and I hoped my blush didn’t show under the sallow fluorescents.
    My mind raced as my lips and tongue soldiered onward.
    Look again—you’ll see it was nothing. A trick of your mind.
A zing of recognition for spotting a seemingly familiar face among the strangers. And familiar from the dayroom, only.
    Though why a man’s face should have imprinted so deeply, from so brief an encounter . . .
    He was handsome, to be sure. Not to everyone’s taste—not all-American wholesome-handsome. Much darker. A knowing and dangerous breed of charisma.
    Of course I knew all too well, looks deceived. The ex who’d ruptured my eardrum and left me with a popping jaw, he was all-American wholesome-handsome. Blond. Hazel eyes, green in the sun, and that smile. Give him a yellow Lab and a football, and the tableau was complete.
    Hand him a plastic tumbler—half cola, half rum—and he became something else entirely.
    That’s the only reason 802267 is so magnetic.
He’s nothing like Justin.
Blond, smiling Justin.
    This numbered, nameless stranger . . . he’d fucked up. Past tense. Fucked up bad enough to get locked away, and the absolute honesty of that held an unexpected appeal. Because whatever Justin’s crimes might prove to be—vehicular, domestic, drunk and disorderly—they were To Be Determined. If he didn’t stop drinking, something ugly awaited him, and the certainty of that fact, coupled with the
un
certainty of when it might arrive and what shape it would take, was crushing.
    But this man, with his dark eyes, dark hair, dark stubble . . . A man like this one, sitting four rows back, three seats from the end . . . I knew where he sat, and where he stood. I knew where he slept—behind a thick metal door. And that made him safe, somehow.
    I stole another glance.
    His gaze was strong male hands cradling a baby bird—seemingly innocuous, but shot through with the potential for unbearable cruelty. 802267’s expression itself wasn’t cruel, but that mysterious stare . . . that could be promising anything. That wasn’t to be trusted.
    Quit looking.
    I met the eyes of the men around him, but he shone in my periphery. The way he sat, legs spread, hips scooted forward, arms draped lazily on his thighs. Like this were somebody’s yard. Like he had the collar of a beer bottle pinched between two fingers, the summer sun warm on the back of his neck. His eyes were steady, and I felt them on me. Felt them drinking up every word my mouth formed, licking them straight off my lips.
    It felt as though I were speaking other words to 802267, words no one else could hear.
    What’s that stare saying?
    What are you thinking?
    What did you do to forfeit your freedom? To deserve this life?
    What would you do to me, if it were just the two of us in here?
Shiver.
    But what kind of shiver?
    Quit looking at me.
But everyone was looking at me—whether they were imagining things that would make me sick or not, they had permission to look right at me, and they did. So why should one man’s attention burn when the others left me so cold?
    I glanced at the clock. Nearly half past, time to begin the discussion.
    When I closed the book on a cliffhanger, audible groans and one, “Aw, come on,” rewarded me.
    “So,” I said, looking around the