by JL Davis
Breaking Free
Breaking Free Duet Book #1
J.L. Davis
Contents
1. Cole
2. Brooke
3. Cole
4. Brooke
5. Cole
6. Brooke
7. Cole
8. Brooke
9. Cole
10. Brooke
11. Cole
12. Brooke
13. Cole
14. Brooke
15. Cole
16. Brooke
17. Cole
18. Brooke
19. Cole
20. Brooke
21. Cole
22. Brooke
23. Cole
24. Brooke
25. Cole
26. Brooke
27. Cole
28. Brooke
29. Cole
30. Brooke
31. Cole
32. Brooke
33. Cole
34. Brooke
35. Cole
36. Brooke
Epilogue
Copyright © 2019 by J.L. Davis
All rights reserved
This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.
Any opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author.
BREAKING FREE
Copyright ©2019 by J.L. Davis
Published in the United States of America.
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When you’ve been waiting two years to hear that sound; the buzz of the gate as it opens with a screech. Finally setting you free. The feeling is surreal. I’ve waited so long for this day, but I’m almost scared to leave at this point. I’m so used to this life. Things change so fast and I have no idea what I’m walking into when I walk past this gate.
There is no one outside the fence waiting for me in the free world. I have no family or real friends. After my grandfather died when I was twelve, I went from one foster home to the next growing up. Some weren’t so bad, and I tolerated them. Others were dreadful and I prayed for the day I got to leave and move on to the next one.
The gate closes behind me with a loud thud. I take a deep breath; the air is the same, but there’s something about it when you’re free. I have one large Ziploc bag in my hand. Inside are all of my belongings that I had with me the day I was arrested. My wallet, a condom that’s now expired, twenty-four dollars and thirty cents. I used a quarter and called for a cab.
I’ve had two long years to think about my life and what I’ve created for myself. The only things I have in this world are the house that my grandfather left me when he passed and his old truck. I didn’t work for them, and as I walk through the door, I realize how bad I’d let it go before I went to prison and was abandoned for two years.
I need to do some major work on the house, and myself. I have no idea where to begin on either. I’m hoping my parole officer can steer me in the right direction. I need to be serious for once in my life, with no distractions. My grandfather may not be here to see it, but I know he’s looking down on me and I want him to be proud of me. I want to be proud of myself. The man I’ve become isn’t who I want to be.
I have my first meeting with my parole officer, Mrs. Hartford, at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I’m eager to see if she’s really as abrasive as some of the inmates had said. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m ready to finally see the face of the person I’ve heard such horrible things about. I’ve heard her described as the devil in a pantsuit and she-devil, among other things.
I had a small savings hidden away in a shoe box with nine hundred dollars in it that, luckily, is still under my bed. I need to get the lights and water turned back on today and I need to clean this filthy house. It’s crazy how dusty it is with no one living here all this time. I may not make the best decisions, but I am very anal about cleanliness. That was the hardest thing for me about being in prison. It was so dirty. I’ll never go back.
After paying past due bills, reconnect fees, and the taxi there and back, I have four hundred dollars left. The lights and water should be turned on by the end of the day. I’ll then be able to go to the grocery store and restock the pantry and refrigerator.
I open all the blinds to let as much light in as I can and start dusting each room until the water’s turned on. It’s not a huge house. There’s three bedrooms and two bathrooms. It’s your basic craftsman style home, built in the sixties. I’d love to do some updates eventually and open it up. It could be an awesome house.
My grandpa had joked with me several times that there’s money hidden in the walls. I always laughed it off. The older I got the more imaginative his mind seemed to get from his Alzheimer’s. Luckily, he never forgot me. I was his everything and I miss him a lot.
My father, Joe, was similar to me, only much worse. He was an addict and a thief. He didn’t have a drug of choice, though. He’d do anything he could get his hands on to forget. He wanted to forget how bad his life had gotten after my mother passed away. She died while giving birth to me. My father didn’t know how to cope, and I think he secretly blamed me. He turned to cocaine. I heard him tell my grandfather that it numbed his pain. Before long, he was a full-blown addict and we moved in with my grandfather. The day after I turned ten, my father died of a heroin overdose. I’ve never done drugs and my father is the reason why. I never want to have the struggle of addiction, but I seem to find other ways to make life harder on myself.
At around one o’clock, the water is turned on and I finish cleaning the house. I found a flashlight and went through my closet and drawers. I haven’t exactly gained weight, but I’ve gained muscle mass. I basically need a new wardrobe. Maybe a new style to go with my new attitude will be good. I need to find a job and fast, so I can buy everything I need. I hope my parole officer can help me out with that. I just need a chance to prove myself. I’m not the person I was before I went to prison, not anymore.
