by Tia Fielding
Wyatt wiped his hands on his apron and took the phone. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, Wyatt,” Dad said. “I miss you, kiddo.”
“I miss you too,” Wyatt said. “Are you back tomorrow?”
Dad made an unhappy sound. “Probably Saturday. Michel got me another meeting, and they can only meet with me tomorrow afternoon. But if it doesn’t run too late, I’ll drive back tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Want me to bring you anything?”
“No, I’m good.”
“What about your sister?”
“Don’t ask her,” Wyatt warned him. “She’ll want another puppy.”
Dad laughed, the sound full and warm. “That’s a good point! Okay, I’ll see you soon. Put Justin back on for me?”
“Love you, Dad,” Wyatt said.
“Love you too, Wy.”
Wyatt handed the phone back to Justin and then went and washed his hands under the sink. Everything of Justin’s ended up covered in a layer of potting soil, including his phone cover.
“It went okay, I think,” Justin said to Dad. “He’s a little prickly, I guess, but so was Deshawn when he first started. I mean, I don’t know if he’ll work out or not. But I’ll give him a chance.”
Wyatt’s heart beat a little faster. Justin was talking about the bad boy with the rock star swagger.
Justin listened to Dad a little while longer. “Okay,” he said at last. “I love you too, Del. Drive safe.”
He ended the call and stared at his phone screen.
“You okay?” Wyatt asked.
Justin seemed to shake himself awake, and smiled. “Yeah. I just miss him when he’s not here, you know?”
Wyatt knew.
He wondered if anyone would ever feel that way about him.
Chapter 2
Izzy jogged up the stairs of the office building where his parole agent, Mrs. Rossi, had her small office. The terms of his release couple of months ago were weekly meetings with Mrs. Rossi and keeping away from anyone that had anything to do with his past life.
Frankly, that wasn’t a problem in the least; Izzy wanted to see those people about as much as he wanted to jump out of a plane without a parachute.
At least Mrs. Rossi had told him that smoking weed sometimes was okay, but if she found anything else in his random drug tests, he’d go back in for the full sentence. At first, she’d been keen to forbid it completely as he didn’t have a medical marijuana license, but when he’d confessed that he used it for anxiety more than anything, she’d told him to stay inside the amounts he could have on his person by law and for fuck’s sake not to use anything else or swear to God. Her words, not his.
He knocked on her office door and got called inside immediately.
“Hey, I’m not late, am I?” he asked, knowing full well that he was on time, as always. It was one of his points of pride in life, always being on time if he could help it.
“Nope, sit down, Izzy.” Mrs. Rossi was in her fifties, sort of handsome for a woman, and she had a wicked deadpan sense of humor Izzy appreciated. She wasn’t motherly in the least, more like the fun wine aunt who had stopped drinking, got a bit cranky because of it and was currently trying to deal with the help of generous amounts of caffeine.
He took a seat in the very uncomfortable chair in front of her desk and waited for her to find something in the mass of papers in front of her.
“So, Istvan Kostas, how have you been?” she finally asked and raised her gaze to meet his.
She meant business, using his actual name like that, he just didn’t know what was going on yet. There was no cup to go piss in next to her keyboard like usual if she was going to surprise test him, so it wasn’t that.
“Eh, the usual. Hating the roommates, really wanting to get a dog, and all that,” he replied, but kept his tone much less flippant than it would be for someone else.
“Still no job?” She knew the answer, of course. She would’ve been his first call if he’d gotten a job.
“Nope. They’re all still not very keen on hiring an ex-con.” A fucking stupid one at that. Maybe if he’d been smarter, looked more neutral maybe?
“Well, I have a lead on a job you might like. It’s less than an hour away and I’ve managed to put some of my other parolees there before.” She tapped her short and blunt fingernails on the sheet of paper.
“Okay…?” But what was the catch? There always was one.
