The iron gates of the county prison groaned open, heavy and reluctant, as though they were tired of seeing him come and go. Vincent didn't shuffle out like most men, shoulders hunched and eyes hollowed. No—he strutted, chin high, a grin plastered across his face as if the world outside had been waiting just for him.
Behind the bars, a chorus rose up from inmates pressed against the windows.
"Vinnie boy!" one yelled.
"Don't trip on your way back in!" another hooted.
Vincent turned, pressed two fingers to his lips, and blew them a flamboyant kiss. "Don't miss me too much, gentlemen! I'll bring postcards next time."
The block erupted into laughter. A few guards rolled their eyes, muttering under their breath. Everyone knew him here. Everyone. From the janitor who mopped the blood after brawls to the lifers serving double sentences—Vincent was part of the furniture.
The chief of security waddled toward him, belly leading the way, papers clutched in one meaty fist. Vincent squinted at him and tilted his head with mock seriousness.
"Chief," he said, tapping his chin. "You've grown an inch. Exact measurement: nine months pregnant. Congratulations—when's the baby shower?"
A few guards snorted. The chief's face went red, and with a resigned sigh, he gave Vincent a weak smack to the back of the head. "Sign the damn papers before I stuff you back inside for that mouth of yours and harassment."
Vincent chuckled, bowing with exaggerated politeness. He scrawled his name with a flourish, flicking the pen like he was signing autographs for fans.
"Chill , chill ! , chief . No need to twist the XL size panties of yours"
When he handed it back, he slipped a different pen into his pocket—a slick, unconscious theft that came as naturally as breathing.
Chief glared at him , it wasn't anger glare it was the glare of exhaustion.
"Free at last," he declared, spreading his arms as the gates clanked fully open. "Though not for long, I'm sure."
The chief muttered something like, God help me, and turned away.
Outside, Vincent stretched like a cat, rolling his shoulders until the joints popped. The city air filled his lungs, dirty and heavy with exhaust fumes, but to him it tasted like champagne. "Ahhhh. Home sweet home."
Freedom was an itch in his blood. He couldn't stand still, couldn't stop scanning, couldn't ignore the gnawing thrill of possibility. Vincent wasn't the kind of man who walked a straight line. He zig-zagged, he stumbled, he laughed in the face of consequences. The law was a game, and he loved being the rogue piece no one could quite pin down.
As he sauntered down the cracked pavement, he thought of all the times he'd been here before. First time at fifteen, caught lifting wallets from drunks. Then at seventeen, when he'd boosted his neighbor's car for a joyride. At twenty-one, a string of break-ins. By now, at twenty-five, he'd lost count of the exact number of arrests. Ten? Fifteen? Didn't matter. Jail had never cured him. If anything, it just sharpened his appetite.
The guards called him a hopeless case. The inmates called him clever. Vincent called himself free.
His boots scuffed against gravel as he cut across the lot, eyes idly roaming. And then he saw it.
Parked just near the guard's station, bathed in the late morning light, was a motorcycle. Sleek. Chrome shining like a promise. It wasn't just a machine—it was a wild animal, crouched and waiting for a master bold enough to ride it.
Vincent froze mid-step, lips curling into a slow grin.
"Well, well," he murmured, tilting his head, the gleam of the bike reflected in his eyes. "Looks like someone left me a welcome-home gift."
His fingers twitched, the thief in him wide awake. The laughter of inmates still echoed faintly behind the gates, but Vincent's mind was already spinning with possibilities.
Freedom hadn't even lasted ten minutes, and already temptation was calling his name.
His fingers twitched, already itching for the keys.
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PLEASE SUPPORT BEAUTIFUL LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN ,
WITH CHARM,
VINCENT 😉.