One Chance, Fancy

by Vale, Lani Lynn

  That was the only way I knew how to be, blunt.

  I’d always been more than open with my thoughts and feelings. I didn’t beat around the bush. I didn’t explain myself. I also didn’t see the point in sugar coating anything. Who would want to be told someone died, but it was okay because God wanted it that way? Nobody, that’s who.

  Death was hard. There wasn’t a way to sugar coat it.

  “I won’t have a job for much longer,” Brielle tried. “I hate my job. I especially hate it since they merged with that new company. It’s incredibly hard to perform to their standards.”

  I picked up the pen that Fancy had brought in with her and left, smoothing my finger over it and wondering if an inanimate object, like a pen, could capture someone’s scent.

  The pen was yanked away from me and Brielle growled.

  “You’re not even listening to me!” she growled.

  I held my hand out for the pen. “Give it back to me now.”

  “No,” she refused.

  I felt anger stir in my gut.

  “Give it back to me now.” I was getting pissed now.

  “No,” she repeated, tucking the pen inside her shirt.

  I knew she was assuming that I wouldn’t reach for it, but that pen was a pretty big deal to me. I didn’t know why. I didn’t question it.

  But I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I needed the fucking pen.

  I didn’t question my needs and desires. There was no point.

  I’d long moved past the point in asking why—why wasn’t I normal? Why couldn’t I just be like other people? Why did I have such a fascination with birds? Why couldn’t I look people in the eyes?

  Why, why, why.

  There were so many goddamn whys and no forthcoming explanations.

  “Please give me the pen.” I held out my hand for it.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want it so bad?”

  I barely resisted the urge to clench my fist.

  “Because it’s mine, and I’d like you to give it to me,” I answered.

  It was mine now, anyway.

  Finders keepers.

  It was then that I realized she wasn’t going to give me the pen without me physically taking it, something in which I wasn’t going to do.

  Devising a plan to go to her place tonight and get it at some point, I kept walking without looking back.

  Even when she called out my name at my back, angrily might I add.

  “Bayou, what in the absolute fuck?” Brielle growled. “Why are you acting like this?”

  I didn’t bother to answer her, instead walking out of the long hallway that connected the administrative part of the prison to the rest of it.

  Haggan, the guard that manned the gate and the security on this side of the prison, let me through without a break in my stride.

  I nodded at him as I nearly stomped past. “Make sure that Brielle leaves my office within the next five minutes. If she exceeds the time limit, please escort her.”

  Haggan nodded. “Will do, sir.”

  I lifted my chin in acknowledgment and continued to walk.

  I had a meeting that I was almost late for, and I knew I would be late for if I didn’t hurry. I hated, no despised, being late.

  I’d sat there talking to Brielle too long. If I was late for this, the rest of my day would be screwed.

  Schedules were important to me. The more structure in my day, the easier it was to deal with the bullshit that swirled around in my brain.

  Being three minutes late won’t kill you, I tried to tell myself. It’s only three minutes. Not the end of the world.

  My old friend, who’d once been my drill sergeant, came to mind. He’d changed my life in more ways than one.

  Once he was done yelling at me during boot camp, and I’d graduated, he’d taken me under his wing. He’d guided me, shown me how to interact in the strange new world I’d found myself in, and helped me excel.

  If I hadn’t found him, my life would’ve been a whole lot more different right then.

  I would’ve been lost. I would’ve been scared. I would’ve been the scared kid that hated loud sounds, couldn’t function well in society, and still hadn’t stood up to his father.

  But O’Malley had changed that. He’d seen me struggling, and he’d given me more life lessons than I could ever hope to experience on my own, and he’d pushed me to move past my idiosyncrasies.

  Now, O’Malley was the one man that I could talk to about anything.

  I arrived at the scheduled meeting spot—outside on a park bench that was across from the prison—and took a seat next to the man that was already sitting there.

  The man sitting there was always early. I hated being early almost as much as I hated being late. There was no point in arriving anywhere early. Schedules were made for a reason. Arriving somewhere just to sit and wait wasn’t something I was fond of doing.

  “Hello, sir,” I said. “Sorry I’m late.”

  I wasn’t that late, but anything with this man was late, even if it was thirty seconds.

  “Is that an eagle, do you think?” the man asked.

  I didn’t need to look up to know what he was talking about. I could hear the hawk’s cries overhead and knew without a doubt that it wasn’t an eagle.

  “Red-tailed hawk,” I answered. “How are you doing, sir?”

  I held out my hand for Gunther Jefferson’s hand, and he easily took it—something I would’ve never done before O’Malley—shaking it once before dropping it.

  I was thankful he wasn’t a toucher.

  I didn’t like touchers.

  Touchers made me uncomfortable.

  “What can I do for you today, Gunther?” I asked, mentally calculating how long I could be in this meeting with Gunther and make it into town on time for another meeting, this one with the city council as a whole.

  “I’m here to discuss a few complaints that I’ve been hearing,” he answered.

  I sighed.

  “What kind of complaints?” I asked warily.