She sort of tilted her head and looked at him, as if she was trying to figure something out. Then her expression shifted into a “well, what the hell” type of one, and she asked, “How are you with the LGBTQ community, Izzy?”
Izzy blinked. “I don’t have anything against them, if that’s what you’re asking?” He didn’t have strong opinions. He knew he was a guy, had never been interested in anything but girls—not even in prison, which seemed to be where quite a few straight guys strayed—and that was about it.
“Okay, well, first of all the business is owned by Justin Abbot, he’s the husband of that celebrity chef, Del Abbot, you might’ve heard his name somewhere. Big on YouTube these days and so on.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Anyway, Justin owns an organic vegetable business. He has several greenhouses; I think six at the moment. They’re on the same property the family lives on though, so it’s not like a separate farming business somewhere.”
Izzy frowned. “What, and you’re afraid that I’ll flip out if I’m exposed to the gay?” He tried to control his tone, but it came out pissed off anyway.
“Izzy, you know what kind of people I deal with on the daily, right? You’re one of my easiest, best clients. Do you think I would send just anyone to work on the property of two gay men and their family, when I think at least one of their kids is underage?” Mrs. Rossi looked ticked off now.
“Yeah, of course not, I’m sorry,” Izzy conceded. “I know you are trying to do what’s right for everyone.” He sighed and let the tension out. “What’s the job?”
“Whatever they need and can train you to do inside the business. Might be anything from packing up produce to heavy lifting to deliveries if needed.”
Izzy tried to lean back a bit to make himself more comfortable. “So they sell to restaurants? I know that organic shit is expensive.”
“Yes, and they also have a small shop attached to the business, but they do charity work, too.”
Right, rich people and their “charity” work.
“They give ten percent of the produce out to poor families and homeless shelters each week,” she added as she finally handed him the paper.
Okay, Izzy had to give this Justin person some credit, rich or not.
The sheet in his hand stated working hours and potential housing on the property in case the worker was homeless or didn’t have a reliable vehicle. That might come in handy if he lost his shit at the house he shared with five other people who were all either ex-cons or kids who had aged out of the foster system.
“So you think I could do this?” he asked, looking at her over the edge of the paper.
He hated that he needed the validation, but she was the closest to a suitable authority figure for that he’d had in a decade.
“Izzy, you know I wouldn’t even suggest something if I didn’t think you were a good fit for the job. The only thing you have to do is drive there and meet Justin himself. He wants to check people out personally, because he hires people who might not get jobs easily elsewhere.”
“Like ex-cons?”
“And people who are older or former stay at home mothers, or people with no education or even a few who are completely over-educated. He likes to provide stability for those who can’t find it elsewhere. It’s not glamorous and it’s real hard work, but I think you’ll be a good fit. Just…try to be real with him.”
Izzy snorted. “Right, because that comes naturally to me.” He was notoriously sarcastic and glib, and that wasn’t one of his best qualities.
Mrs. Rossi looked at him t
houghtfully again, then smiled slightly and shook her head. “You know what, I think you’ll get along with him just fine.”
* * * *
Izzy drove up the long winding road that the GPS on his phone had told him was the right way. He would’ve never found the place without it. He’d never really driven on these sort of narrow mountain roads, and it freaked him out whenever a car passed him and he had to drive to the side and face a drop, short as it might’ve been. He kept reminding himself that this was the foothills, not actual mountains, but it didn’t help much.
He’d passed an orchard on the way and there had been plenty of people working there. It seemed like a lot of produce came from these hills, and something about that made him feel excited. Maybe it was the thought of being a part of a bigger thing. He’d never really been part of anything, except prison population.
Finally, he saw a large sign announcing the way to the greenhouses, but he knew he had to drive to the house itself to see his hopefully future boss. He turned right where the greenhouses would’ve been to the left, and continued on the driveway up a small incline that opened into a nicer view of the area.
He could see the glittering glass or whatever the greenhouses were made of in the distance. He wondered how they managed with water, since they were in California after all.
