House Arrest Countdown: 3 Months
TWENTY-TWO MONTHS. MARCUS has spent twenty-two months locked away like an animal. Surrounded by the dregs of society, half of them too stupid to understand the confines of the situation they were in. Almost two years in a place where he’d had to shit five feet from a felon. Far too long. For a man of his standing, with no priors, weak evidence… the five-year sentence had been ludicrous. The fact that it had taken his attorneys twenty-two months to get him out of there—unacceptable.
But now he is free and the bitching can wait until Monday. Now, at 6:14 p.m. on a Friday night, he stands on the pavement outside of the prison and breathes free air. Air that, on this side of the chain link, tastes different. It is filled with hope. Rebirth. Never again will he step inside that fence. Never again will he feel the grip of confinement around his wrists.
He had been stupid.
Sloppy.
Made mistakes he will not repeat. He will think more, act less. Be smarter.
Marcus steps toward the waiting car, the sleek Bentley radiating the reflecting sun rays like a beacon to his soul. The bracelet, heavy on his right ankle, reminding him of the three months of supervision ahead of him.
The door opens and he leans over. Grins into the waiting face of his attorney. “I’ll bitch at you next week about how long that took. For now, let’s go celebrate.”
Doors click, hugs are exchanged in the awkward space of the car, and then the attorney leans forward, overriding his suggestion with a few tossed words to the driver.
“Come on,” Marcus growls. “I’ve been locked up and fed dog food. Jacked off to visions of a porterhouse so bloody it’ll stain my teeth.”
“Easy Marcus.” The thin man shoots him a look. “Watch what you say.”
“Shit. Everyone lost their sense of humor while I was gone?”
There is silence in the car for a moment and he realizes how crude his words sounded. He went into prison a gentleman, had come out an animal. He pulls at the collar of his prison-issued shirt, a cheap material that now feels normal. First thing, when he gets inside, he’ll change. Take a shower in his stone grotto and scrub the scent of criminals away. Pull on a thousand-dollar suit and remember what it feels like to be a man. Remember what clean fingernails feel like. What fresh fruit, quality meats taste like. Remember what being a human entails. What being Marcus Renza, one of Florida’s biggest landholders, entitles him to.
An hour later, the car turns, the secured gates of his neighborhood passing by, and his mouth turns downward slightly. Trading razor wire for iron gates. Prison guards for an anklet. One prison for another. But three months of house arrest will be easy compared to what he has just undergone. Three months of having his house, his bed, his staff. Meals prepared twenty-four hours a day. A pool, gym, and tennis courts on his property. His office. Real estate holdings to review, employees to kick back into line, respect to regain after two years away. Work would distract. Work had always distracted.
Yes, three months will be easy. He watches a woman jog past, her sweat making the yellow sports bra she wears hug wet and tight to her curves. His hand stops its drum on the armrest, his neck tensing as he fights the urge to turn and see the curves of her ass, to watch her retreat.
Fuck. Maybe it won’t be that easy. It’s been so long.