Hard Time (Hard as Nails #1)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Description

More from Hope Conrad

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Coming Next in the HARD AS NAILS Series

About the Author

Copyright

 

 

 

HARD TIME

Hard As Nails, Book One

 

 

by

Hope Conrad

 

 

DESCRIPTION

 

Muscled, tattooed, and irresistible.

 

Thomas Street is an ex-con, but before he got out of prison, he locked eyes with her…

 

The moment Street sees Katie serving food in a hellhole of a prison, he wants her. Her sweet little body against his. Under his. Her screaming his name until she admits she’s never had better.

 

Now he’s found her again, working in a bookstore of all places, and she’s just as gorgeous as he remembers. Only Katie thinks he can be redeemed. That there’s a good man underneath his darkness.

 

He’s not so sure.

 

But then Katie becomes his. Katie and her daughter.

 

And he’ll risk everything, including fighting the devil himself, to protect them.

 

 

CONTACT HOPE HERE

 

Website:
www.hopeconrad.com

Twitter:
@hopeconradbooks

Email:
[email protected]

Facebook Fan Page:
www.facebook.com/Hope-Conrad-204768223233946

 

 

MORE FROM HOPE CONRAD

 

Hard As Nails Series:

 

Hard Time
(Book 1)

Hard Case
(Book 2)

Hard Core
(Book 3)

Hard Place
(Book 4)

Hard Act
(Book 5)

 

 

Prologue

 

 

Katie

 

My mom used to tell me to dream big. That I could be anything I wanted to be. Funny, I never wanted to work in a prison cafeteria, but that’s exactly what’s happened. Now my days are a never-ending vortex of the same mundane task, tossing two scoops of what can only be described as slop into each tray as inmates march down the service line.

They all look the same. They all act the same. It’s impossible to distinguish one from the next, even though they vary in skin color and personality. It’s a blur of one ghosted face after another.

Some of the men scare me.

Most of them do, to be honest.

But
he
scares me most of all.

Thomas Street.

In the montage of blurry faces, his sticks out like a sore thumb. Something about him is different. Mary, my older—and far wiser—co-worker says that
something different
is the way he looks at me. I laugh her comments off, but deep down I know she’s right. He’s always staring, his eyes on me even as he settles at a table and pokes his fork at barely edible food.

I look at him, too. I have for months. And while I tried not to get caught looking at first, I soon abandoned all pretense. Even when he’s not around my gaze searches for him. My body yearns for him. And when I finally spot him, it’s always more than a quick gaze.

Like now.

Entrapped by those deep, piercing blue eyes, I can’t look away. I’m stuck in place, dreaming into the abyss of space between us while he eats.

Even as I’m lost in an unwelcome world of longing and desire, my hands continue to scoop slop against trays. It’s the easiest job I’ve ever had, and I’ve become accustomed to running on autopilot. I’ve become a robot, a machine, in the six months I’ve spent here.

I often find myself wondering if the inmates that pass me notice. If they see the emptiness hidden behind my hazel eyes. Probably not. They’re too lost in their own fantasies, if not of what it would feel like to rip my clothes off and fuck me where I stand, then what it would feel like to be on the outside again, living a life of freedom. Little do they know that even when I go home for the day, I wonder the same thing.

How’d I get stuck behind these prison walls? At what point in time did I say to myself,
You know, maybe I should go serve processed food to the most dangerous men on Earth
. Even worse, how is it that when I’m in my car driving home after work, I often feel like I’m going from one kind of prison to another?

It’s so ironic—this place is my escape
from
the outside world, and yet each of these men wish they could find an escape
to
the outside world. In here, I almost feel safe.

I jerk when I feel fingers wrap around my wrist. There’s no one in line, and I’d just scooped slop onto the metal counter in front of me.

“What’s up with you?” Mary asks with a furrowed brow, letting me go. “What are you dreaming about?”

Heat swamps my face as I imagine Street witnessing what I’d just done. I shoot Mary a weak smile as I clean up the mess I made.

“You know me, Mary. I don’t dream.” It’s a lie, of course. I dream about
him
and I’m sure she knows it. But I’ll never admit it out loud. I sigh and pull the latex gloves off my hands. “Reality is reality; no amount of dreaming will change that.”

“You’re watching him, aren’t you?” She shifts slightly so that her eyes are angled at Street. “I don’t blame you if you are.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I huff and flip a switch, turning the heat lamp above the dish of slop off.

“He watches you too.”

When I say nothing, when this time I manage to keep my eyes on her face, she laughs and turns to the kitchen. I follow her, but take one last glance—this time it’s a quick one—at Street before pushing through the swinging double doors.