The driveway suddenly ended in a large circular parking space by a large, farmhouse looking building. There were what must’ve been stables on the other side of the yard, because Izzy could make out horses inside paddock fencing farther away.
He glanced at the rearview mirror and sighed. He looked like he did, because he’d early on figured it was worth it to cultivate the look that seemed to get him where he wanted to be. He had tattoos and a general bad boy look that had worked so well in his past life. This one, not so much. Oh well.
The only thing that made him get out of the car when he saw a guy who was maybe in his mid-thirties come out of the house was the fact that Mrs. Rossi had thought this was a good idea.
“Well, here goes nothing,” Izzy murmured, his stepdad’s voice chuckling something about him really being nothing in his head. He ignored the voice, turned off the engine, and forced himself out of the car.
He’d worn his one nicer shirt, a pale blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, with his best jeans and his Converse. He didn’t own many pieces of clothing to begin with, but if this Justin fellow had employed the unemployable before, he’d probably understand, right?
“Hey, you must be Istvan?” The guy with blond hair and an easy smile said as he waited for Izzy to walk to the front steps.
“Yeah, Istvan Kostas, but everyone calls me Izzy, nice to meet you.”
When he got close enough to shake the guy’s hand, he could see that the easy smile was only half of the story. His gaze was assessing, taking in everything Izzy was putting out, and it made Izzy nervous.
“Justin Abbot. You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?” he asked as they shook hands, looking over Izzy’s shoulder.
“Not in the least, I love dogs.” Izzy turned to see what had caught Justin’s attention.
There was a slim teenaged girl with long braids and denim overalls walking toward the house from across the yard. She had several dogs walking around her as a pack. None of the dogs ran ahead, they were clearly obedient, because they could also clearly tell that Izzy was a stranger and the car wasn’t familiar, either.
“Oh wow,” Izzy said spontaneously, because frankly he’d never seen such a thing. Well, of course on TV on those dog training reality shows, but not in real life.
“That’s my baby sister Lettie and her pack. She rehabilitates and trains shelter dogs. Adopts them out.” Justin waved at the girl. “You can let them go, Izzy likes dogs.”
“Okay!” she called back cheerily, said something to the dogs who all ran forward as if literally let out of a gate.
There were two mutts in different sizes, one a bit shaggier than the other, one German shepherd, two pit bulls, and that seemed like some sort of a Chihuahua mix.
Instinctively, Izzy knelt down to greet the dogs and got kisses from the bravest of them. It made him laugh and he patted them with abandon. He loved dogs. He knew it was the unconditional love thing he couldn’t resist, but he also couldn’t have cared less.
“Aren’t you great doggies,” he cooed at them, flushing slightly when he glanced at Justin who seemed amused.
“Heel!” the girl said in a calm, firm tone as she got close, and the dogs immediately went to her, organizing like little soldiers next to her.
“Hi, I’m Izzy,” he said awkwardly, not sure how to greet the girl.
The feeling seemed to be mutual. “Hey, I’m Lettie. This is my current pack. Only Goggles there is a regular, the rest are rehab dogs.” She pointed at one of the pit bulls that wagged its tail when hearing its name.
Izzy thought the name was funny until he realized that there was actually a vaguely clunky eyeglasses shaped stripe of dark gray on its otherwise mostly white face. Clever.
“Well, we’ll be in the living room if anyone needs me,” Justin said, and Lettie nodded, leading the pack around the house somewhere.
“She seems special,” Izzy blurted out, because he honestly thought so.
Justin narrowed his eyes, then realized he was being genuine, and nodded. “She really is. Okay, follow me.”
* * * *
The house, huge as it may have been, was tastefully and cozily decorated. Not that Izzy saw much of it to begin with. He mostly just followed Justin’s brisk pace to a spacious family room that was dominated by a massive sectional.
