At least not until it’s time to meet with my Lewisburg probation officer.
It’s more of a formality, since I’m transferring, but it gives me the out I need. I tell Lucy and Olivia that I don’t know how long it’ll take, then walk to the office. It’s cold as fuck, but walking keeps me warm and gives me time to think. One of the conditions of my parole is finding a full-time job within thirty days or at least enrolling in a full-time continuing education program. I’d already graduated high school when I went in—with a pretty sweet GPA—so I could go to college if I wanted to.
But I’m already so much older than the kids taking English 101. If I matriculated now, I’d be almost forty-three by the time I graduate. And I don’t even know what I’d study. All of my pre-penitentiary hopes and dreams seem silly now. No one is going to hire a felon like me, even with an undergraduate degree.
The Department of Social Services office looks like every other government building: squat, yellow-gray, and brick. I stroll through the doors and give my name to the security guard. I’m waved through and led to a small windowless office with a grubby gray carpet. Bright florescent lights press down on me. A mustached P.O. with a bald head and deep brown skin sits across from me behind a desk and holds out his hand for me to shake. His hair is as gray as the floor, and the bags under his eyes suggest he’s probably not very alert.
The name sewn on his uniform is Ntshiza.
"How you doing, man?" I greet him.
He nods, long and slow. "How are you?" His voice is deep and gravelly, as tired as he looks.
I wonder if he’s tired because he dedicates himself to his clients. I decide to try and find out. "Lousy," I tell him. "I can’t sleep and I’m freaked out. My cousin is picking out my clothes and I need to get laid."
Ntshiza laughs. "Aren’t you a breath of fresh air." He settles back in his seat. "Okay, son. You’re only here for a little longer, so there’s not much I can do for you."
I sit forward. “Yeah. I got the email that my request was approved.”
He gives me another slow series of nods. Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He lights up and then slides them to me, touching a finger to his nose and lips like Santa Claus. "You have to see your new probation officer in three days, understand?" The smoke curls from his mouth, drifting into the air.
I nod. "I won’t fuck this up."
"For your sake, I hope not." He regards me with solemn brown eyes. There’s warmth in them, too, though. "Demmel, you’re not a bad guy."
I exhale smoke toward the ceiling. "Do you tell all of your guys that?"
Ntshiza shakes his head. "Just the ones I believe in. Listen, your new P.O. is a friend of mine. We go way back. He’ll go easy on you and he’ll help you, if you let him. Got it?"
I nod again, feeling like a little kid in the principal’s office. Ntshiza is the first person in a position of power in the last twenty years to really give a shit about me. I probably should take what he’s saying with a grain of salt, but it feels so fucking good to have someone on my side, even if he’s an old and tired P.O.
"He’s got a job lined up for you."
I sit up straighter. "Really?" I wonder what it is. Maybe the job is really terrible. Still, I want to hope.
"Your file mentioned that you got into quite a few fights during your sentence—usually in defense of other inmates." Ntshiza fixes me with this owlish, knowing stare.
I almost feel bad that he thinks so highly of me. "Yes sir."
"As I’m sure you probably don’t know, the economy is shit, especially in your hometown area. But Govender—he’s your P.O. up north—was able to find you something. It’s full-time, night hours. And it doesn’t violate your parole, because it’s part of the job."
Now I’m more than curious. I lean forward. "What do you mean?"
"You’ll be a bouncer at a . . . night club." Ntshiza sort of coughs and clears his throat.
I stroke my goatee, an eyebrow cocked. "A night club, huh?"
He sighs and gives in. "It’s a strip club."
"It sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of this," I say. There’s no way I’d turn this down, even if I wasn’t sex deprived. I need a job, plain and simple. I’d take just about anything.
After taking a drag off his cigarette, he flicks ash into the pot of a spider plant. Surprisingly, the thing is thriving, its spindly leaves taking over the desk. He points the cigarette at me. "Don’t get any ideas while you’re in there."
