Page 6 of Brooks (Dirty Misfits MC 1)
Only, the woman for me wasn’t inside these prison walls.
She was out there, living her life with a broken heart I was anxious to mend.
Mr. Plump picked up his gavel. “This parole board hereby states that Mr. Michael Brooks—brought up on charges of drug trafficking, drug possession, and the selling of illegally-modified cars—has earned his freedom via good behavior over the past four years and eleven months. Mr. Michael Brooks is hereby released from prison, relieved of his sentence, and ordered to vacate the premises by 9 A.M. Friday morning.”
Two days.
I was a free man in two fucking days.
His gavel banged against the desk and my lawyer patted me on the back. I stood and went to shake his hand, but he quickly pulled me into a hug. He patted my back and gripped my shoulders, smiling as triumphantly as I should have been.
But my mind was already dwelling on thoughts of Raven.
My God, I’d love to see her.
My lawyer talked my ear off about shit I didn’t even register as we headed back to my cell. He told me he’d work out the details of my release with the warden herself, then reiterated that in less than forty-eight hours, I’d be a free man. Granted, I’d need to go to a halfway house for a little while, and I would still have my movements monitored. But that was simply because I didn’t have family to bunk with, nor did I want to inconvenience any of my guys by taking my hefty ass in.
Unless…
She wouldn’t do that for me, would she?
The second I sat down on my lower bunk, I pulled out my letter-writing materials. I wanted to craft the perfect letter for her to announce the fact that I was being released, and that I’d like to see her. I knew she’d say no, and I didn’t blame her one bit for that. Especially since the last time we saw one another, all she did was smack me across my cheek.
A slap well-deserved, in my opinion.
Nevertheless, she was the only person in my life I wanted to speak with. The only person I wanted to keep in touch with. While the men in my club had stopped visiting a while back, she was the one shred of happiness I clung to. The one small, beautiful point in my life that never ceased to amaze me. And while the guilt I harbored with continuously reaching out to my best friend’s girl sometimes ate me alive, the hope of getting a response from her one day was worth it.
Even if the response didn’t come until I was knocking on her door come Friday morning.
* * *
“Here are your belongings,” the officer said flatly.
A plastic bag with my clothes from the day I was arrested got dropped into my arms. I saw my wallet hanging out as well as my cell phone, which was still wrapped up in an old evidence baggy. I saw my socks and my boots. My faded leather cut and my light-wash jeans that had holes ripped in the knees.
I also saw the blood as well.
The massive patches of Gage’s blood as I held his body against my own.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
The officer pointed. “Go through that door and down the hallway. There will be a bathroom to your left for you to change into. Leave the jumpsuit, get into those clothes, and then proceed through the metal door at the end of the hallway.”
I slowly looked up. “You want me to put on clothes soaked with the blood of my best friend?”
The officer shrugged. “Unless you’ve got other clothes.”
My lawyer’s voice sounded behind me. “He does, actually. Brooks, down this way.”
I turned toward his voice. “What?”
He waved at me. “Just come down here, would you?”
I looked the officer up and down before I headed toward the hallway. My lawyer swapped out the clothes in my arms for a fresh pair and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“What do you want me to do with these?” he asked.
I jammed my shoulder into the bathroom door. “Keep the leather jacket, my wallet, and my phone. Pass me my boots and burn everything else.”
He started unwrapping the plastic. “The best I can do is throw it in the dumpster on the way out.”
“Fine by me.”
I did exactly as the officer instructed and took a look at myself in the mirror. Mr. Rothsfield had been on the club’s payroll for years now. And while he had seen us through a great many sticky situations, I was the first man he had to deal with that had gotten prison time. He’d done well, too. He got me the lowest sentence possible for my charges and somehow wiggled me into parole even though that had never been on the table. From my point of view, the man needed a fucking raise.