“Please take a seat, we’re not that formal here,” Justin said, as he went to pick up what Izzy thought had to be whatever information on Izzy Mrs. Rossi had given him from a nearby end table.
“So, here’s the situation,” Justin started as he sat down on the other end of the large couch from Izzy. “I know some things about you. What I ask from Wanda is pretty heavy pre-screening before she even suggests me new workers. I can’t have violent offenders or such here, not with some of the other workers and my family being sort of vulnerable.”
Izzy nodded and tried to stay relaxed. “Yeah, I get that.”
“So while I know things, I’d like to hear it from you.” Justin looked at him and smiled in a friendly way. “How come you’re here?”
“Well, I’m twenty-eight, and I got out of prison on good behavior couple of months ago. I’m on parole for now and I need a job so they’ll know I’m able to be a productive part of society.” Or some shit. He decidedly didn’t say the last part, but something told him Justin heard it anyway.
Chuckling, Justin nodded. “That’s usually how it goes with parolees. How long of a sentence did you have and for what?”
Slightly annoyed that Justin had him relate information he would have literally there on his lap on that piece of paper, Izzy held onto his temper. “I got six years for going into the wrong car on the wrong night. It was stolen, which I knew, because the buddy that offered me the ride was notorious for that sort of thing. I was high, so I didn’t care. There were drugs in the car, but they weren’t mine. I was smarter than that.”
Something about the drugs made Justin tense, but Izzy wanted to get the story out in one go, so he continued. “I don’t know how it happened. I honestly don’t remember, I was that high. One moment we’re driving and suddenly there’s cops and stuff. The guy ran over a pedestrian. I was told later it was a woman who was pregnant. Early, but still.”
Justin nodded seriously. “How long did you have left when you got out?”
“Two years. But there’s overpopulation and I did nothing wrong while inside, so they said I could get out on parole. That’s for three years total, so the sentence and a year more.” And it sucked, but it was also so much better than being behind bars.
“Wanda says you don’t do drugs and she tests you regularly.”
It was a statement, not a question, but somehow the vibe
from Justin made Izzy explain further anyway.
“I got sober in prison, not that I was really an addict before that. I guess I used what I did to fit in, because the guys I hung out with were sort of the only people I’d ever felt like I belonged with even remotely, you know—” He snapped his mouth shut. That was far more information than he’d thought he’d ever volunteer to a stranger. “Anyway,” he tried to recover. “I smoke weed sometimes, but that’s it. Mrs. Rossi says it’s fine”
“We have zero tolerance on the property.” Every hint of friendliness Izzy had picked up from Justin was gone, just like that, as though someone had flipped a switch. His gaze was hard and assessing. “No drugs, no alcohol. There’s a spot where people can smoke cigarettes outside the break room, but I like to discourage that, too.”
“Okay, well, I don’t smoke, so that’s fine. And I wouldn’t smoke weed at work anyway.” He wouldn’t, that was unprofessional and Mrs. Rossi—and it was so fucking weird hearing Justin call her Wanda—had told him Justin was nothing if not serious about his business.
Justin held his gaze a moment longer, as though he was searching for a lie, and then abruptly glanced down at his paperwork and changed the subject. “It says here that you live in Moreno Valley?”
“Yeah, it’s a bit of a drive but so far my car’s okay.” He’d been lucky that one of his housemates had been able to get him that car. Izzy still owed him five hundred bucks for it, as his gate money, the $200 he’d gotten from the state when they let him out, had gone towards paying for the room in that house.
“Well, once I give you a tour of the premises, you’ll see the employee housing. If you’d rather live on the property, let me know and I’ll keep that in mind whenever there’s an opening.”
“I’d look into renting a place in Yucaipa or somewhere, but I don’t really have the money to leave my current place. It’s dirt cheap and I’ll need money for the gas.” It sucked, bad.
“Yeah, I’ve had people who have the same problem before. You can ask around when you meet the other workers, see if they have leads on rooms for rent closer to us.”