I lean forward, grabbing my jaw with one hand. "What are you getting at?" I’d never go after any of the women. The only way I’d get into any trouble would be if one of the scumbags there attacked any of the dancers. But like Ntshiza said, it’d be part of the job. There’s no way I can fuck this up. I should be thanking him, but I can only stare at him in bewilderment. Not for the first time this week, I’m deeply confused.
Ntshiza closes his eyes for a moment. When he reopens them, he actually looks concerned, as if he’s my father trying to teach me something. But those days are long past. I’m old enough to have my own sons. This realization makes me a little sad. So much time has passed, and I’ve missed out on so much. There’s a very real chance that I won’t be able to regain any of the things I’ve lost.
"Son," my P.O. says, "this particular strip club is owned by a motorcycle club. Ever heard of the River Reapers?"
Figures. Pushing my chair back, I stand. "You’ve had your fun. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find a real job." Sooner rather than later. I’ve only got four weeks left.
"Wait," Ntshiza says. "I just wanted you to have all the details. The River Reapers are in the ninety-nine percent. You have nothing to worry about."
I don’t know what any of this means. When I went in, I was just a kid. Now I’m basically just an overgrown version of that same teenage boy. I lean on the back of the chair, draping my arms over it. "Sure," I say, stuffing my exasperation down. "So when do I start?"
"Just go to the club as soon as you get into town. They’ll give you your schedule." He slides a folder across his desk to me and crosses his arms.
I guess I’m dismissed.
4
Olivia
"Nope. Not doing it," I tell Lucy, crossing my arms.
The motel room is a mess. Crusty man socks litter the floor, his jeans kicked into a corner. Men, I’m learning, are slobs—especially bachelor ex-cons who just got out of prison. You’d think prison would’ve embedded like a militaristic fastidiousness in him, but it seems like they didn’t do such a great job with him.
Not that I have much room to speak. The bathroom counter is seventy-five percent mine, with makeup palettes and hairspray bottles scattered across the fake marble. It’s not dirty, though. The counter itself is clean. There isn’t even any makeup smeared in the sink—something I can’t say for my roommate back in Connecticut.
Still, Lucy insists that I gather all of Cliff’s clothing and head to a laundromat. I need to wash a few things, too, but that’s beside the point. Family or not, I’m no one’s laundress—especially a man nearly two decades older than me.
Lucy and I eyeball each other across the room, her trying to decide how stubborn I’m being and me just, well, being stubborn. But, I remind myself, our ancestors didn’t fight for us to vote and do other people’s laundry.
"You can do his laundry," I say, both eyebrows lifted. "I’m not a maid."
Lucy puts her hands on her hips. She looks more like my mother than my big sister. "Livvie," she says, exasperated. "You need to do laundry anyway. And this way, I can run to the grocery store."
She won’t say it, but we’re running out of money. We won’t be able to stay down here much longer. It doesn’t matter how handsome Prince Charming is. Lucy only gets paid monthly, and I’m a student working under the table. If I don’t show up, I don’t make money. Since I haven’t been in Connecticut for the past week, I have zero dollars to my name. Even my cigarette stash is running low—especiall
y with Prince Charming smoking them too.
I’m not trying to be bitter or cranky. Maybe it’s having been cooped up in a motel room for almost a week straight, but my mood is pretty sour. There’s no doubt about it—I would definitely not survive prison.
Lucy gives me her big sister stare, the one that says "You better not tell Mom or I’ll kick your ass." Now that we’re adults, it just means "Do this thing or I’ll still kick your ass." Sometimes I don’t think younger siblings have it very fair. Not even adopted ones.
I throw up my hands. "Fine." Stalking away, I grab my own laundry. "But I’m not picking up all of his dirty socks off the floor."
My mood is pissy. I’m being completely unreasonable. But I can’t stop. I’m two minutes away from taking out all of my frustration on Lucy, and none of this is her fault. Maybe I’m even a little bit jealous.
