Page 4 of Ruthless Convict
Austin
Why didit have to be a cat?
I’m in the narrow stretch of Ruthie’s kitchen, her particle-board cabinets at my back. Her cat is squared off at my feet. The damned thing has inflated to twice its original size, all of that patchy orange and brown fur sticking straight out like demonic static cling.
"Hey," I raise my palms and attempt the closest thing I can to a soothing voice. "It's OK. We're on the same side. I'm trying to keep her safe, just like you. Scram."
Snickers just meets my stare, unafraid and unruffled. The creature is either incredibly brave or exceptionally stupid. I'm six and a half feet tall, and I've had nothing to do for the last two years but work on myself. Snickers' haughty glare makes no sense.
I don't know if the cat understands me or simply loses interest. Still, she eventually lowers the fluffy Christmas tree of her tail and huffs out of the kitchen.
Why did it have to be a damned cat?
I've always been a dog person. Leave me alone with the biggest, meanest pit bull you can find, and I'll do just fine. But cats and I have never gotten along. Now that this one has left me alone, I look around the kitchen.
It doesn't take long. The space is little more than a sink, oven, and fridge jammed together beneath a strip of fluorescent lights. Somehow, Ruth has made the tiny scrap of kitchen warm and welcoming. A ceramic cookie jar sits on the minuscule Formica countertop. It's a cat; squat, fat, and brightly painted.
“I see the resemblance,” I mutter at Snickers, keeping a watchful eye from beneath the dining table.
There is a scattering of colorful magnets on her battered white refrigerator, keeping photos and memories in place. There’s Ruth, on a field trip to the museum with her class. A big floppy sun hat rests atop the perfect spirals of her honey curls. Another of Ruth with her arms around another girl in the bleachers of a local sporting event. Her big blue eyes shine through the photograph, connecting with mine.
She’s even more beautiful than I remember. I’ve never seen the bright spots high on the round apples of her cheeks when she smiles before. There were no smiles from her on the night we met— the night she was almost taken from me. Rage swirls in my gut, hot and protective as I remember the look on Ruthie’s face when she cried out for help. I fell in love with her at that moment.
I’ve waited patiently for two years to make things right.
Twenty-four agonizing months, surviving on her occasional letters. The image of her face and the sweet sound of Ruthie’s voice in my memory were the only things keeping me going during those long years of incarceration.
My eye catches a thick binder on the table she has beneath the sunny kitchen window. I recognize her neat, round script as soon as I see it.
Dear Austin—
My stomach drops, breath catching in my throat. She was writing to me. Page after page of letters she never sent. The rage turns into a simmering, protective heat as I thumb through, absorbing all the pain and fear Ruthie’s been living with for two years.
I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. Forever.
Especially now.
Ruth has no idea how much danger she’s in. The piece of shit who attacked her wasn’t just anybody. He was the spoiled brat of a low-level local mafia don. The Bruno family sent people after me in prison and bribed the guards to look the other way. I might not have survived those two hellish years, except I had a reason to keep going.
A quick shadow of movement makes me spin. Snickers darts from under the table and heads straight for the front door. Ruth is home, far earlier than she should be.
I know I should say something. Call out, let her know I'm here. Anything to keep from scaring her. But I can't move, suddenly frozen in place at the thought of seeing my Ruthie again for the first time in two years.
“Um,” Her trembling voice comes from the cracked doorway and shoots straight through me. “Is somebody here?”
The door eases open enough for me to get my first good look at Ruth in two years. Her golden blonde curls are neatly pulled back in a ponytail, the piercing blue of her eyes wide as saucers. Her fair fingers are curled around a thick black canister that I recognize immediately.
“I have mace,” she confirms with a jut of her chin. “Who’s here?”
“It’s me, Ruthie.” I raise my palms, hoping I’m not about to taste the acrid bite of pepper spray. “You had a scheduled maintenance inspection today. I’m—”
“Austin?” Ruth steps into her living room, dropping the metal can on the floor with a thunk. “What are you doing here? When did you get out? I— wait, are you the new maintenance person?”
Confusion chases across her face as the last bit of color drains away. Her complexion is pale, beads of sweat making her hair cling to her forehead. I'm out of the kitchen and across the room in a heartbeat, vaulting over her coffee table to get to her.
“Hey, come on in out of the heat,” I ease an arm around her shoulders, guiding Ruth over to the loveseat occupying most of the far wall. “That’s it, take some deep breaths. You’re all right. I’m sorry I scared you.”
Snickers is already perched on the arm of the tiny couch, her mottled orange tail ticking away in concern. Ruth looks up at me from under the thick sweep of her lashes. Her clammy hand finds my wrist, tugging me down onto the loveseat beside her. It’s a snug fit, with the softness of her thick thigh pressed intently against my leg. I take several deep breaths of my own to try and calm the raging erection threatening to burst through my jeans.