By seven o’clock the power is finally turned on. I have laundry going in the washer and dryer, and I have the dishwasher running. It looks so much better and smells ten times fresher in here than before.
I called for an Uber and it should be here any moment now. I make my list and then wait outside on the porch for the car to arrive. It’s a beautiful evening and the breeze is blowing lightly; I can hear children playing down the street. I took things like this for granted; so many things. I had no idea how much I’d miss out on when they were no longer an option to me.
While shopping, I run into an old friend. Well, I thought he was my friend. The last time I saw him, we were fleeing the crime scene together. That was my last day as a free man. How I reacted wasn’t exactly how I should’ve
handled the situation. I would’ve never been caught if it weren’t for him. The man couldn’t ID me. I’m not just placing blame. He snitched me out. It’s funny how he acted as if I didn’t know what he’d done by the smile on his face. I should have bashed his face in, but he’s just not worth it. Nothing is worth going back, so I just put on a fake smile and carried on small talk with him for a few moments, until his wife walked toward us. I walked away and didn’t say another word once I saw her. Did I mention she’s my ex-girlfriend? Yeah. It was like that. Luckily, I hadn’t fallen too hard for her. As soon as I was gone, she moved on to the next one. She never visited and I see why. She was a slut. She had cheated on me and now I’m sure that he was who she was cheating with. She couldn’t even upgrade. I’ll never understand that.
Back at home, I focus on putting everything away, take a shower, and now I’m lying on the couch looking through the newspaper for a job. It’s irritating as I skim through the potential jobs that I’m not qualified for. I sigh and toss it onto the coffee table. I run my hands over my face and do what I always do when I’m stressed, I work out. There’s not much here I can do without the equipment that I’d grown accustomed to. I can do crunches, push-ups, and pull-ups with the bar running across my bedroom door. I plan on getting a membership to the local gym. I’m sure it costs more and is smaller than most, but the convenience of it being closer to home compared to the over-crowded chains is worth it to me.
After my workout, I eat a banana and drink a glass of milk. Milk does a body good after all. I did pick up a few good habits in two years, considering the situation. I walk to my bedroom and undress for bed. That’s something I really missed, sleeping naked. I’d be screwed if there were ever a fire, but I think I’ll risk it for a better night’s sleep. It will be better no matter what, compared to what I’m used to. I’m in my bed, on a real mattress, and I even have a new pillow. I had watched an episode of Dr. Oz one afternoon and I had no idea how disgusting a pillow can be. I fall asleep with ease, knowing I am home.
I sigh, sit down at my desk, and look at today’s orders and the new parolees that I am so lucky to get to know. I do like my job, okay, don’t get me wrong, but I see the same types of people every day. Most are repeat offenders who I’ve dealt with for long periods of time and gotten to know too well, unfortunately. Very few actually learn from the mistakes that landed them in my office. It’s sad, but I can’t allow my emotions to get in the mix with my job. It would be easy to do. Many are drug users that need recovery and then they’d have a chance. Others are just lost causes. I can try, but I can’t save them all.
I thumb through the first few regulars and stop on an unfamiliar face, Cole Ferguson. Reading his criminal history, by looks he’s no different than any other guy that’s come and gone. As I read through the petty crimes he committed as a teenager, I see he is in fact a bit different. He was convicted because he beat a man who had robbed and assaulted his grandfather’s dearest friend. His friend turned him in. At the time, the charge was attempted murder. That was before the whole story came to light. He was tried in front of a jury and was found guilty of first-degree assault and sentenced to five years. It says he was released early on good behavior. I rarely see that on paper. I’m not sure he’s as terrible as the others, but I’ll soon see. Criminals are very deceptive, very narcissistic, and it’s hard to trust anything they say.
By lunch I’d gotten his parole plan together. I don’t plan on being too hard on him, but he has to know that the way he handled his anger wasn’t the right way. He allowed anger to cloud his judgement. Two wrongs don’t make a right type of situation, to say the least.
I want him to complete an anger management program that we offer here. My friend, Mya, is one of the counselors, and if anyone can get through to his tender side and break his pattern, she can. The program is also in this building which makes the paperwork load a lot easier for me. I make the parolee’s check in with me after their sessions with a slip showing they attended, and the notes from the counselors show that they are participating in the program. It’s a foolproof plan. The cons can’t con their way out of anything.