He’s still staring at me, as if he couldn’t take his eyes off me if he tried. There is a landmine of magnets between us, with a pull impossible to ignore, but he’s off limits. He’s a man behind bars, and I’m a woman caged in another form of prison, one that’s my own personal hell.

 

* * *

 

When my shift is over, and the food is prepared for the next day, I begin the long walk to freedom along a path flanked on either side by towering fences with barbwire, one separating me from the prison courtyard, and the other cordoning off some utility buildings. My feet plod against the beaten gravel as I speed down the path, hurrying so I can get home in time to prepare dinner for my boyfriend.

He’s a man with a temper, and nothing sets him off like coming home to an empty table. Sometimes, it seems as if all I do is cook.

The dying sun beats against my face as it prepares its descent from the horizon, and a light trickle of sweat traces down my forehead. I hear the shouts of men playing basketball in the courtyard. Suddenly, my body tenses. My skin prickles. And somehow, without seeing him, I know Street is there. As if to confirm my suspicion, someone calls his name, and I stop and turn.

Street dribbles a basketball along a concrete court, weaving his way around his opponents. Any other time, the inmates wear their prison garb, but for some reason, in the yard when they’re playing basketball or working out, the prison lets them wear athletic gear, and play shirts or skin.

Street’s showing lots of skin. He’s tall; I’ve always known that, but somehow he looks taller without his shirt on.

His abs are crunched tight as he shifts downward, spinning beneath the arm span of a man on defense. He quickly gains his footing, steadies himself, and throws the ball into the basket, scoring a three-pointer with ease. In celebration, he claps his hand against a teammate’s as they cheer, and they bump chests.

Men.

His fingers fall to his hips, pressed against his body where the line of his black basketball shorts melts against tanned skin. A spider spins a web beginning at the arch of his right shoulder, and trailing all the way to his elbow in the form of an ashen-colored tattoo. On his left shoulder, a tiger with the same bright blue eyes as Street threatens to pounce.

His teeth sink into his lip, and it’s like he’s putting on a show. But there’s no way he can know I’m watching, right? He hasn’t even shifted his attention in this direction, giving me time to study him. He has a strong jawline and even though I can’t see it now, he has a long scar just under his right ear, where some left-handed nemesis tried to cut his throat in a fight.

It happened before I arrived. From what I know, Street’s been here about a year and still has several years left. When he walks, that scar will go with him.

If he doesn’t stay clean, it’ll be a way for someone to identify him.

But for me, it will always be a sign that there’s much more to him than meets the eye.

A guard caught me staring at Street once and assumed I’d been staring at his scar, which in all fairness I had been.

The guard told me he’d gotten it during a prison riot, when one gang had gone after another. “Street’s one of the few inmates not in a gang,” he’d said, and I’d heard the hint of admiration in his tone.

“So he just got caught in the cross-fire?” I asked, unable to squelch my damn curiosity.

“Nope. He waded right in.”

“Oh,” I’d said weakly.

“Saved a newbie. A kid that had been targeted to be raped.”

“Oh,” I’d said again, this time my voice stronger. “That’s…nice.” I’d known it was a lame thing to say, but if it were true, it
was
damn nice, literally putting your neck on the line to save someone else. Even if you were a man in prison who’d obviously made mistakes.

According to Mary, who’d heard it from another guard, Street is serving time for a burglary gone bad. Apparently the house owner had interrupted him. Someone had pulled a gun. The owner had been shot but lived.

The talk was that Street had accepted his fate, never trying to fight the ugly fight of feigning innocence. It doesn’t erase his actions, but now when I see his scar, I’m reminded of a book I read about a young Odysseus who joined his grandfather and a group of uncles for a hunt on the wooded slopes of Mount Parnassus. Odysseus was the youngest of the group, but when the men and dogs spotted a giant boar, Odysseus was the first to go after the beast with his spear. The boar dodged the blow and gored Odysseus in the knee. Thereafter, the scar was used to identify Odysseus, but also to symbolize his rite of passage into manhood. The scar helped make Odysseus into a man and marked him as one.

I view Street’s scar the same way. No matter his past sins, the scar will forever be a testament to his bravery.

Jesus, Katie, you’re a fool.

I’ve romanticized the scar, romanticized Street. Except for random bits of information, I really know nothing about him. Most of what I know is what I see. Yes, I really like what I see, but what does it say about me that I’m drawn to such a man for the shallowest of reasons?

His eyes.

His abs.

Those biceps, and a particularly beautiful smile.

His lips, and did I mention his eyes?

Maybe it’s the hint of danger in spite of my relative safety. He can’t touch me, but what if he could? What if I couldn’t stop him? The thought heightens my desire not just for physical release, but for an adventure to escape my mundane life.

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