  “The kind that says you’ve been treating a few high-profile inmates with untoward hatred,” he answered. “I realize that some of your inmates deserve it, but you cannot be treating them any differently than you treat your other inmates. It’s unseemly.”

  I snorted. “It’s unseemly to treat a rapist differently than a pot distributor?” I asked, wanting clarification. “I’m sorry but correct me if I’m wrong. A man that was busted selling pot to stupid seventeen-year-olds is a little different than a man that was busted with his cock in a thirteen-year-old.”

  Gunther pursed his lips. “I realize that the two aren’t even remotely in the same realm law-breaking wise, but you cannot single them out. This man that I’m speaking of is a prominent member of society—”

  “Was a prominent member of society,” I stood up. “I will not listen to your justifications on the matter. I’m treating him how he deserves to be treated. End of discussion. If you want to do something about it, please talk to a lawyer.”

  Gunther wouldn’t talk to a lawyer. We all knew that he’d find nothing. The man was just trying to get things to be better for his friend.

  Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be. Not in my prison.

  Rapists, cop killers, child molesters? They were all treated how they deserved to be treated.

  “Fine,” Gunter stood. “But I tried. I can say that I tried.”

  “You can say that you tried,” I agreed. “And your brother will not be treated any differently, Gunther. The man raped a teenager—multiple teenagers, actually—and the prison population knows it. Even if I wanted it to be better for him, I couldn’t make that happen. Controlling those men is like controlling the ocean’s tide. It happens whether I want it to or not. Remember that next time your baby brother complains to you that he’s not being treated fairly.”

  Gunther burst out laughing.

  Gunther as a w
hole wasn’t a bad guy. He was a pompous ass at worst, and he cared a little too much about a brother that wasn’t a redeemable man.

  Though, I’d heard much the same about my own sister.

  Brielle, although annoying at times, was my little sister and always would be.

  I’d been protective over her since I’d met her at the age of fifteen. She’d reminded me of me, and I couldn’t help myself. I’d had to take her under my wing and help her navigate a life that wasn’t easy to navigate for people like the two of us.

  Sure, Brielle wasn’t diagnosed with Asperger’s like I was. Brielle was schizophrenic—at least mildly. Hers was controlled by a small amount of medication as well as diet, exercise, and therapy.

  Something that she followed through with religiously because it enabled her to hold down a job.

  “Have a good day, Gunther,” I said to the man who was now standing as well. “And don’t think I won’t notice if you ignore me.”

  Gunther shrugged apologetically.

  “You, too, Warden,” Gunther drawled.

  I rolled my eyes at him, causing him to laugh.

  That eye-rolling thing was something that O’Malley had taught me.

  “Roll your eyes. Say whatever. Snort. Fidget.”

  O’Malley had taught me how to have conversations with people so that I appeared to be normal when in fact I was fighting to be accepted as the weirdo that I was.

  To help me fit in he’d taught me how to appear as if I belonged there in any given social setting.

  After making my way to the footpath that would lead me back to the prison, I’d completely disregarded the entire meeting with Gunther. My mind had fully switched to its next task, and I almost didn’t stop when I heard Gunther’s voice.

  “Oh, and Beauregard?” Gunther drawled.

  Years and years of answering to my last name in the Army was the only thing that caused me to stop almost automatically at this point.

  I could be completely and utterly in my head, thinking about something—anything—that really didn’t matter, and I’d hear my name and immediately come to attention.

  That was also something O’Malley had instilled in me.

  I looked over my shoulder at Gunther. “Yeah?”

  “Tell Brielle I said hi,” he called.

  Brielle and Gunther had briefly dated, but it hadn’t lasted long. Both were very selfish people.

  I wouldn’t be doing as he asked, and he knew it. But, some part of me actually wanted to tell Brielle after the shit she’d pulled today.

  If anyone else had made me late, I would’ve lost it. But since it was Brielle, my sister, I couldn’t fault her.

  At least, that was what I was telling myself.

  Lately she was a trying woman to be around.

  Ever since Hoax, my cousin who Brielle and I were very close to, started dating a woman seriously—the same woman that had caused Brielle stress at an MC party years ago—she’d been acting oddly. She’d been treating both of us differently, and it was honestly getting on my nerves.

  She was making it harder and harder to care about her feelings based on the way she was acting.

  Pru, Hoax’s woman, had wormed her way into my life and actually made me somewhat care for her.

  When I’d first met her, Pru had been yelling at Brielle—at least that was what Brielle said—I’d learned that the story might’ve actually been different from the truth that Brielle knew it to be only lately. At first, when she’d moved in across the street from me, I’d been wary of her. I never forgot a face, or words that were said, so Brielle’s accounting of the story had instantly put me on edge when it came to Pru. But it appeared that Pru had never intentionally set out to hurt Brielle, and I’d come to really like her over the last few months that she’d been dating my cousin.

  Brielle, however, still didn’t like her. And I realized only later that it had more to do with the fact that Pru had taken Hoax’s full attention away from her and she was no longer the woman to come first in his life anymore.

  And to show her anger at the situation, she’d practically been stalking Pru.