When a knock sounds at the door, I quickly glance at the clock. It’s time for my first meeting with Mr. Ferguson. I stand, run my hands down my pantsuit, and walk to the door. Upon opening it, I’m almost pleasantly surprised that he looks nothing like he did in his mug shot, which is still sitting on my desk. I’m sure no one’s happy while standing for their mug shot photo. If they are happy, they’re either drunk or not in their right mind.
“Hello. I’m Ms. Hartford. You’ll be seeing a lot of me for a while it seems. Let’s make the best of it, shall we?” I arch an eyebrow, waiting for a response of either anger or sarcasm. I get neither. He looks like all the others who attempt to strut into my office. His hat on backwards, tattoos, and baggy jeans. Why am I not surprised? The scruff on his face is… Well, it’s quite nice actually. Focus, Brooke. Focus.
“As you know, I’m Cole Ferguson and I think I can manage to follow your rules. Where’s the whip?” He looks around my office.
“Excuse me?” What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“Oh. I meant nothing by it. You sort of have the reputation of being a hard-ass. Excuse my language.” Cole lifts his hands in apology.
“That would be correct, Mr. Ferguson. I am a hard-ass. I’ve also heard bitch and I’ll agree to that one also.” I walk to my desk and sit. “Have a seat, Mr. Ferguson, and we will get started.”
“Yes ma’am.” Cole tries his best to hide his smile and takes the seat across from me.
“I’ve gone through your file. My conclusion is that you suffered from not having a real father figure. Your grandfather did the best he could, and you loved him dearly, but that didn’t stop you from wreaking havoc over the community through your teenage years after he passed away. You’ve got some built up anger and don’t know how to properly relieve it.”
“I hated most of the foster homes I was living in. I would have much rather been in juvie back then. It was that bad. No one ever believed me.” Cole wouldn’t look at me when giving me that small look into his childhood. I know counseling will benefit him.
“I want to know why you chose to respond the way you did. Why did you not allow the police to handle the situation? Why did you not stop after the first few punches when he was no longer standing, not moving with only the cold concrete below him with his own blood beginning to pool around his head? Why did you continue to allow the rage to take over you? Do you have answers to any of those questions?”
The blank stare I see as I look at Cole tells me all I need to know. I hand him two business cards. “One is mine and the other is your new therapist. I expect you to call her and set up your first meeting. She will also be your anger management counselor. I expect you to complete the ninety-day program with flying colors.”
Cole thumbs the cards in his hand. “I’ll call her first thing in the morning. I’ve also gotten a newspaper and have been looking for a job. It’s a bit hard for a felon to get a job. Do you have any suggestions on where to look?” He looks from me to his hands, embarrassed.
I reach into a drawer in my desk and thumb through a few files until I find what I’m looking for. “Here’s a list of every company that will employ felons. As you can see, that’s quite a list. You shouldn’t have a problem finding work.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll get started on these as soon as I get home.” Cole smiles kindly.
“Is the address on file the same address where you’re staying now?”
“Yes. It’s mine. I mean, my grandfather left it to me when he passed away.”
“I need your cell number. I also need you to check in with me after your meetings since they’re in the building. And call me when you get a job. I will be making ‘home checks’ as I call them to make sure you’re doing the right thing.”
“I swear, I won’t be doing anything to jeopardize my freedom ever again.” Cole stares at me.
We’ll see about that. I’ve heard it dozens of times before.
“I see that you’ve never had a drug problem and were tested while in prison and never once failed. I will have to do random testing every so often. It comes with the territory.” I shrug. “After so many negative tests, I don’t see a problem with eliminating them as long as the court agrees. Do you have any questions for me?” I hand him a file with the do’s and don’ts as a felon. “That should help answer most of your questions, but if you can think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call me. I’d rather you be safe than sorry.” I nod. “My cell number is on the back. Don’t fuck up, Mr. Ferguson.”
Cole is shocked at my choice of words. He stands and bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing. “You can forget all about me. I won’t give you any problems.” Cole chuckles.
“I highly doubt that.” I arch an eyebrow. I’ve heard it a million times before.
Disappointment crosses his face, but he recovers quickly. “Hopefully, I’ll be calling you tomorrow to let you know I’ve gotten a job.” Cole smiles. He has a beautiful smile and his lips are… What the hell, Brooke? Stop looking at his freaking lips!
“I look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Ferguson.” I smile and escort him out of my office.
Well, that was interesting. He was nothing like I expected. I really didn’t know what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t what was sitting across from me once he started talking. He doesn’t seem to be like the others. There’s hope for him still, I think. And I’m up for that challenge.