I flop down on the bed. I don’t like these ugly, complicated feelings. I just want to have a good time, a couple one-night stands, and finish my degree. It’s not too much for a girl to ask.
Lucy sits down next to me, smoothing my hair the way she always has, from the moment I was dropped off at her house as a tiny, scared foster kid. "It’s okay, Livvie," she singsongs in a soft, soothing voice.
Guilt pits in my stomach. She shouldn’t be comforting me. I’m the one who should be stroking her hair, apologizing for acting like a whiny little kid. Sitting up on my elbows, I shake my head. "No, it’s not. I’m sorry." A lopsided smile crosses my face. "I’m just . . ."
"I know." She grins back. "It means a lot to me that you came here with me. It’s pretty tough of you."
My shoulders lift and fall. "I guess.”
I really don’t want to be a burden, the poor little sister who freaks out if she’s out of her comfort zone for too long. I want to be adventurous, like the woman I slip on when I go out to bars in New Haven. The woman who flirts with Cliff so easily is only a small part of me. I’m really just ninety-percent rabbit.
Lucy slings an arm around me. "I’ll tell you what. Handle those crusty man socks, and I will buy us drinks tonight." She tilts her head to the side. "I think Cliff can drink."
A dark bar and Cliff. The thought sends a thrill through me, this weird fluttering in my stomach. "Huh," I say. So that’s what butterflies actually feel like. I always thought the saying was just a made-up cliché.
"Deal?" my sister asks.
I don’t want to give in too easily. For one, I don’t want to be so cheap. Booze can’t always win me over. Well, okay, it totally can, but I have to at least appear to put up a fight. Plus I don’t want to seem too eager at the prospect of pumping aphrodisiac into the hot guy who has suddenly strolled into my life. Because no matter how often Lucy insists we’re family, Cliff is not my cousin. I didn’t grow up with him the way she did. He’s just another item on my list to tick off.
"Come on, Liv," she pleads. "I’ll get us shots and mixers, not just beer on tap."
I’m not playing her. Lucy would’ve bought Red Headed Sluts anyway because she hates beer. If anyone is rigging this, it’s her. That’s how the two-sister dynamic works. Both of us are equally manipulative, in a totally loving, best friends forever way.
I lift my chin. "Tequila shots."
Lucy grimaces. "I don’t think I can do those anymore."
"Oh please. You’re twenty-eight, not eighty-two. And even then . . ." I shake my head at her. "Who else is going to drink with me in the nursing home?"
Groaning, she tilts her head back. "Fine." She falls back onto the bed, eyes bugged out, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth.
"You have to do at least two shots before you can keel over," I tell her, prodding her in the ribs with a finger.
She automatically wriggles away, but a tiny giggle also escapes. It’s like we’re kids again, and she’s lunging up from her fake-dead position bellowing "I’m back alive!" It was one of my favorite games, and she’s always been happy to oblige me.
This thought makes me feel a little guilty, but not guilty enough to budge on the tequila. Someone has to get sloppy drunk with me, and since Uber is our designated driver, it might as well be Lucy.
"Fine." She stands from the bed. "But I’m not at all responsible for my behavior tonight."
Nodding, I stand too. "Good. Neither am I." I toss her a wink, then I follow the trail of shed socks around the room and try to figure out how I’m going to collect them without touching them. I decide that Cliff loses ten hot points for leaving them out, another ten for sweating so much, and ten more for not doing his own laundry. This is actually helpful because he’s now hovering at seventy percent hotness, which means I don’t want to bang him so badly anymore.
Nothing like domestic bliss to put things into perspective.
"I’m beginning to understand why married people have such boring sex lives," I remark to Lucy as I pinch a tiny corner of the sock between my fingernails. Depositing it into the dry cleaning bag provided by the motel, I sigh and steel myself for the next one.
"Finally, she comes to the dark side," Lucy mutters.
I glance over. She’s sitting at the desk, pen in hand, making a grocery list. We have a mini fridge and a microwave, so my expectations are pretty low. "Is that why you never want to get married?"
