Hard Time

Chapter One: Jeff

Five fucking years down the drain, and for what? To win a pissing contest against the schmuck who got my ass terminated and destroyed my life?

I take one final deep breath to blunt the feelings of rage that always bubble to the surface whenever I think of that bastard. The prison alarm blares, making my ears ring for what I sure as hell hope will be the last time. The automatic metal door creaks open, and I step into the warm late afternoon sunshine, finally seconds away from freedom.

All I need to do is walk through those tall wrought iron gates, the ones wrapped in barbed, electrified wire. There were always stories floating around about inmates who'd felt the need to test out the silent threat, but ended up roasting themselves. Same idiots who weren't smart enough not to get caught. Five years was a damn long time, but not enough of a sentence that would make me risk deep-frying my balls. And yeah, even though I got out early on good behavior, I was one of those idiots. I did get caught.

Gone is the bright orange jumpsuit. I look normal, even though I feel anything but. The Nevada desert air is dry, stagnant, and still. In any other situation, it'd be thick enough to choke me, but being on the other side, the free side? It's so fucking sweet. I adjust my belt, several notches too big. Being in lockdown takes more than a few inches off the waistline, mainly due to grueling daily workouts, food that was best described as maggot meal, lamenting, and plotting...mostly plotting.

The alarm sounds again, shattering the blissful silence, and the large gates swing open, allowing me access to the outside world. So many thoughts run through my mind about what had gone wrong on that fateful night. Almost everything had been within my control, but I overlooked a single detail, and it was fucking major. I lost my focus. Didn't see the signs. Walked right into the goddamned trap.

So, now, there's a score to settle. A big one. Because the last time stripped me of everything.

I turn and look back at the dark gray concrete building known as San Pedro State Penitentiary, my home of the last five years.

No fucking way will I be back here again. Ever.

Idiots have nothing to lose. I have everything to gain.

My partner Remo is waiting for me at the exit in a beat-up, navy blue Honda Accord. The car is as non-descript as they come. Remo on the other hand? He towers over me, over most people, at almost seven feet tall. Dark hair, dark skin, menacing eyes. He looks like a badass motherfucker, but he's one of the best guys I know. Huge heart in a very unexpected package. I peer in the windows of his car, furrowing my brow at the paper bags scattered on the backseat. He also has an unhealthy obsession with saturated fat. Remo gives a half-shrug as I open the passenger side door. "I'm trying to run it into the ground before I buy something new."

"Better to have a getaway car like this than the pimped out Hummer that Rand drives." I yank the door handle and pull it open, sinking into the bucket seat. The stale stench of fast food immediately assaults my nose. "Jesus, Remo. This shit'll kill you," I say, kicking at the bags surrounding my feet.

"It's how I fuel up. You know that. I think best loaded up on grease and salt."

"Yeah, well, it's too bad I made you skip dinner the night I got pinched. Maybe things might've gone differently."

"And now you've paid the price. I bet you'll never make me skip another meal again." He puts the key in the ignition and the car coughs its way to life. "How was the clink?"

A loaded question. To say it's full of interesting characters is a gross understatement. The shadiest ones had their own personal lines to the outside, and with a little bit of cash, you can get a lot of shit from them. But I didn't care about things like porn, smokes, or booze. I wanted information, which was harder, and more expensive, to get. But like minds always come together, and I used my steady stream of cash to get me exactly what I needed to concoct a plan, the plan that would make me whole again. "Not horrible. Gave me time to clear my head."

Remo sticks his hand in a grease-stained bag on the console and digs around, producing a fistful of soggy french fries. "Want some? Looks like you can use some food."

I stare at his hand and then at him. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

"Not good enough for ya, huh? Even after five years of choking down that horseshit they've been shoveling onto your plate?"

I snicker. "I am starving. How about a beer? And I'm talking about a cold one, not one you pull from some magical hiding place in this shit heap."

"Is that the way you talk to the only guy who volunteered to pick your ass up in Nevada and drive you all the way back to LA?" Remo shakes his head and pulls the clunker onto the freeway heading south. "Jesus Christ, in about twenty minutes, I'll be an accomplice to your parole violation. Not to mention I'm the only one who has the inside scoop about where the star of our upcoming show is gonna be later tonight, and guess what? A Grammy ain't the only thing she'll be wrapping her hands around and squeezing."

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