Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Wrong Type of Free: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 10

The Wrong Kind of Free SHAW “We’re not fucking this up,” I said out loud to myself and the legions in my head while I stood on the mayor’s pavement with my duffel bag hanging from one fist and the weight of the parole bracelet firm on my ankle. Unlike every other blokes on parole, I got placed in the mayor’s house. Like I’m one hell of a dangerous criminal that needed proper scrutiny. I’ve been staring at the huge mansion for three minutes now and it still doesn’t look real. It’s the kind of house that exists to remind you what old money looks like even when it stops trying to be subtle. It’s all dark stones and high windows and a front door that probably costs more than everything I’ve ever owned combined. I was told as a warning by Officer Bill, the prison warden that there were more cameras here than in Blackbridge. Of course, he’s lying. But I get that he kinda wants me to stay out of trouble. I shift the duffel on my shoulder. I am to reside here, report weekly, st

The Devil makes Breakfast SHAW The knock comes at seven forty-three. I know because I’d been awake since six, staring at the ceiling with the alertness of someone whose body has forgotten how to sleep somewhere safe. “Mr. Carter?” Mrs. Able’s voice is soft through the door. “Mr. Lucas is asking for you to join him for breakfast.” I stare at the ceiling for three more seconds. “I’ll be right down,” I say. She pads away and I sit up and ask myself what fresh hell this is. Lucas does not strike me as a breakfast-invitation kind of person. Lucas strikes me as the kind of person who would happily watch me starve and describe it as a character building exercise. So whatever this is—this summoning, because that’s what it is, nobody sends their housekeeper to knock at seven forty-three to extend a warm, genuine invitation—it has an agenda attached to it. I freshen up in seven minutes. Splash water on my face, brush my teeth, change into my second least wrinkled shirt. Look a

My False Safe HavenSHAWWaking up feels like clawing my way out of wet concrete.Last night’s episode floods back in a hot rush.My throat burns first. Then my head. Then the heavy ache sitting behind my eyes arrives like it had been waiting for me to regain consciousness. I groan quietly and drag a hand down my face before opening my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling painted in soft cream.Right.Mayor Hale’s house.My false safe haven.I shift under the blankets and instantly regret it. My body feels weak in that post-adrenaline way, like my muscles forgot how to taut. There’s still a faint taste of spice and stomach acid at the back of my throat.The spooky ghost of peanut butter.Fanta-fucking-tastic.I stare upward for a second longer before noticing the faint sound of fingers tapping against a phone screen.I turn my head.Lucas Hale is sitting shirtless in a rocking chair near the window like a gorilla king.There was never a rocky chair in this room. Which means he brought it her

City of London SHAW “This is a terrible idea.” Lucas doesn’t even turn around. The asshole is already sitting on his Ducati with both hands resting lazily on the handlebars like he’s posing for a magazine. “It’s actually,” he says through the comms device in my helmet, “an excellent idea.” “It’s a motorcycle.” “Yes, Shaw. Congratulations on identifying vehicles.” “For a city tour.” “That’s generally where roads are.” I stare at him. Or rather, at the back of him, because he’s wearing an all-black outfit today like he’s preparing either for a fashion shoot. Black hoodie, gloves, and jeans. Even the damn helmet is matte black. Meanwhile I’m still wearing his rainbow sweatshirt. How humiliating. I tighten my grip on the helmet under my arm. “There are buses for this, y’know?” I argue. “There are diseases on those buses.” “There are also seats.” Lucas finally turns slightly, enough for me to catch the smirk in his voice. “With a motorcycle,” he says,

The Weight of ConsequencesSHAW“Wait. What if they took a picture of our plate numbers?”Lucas looks at me for exactly one second. He then snorts.I stare at him in disbelief while he leans back against the Ducati like I didn’t just ask a life-altering question.“I need a fucking smoke,” he mumbles to no one but himself.“Are you even listening?” I asked in a growing frustration.“Am I, Little Shit.”“Then say something.”He sighs dramatically and pushes himself off the bike.“Shaw,” he says, voice calmer now, “do you honestly think the bobbies spent their evening memorizing motorcycle plates from an illegal queer rave while fifty half-dressed men were climbing fences and screaming?”“I don’t know what they do. I’ve been to prison.”That quiets him for a second.The unfinished building creaks softly around us while distant city sounds drift through the open concrete skeleton of the structure.Lucas studies me carefully.Then he says, quieter this time, “Your fear makes sense.”His wo