There’s no answer because the door opens and all six-plus feet of Cliff bursts into the room. His brown eyes are actually smiling, and someone must’ve taken pity on him because his wild beard has been tamed back into a goatee. He instantly earns back twenty hot points.
"I have good news." His gaze flits from me to Lucy, then back to me.
One of my eyebrows lifts attentively, but I’m so busy wondering why he’s telling me that I miss whatever good news he wants to share.
"That’s awesome!" Lucy flies across the room and flings herself into his arms.
He wraps her in a bear hug, an amused look on his face. "Isn’t it? You don’t need to go grocery shopping now."
She relaxes into his embrace. "I know," she says dreamily. "We can take the train back and eat at my place."
Clearing my throat, I shake my head. "Uh-uh, we have a deal."
Stepping back from Cliff, Lucy presses her lips together and gives me a little nod. "Yeah, you’re right. We need to celebrate!" She hugs him again. "I’m so glad you’re coming home," she says into his chest.
A twinge of jealousy runs through me. I want to be hugging him, celebrating his good news. It’s totally absurd. I don’t know him, and I don’t plan on it. One night is enough for me, and then it’s occasional family gatherings. No hugs or lullabies. I’m going to reintegrate him into society by fucking his brains out, then it’s back to class for me.
"And I’m glad I don’t have to do laundry now." I toss the bag to the side, then reach for my cigarettes.
"Not so fast," Lucy says. "It’s still gotta get done. I’m not putting his dirty clothes into my suitcase with my clean clothes."
Cliff glances back and forth between us. He holds up his hands. They’re huge and square, perfect for massaging naked breasts. Twenty more hot points, which puts him at 110. Off the fucking charts, even with the crusty socks. Fuck me. I think I’m actually going to swoon.
"You don’t have to do that." He smiles at me—really, for real smiles—and nods toward the bag. "Toss that over. I’ve got it."
Lucy snorts. Both of us turn toward her. "Dude, you don’t even know how to do laundry."
He scowls at her. "What do you think I am, a fucking rock? I can figure it out."
My sister’s lips press together, and I can practically see the laugh throwing itself at her closed mouth, trying to break through. "What if Livvie goes with you? She’s gotta do her own anyway. And mine." She smiles sweetly at me.
"Tequila," I remind her.
She nods. "Have fun."
The laundromat is empty, thank goodness. It’s going to be embarrassing enough for the guy to have to be taught how to do laundry. I show him how to load the card at the kiosk,
then take him over to the machines.
"You just throw everything in," I explain, reaching for my laundry bag. But I don’t take my own advice. Reaching for everything slowly, I pause every time I get to a lacy little thong, making sure he sees it. "Then," I bend over slowly, "you swipe your card, set your time . . ." I straighten and pour detergent and fabric softener into their respective compartments, the liquid a slow drizzle.
When I sneak a glance at him, he’s making zero effort to conceal the fact that he’s staring at me. Suddenly it really sinks in that we’re alone. There’s an employee somewhere, probably reading a magazine or watching evening television. Porn-esque thoughts stampede through my head: Cliff shoving me against the machines, his teeth digging into my lower lip as he sucks on it, his knee between my legs.
A whimper escapes my lips.
The heat in his eyes is searing, flames edging toward my skin, threatening to consume me and reduce me to ashes. And I’m not even at all scared. I want it so bad, I’m shaking.
He takes a step toward me.
Swallowing hard, I move in. I’ve never been one to let anyone else make the first move. I reach for his shoulders, my lips already parting. I’m wetter than I’ve ever been in my life. This is going to be it, the sex that rockstars write songs about. The kind of sex I can look back on when I’m married with two-point-five kids and I’m covered in baby goo. It’ll be the lay to close my list.
I step forward. He closes the distance between us. Rising up on the balls of my feet, I take aim. He reaches behind me. My eyes flutter as I realize he’s going to lift me up onto one of the tables and take me right here.
A Disturbing Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 1) Page 4