  I’d had to have a long talk with Brielle about the situation. Brielle’s argument of wanting to prove to us that Pru was bad wasn’t holding water any longer. Why? Because Hoax and Pru were in love, and even for me, it was plain as day to see.

  If Brielle acted that way toward Pru, how would she act toward Fancy when I took that first step?

  That thought brought me to a complete halt.

  I blinked in surprise at the direction my mind had taken.

  Took that first step.

  I wasn’t taking any step in Fancy’s direction…was I?

  Nope, I wasn’t.

  But, as I found myself in Brielle’s house, retrieving a pen that belonged to Fancy, in the dead of night, I realized that maybe I was.

  Chapter 3

  Apparently, it’s immoral to trip a kid who’s running around a restaurant unattended. Who knew?

  -Why Phoebe questions whether she should be a parent

  Phoebe

  The first days at a new job were never awesome.

  There were the nerves that wouldn’t quite stop, causing you to freak out even when you knew that it’d be okay.

  There was the fact that you questioned whether this was a good idea or not—and your father questioned you, too.

  Because I’d spent the last hour of my life explaining to my father why I wanted to work at a prison, and he’d finally relented.

  Not because he agreed with me, but because he knew arguing with me was futile.

  I’d proven at a very young age that I was just as stubborn and mule-headed as he was, and that wasn’t going to change.

  When I got my claws sunk into something, I never relented.

  That was why my father called me Birdie.

  I didn’t really know an exact date of when he’d started calling me that, but he liked to compare me to a hawk he’d encountered once upon a time.

  He said I reminded him of a hawk he’d once seen in our backyard when I was a young child. A hawk that’d been learning how to fly. The hawk had fallen early from the nest, and the other babies had remained in the nest with their mom for another two weeks. The mother had abandoned the fallen baby, writing her off. Instead of dying like my dad thought she would, the fledgling had persevered—living on the ground by herself for weeks—before she’d learned to fly.

  But, like the hawk, I would not be written off.

  I would persevere.

  I’d always loved that story, and I’d never resented being compared to that hawk.

  “Take care of yourself, Birdie,” Dad said. “And swear to Christ, if you get hurt, I’ll never forgive you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I had it explained to me yesterday that I’ll never be alone. There will always be a guard with me.”

  Dad grunted. “There better be, or I’m going to lose my shit.”

  I grinned. “It’ll be okay, Dad. Promise.”

  We’d met at a restaurant—one we went to eat at for breakfast every week religiously, just the two of us—before I had to go to work.

  I’d also dripped maple syrup down my pants and couldn’t decide whether I should try to clean it off or just leave it since the stain was mostly hidden by my scrub top.

  Honestly, I’d clean it off if I wasn’t convinced that it’d leave a large wet stain on the front of my pants, making me look like I’d peed myself.

  “Are you sure that you want to do this?” Dad asked one more time.

  I stuffed one more bite of pancakes into my mouth, washed it down with a swallow of milk, and then nodded my head. “Sure,” I said.

  He sighed. “I don’t understand why you can’t go work at a hospital like your mother and sister. Or go into the Army like Piper.”

  I looked over at my father. “A couple of weeks ago, a knife-wielding bad guy killed the security officer at t
he hospital.”

  Dad grimaced.

  “And Piper told me that where she’s at in Germany, they get drunk so often that it’s a crapshoot whether anyone will show up to work sober,” I pushed.

  Dad’s lips twitched. “I’m fairly sure that they don’t show up drunk…but I see your point.”

  “Anyway.” I shrugged. “They’ll have a doctor on-site full-time with me. They’ll also have a guard there as well. I’ll literally never be alone with them. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

  He groaned and leaned over to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, then extracted a twenty-dollar bill and tossed it on the table.

  “Swear to me that you will not enter into anything you don’t think you’re prepared to handle,” he ordered as he stood.

  I blinked my eyes innocently at him. “I would never…”

  ***

  Three hours later I was on some man’s back, choking him, and trying to pull him off of the female doctor.

  The security guard was trying to unlatch the man’s hands from the doctor’s wrists, and everyone was screaming.

  My adrenaline was going nuts, coursing through my veins, and I wanted nothing more than to rip this man’s head off.

  Headache my ass.

  This man didn’t have a headache. He’d planned this, knowingly putting his hands on that woman.

  “Let go!” the guard bellowed, digging his fingers into a pressure point that I would think would almost force the man to let go.

  Apparently, though, I was wrong, because the guy was still hanging on.

  Though, he wasn’t yanking the poor doctor around any longer.

  Not with me choking the life out of him, and the guard protecting the doctor from being thrashed about like a predator going in for the kill.

  And then, one man arrived, and everything stopped.

  Just like that, it stopped.

  Bayou stalked in, in uniform today, unlike yesterday, like an avenging angel.

  He didn’t seem to be in a rush, but all of a sudden, he was at our sides and squeezing down on the man’s jaw with his big, huge hand.

  The guy screamed as I heard something crunch—yeah, he’d have to have that fixed—and the inmate let the good doctor go.