by Shauna Allen
Annoyance rippled under my breastbone. “I’m not sure what you mean, Angelo. We have a nice mix of clients.”
He glowered back. “I do. The others do. You have a roster of pro bono and civil cases.”
Okay. Now I was more than annoyed. “What’s wrong with that? Those people need representation, too, and it’s not hurting the firm in any way. If anything, it’s gotten us some publicity and referrals.” And I love it. I bit my tongue before voicing that errant thought. This was precisely the reason I’d broken up with him. He always made me feel like I was lacking in one way or another. Controlling prick.
His head tilted as his gaze narrowed. “That may be true, but clients like your Mrs. Casey bring nothing to the table, and it leaves the rest of us to pick up the slack while you help your little lost causes.”
“Pick up the slack?” I felt my face fill hotly as that annoyance morphed to full blown pissed the hell off. I rose, meeting him eye to eye. “I have the largest caseload here. I work my ass off to do a good job for our clients and I am not putting us in the red. You do what you want . . . take on high profile politicians and assholes, smile for the press, hire big shots from Atlanta, whatever, but don’t you dare tell me how to do my job.” I pointed a shaking finger toward the door. “Now, kindly get out so I can get to work.”
He studied me a moment then turned and left with a huff, closing the door with a little more force than before. Pompous jackass!
I flopped down in my leather chair and sighed, trying to calm my racing heart. A minute later, my phone rang, startling me.
I grabbed up the receiver. “Rachel Chaseman.”
“Hey, girl. How was your weekend?”
Delilah’s voice soothed me and I let out a big breath. “Good. Yours?” Molly cooed in the background, sending wistful whispers through my heart.
“You know, same. Chores and hung home with Blake and the baby. We did meet up with Jewel and we all went swimming at my parents’. Danielle came to town and we had a little family barbecue thing yesterday.”
“How did that go?” Her younger sister had dutifully followed in her parents’ footsteps and was studying law. It was the only thing I could imagine myself doing, I hoped she loved it as much.
“Ah, well, it was okay. Molly loves the water . . . though Blake wouldn’t let her go, not even to me. It was adorable.”
Yes, they were all sickeningly adorable. Their whole soul mate, match made in Heaven thing really killed me sometimes. And their baby was too cute for words. But after all the heartache they’d endured, they deserved some happiness.
“Blake and your parents getting along better?”
She sighed. “It’s a tentative peace. The baby has helped soften them up considerably.”
“I’ll bet.” Like I said, irresistibly cute. “And how’s Jewel and your sister?”
“Good. Same. Danielle is cramming for tests and Jewel is busy at her new job. Who knew the police had such a need for sketch artists?”
Yeah. Who knew? I felt guilty for not calling her in a while. Bad friend.
“What I’m really interested in is your weekend. You didn’t call me.”
I swiveled my chair and faced the window. “What do you mean?”
“Gimme a break! Jesse came over Friday, didn’t he?”
“Yeah . . .”
“And? How’d it go?”
I heated for an entirely different reason. “Um . . . fine.”
Accusing silence filled the line.
“What?” I demanded.
“You’re holding out on me. What happened? Exactly?”
“I’m not holding out. He looked over Daddy’s bike, gave me a rough estimate, we worked out a deal.”
“That’s it?” She sounded disappointed.
Oh, to tell her the truth or not? It still felt so fragile and new. I didn’t want to ruin anything by reading too much into things. “And we had dinner.”
More silence.
“And played poker.”
Nothing.
“And kissed,” I added in a near whisper.
“I knew it!”
“Delilah—”
“This is fantastic! I love both of you guys and this is perfect! You’ll be so happy!” Her optimism was infectious and I couldn’t help my grin. But . . .
“Slow your roll, hot rod. It was just a little kiss. Don’t make too much of it. I’m not.”
“Well. Why not? You’ve had it bad for him for years. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Not exactly. “We’re just really, really different and I’m not sure he’s ready for anything more.”
She drew in a breath. “Do what you need to, but being different isn’t a bad thing, Rach. Sometimes, it’s just what you need.”
I immediately pictured her and her husband. As different in many ways as night and day, but such a perfect match. Could I have something like that, too?
Jesse
I tried to keep Rachel and her sexy little IOU out of my mind the rest of the weekend. I really did. But she is near impossible to forget. After sliding in at 9:59 that Friday night, I enjoyed a restless, non-existent sleep, my brain on overdrive with all the new things I’d learned about her. She loved color (obviously). She claimed to not be a cook, but that was a lie. She was witty, flirty, and all around fun. She tasted like honey-covered perfection.
I don’t care about your past . . . I’ve wanted to do that for years . . . you’re trying to shove me into some box.
And I thought I had it bad for her before . . .
But could she be right? Was I trying to shove her into some imaginary box?
Maybe.
I just didn’t know. So I made excuses to not show up the next day like we’d originally planned, and here I was back at work, miserable as fuck, on a gray Monday morning.
“Hey,” Blake said, happy enough for me to want to sock him in the mouth.
I grumbled from my seat on the creeper as I investigated Jeff Riley’s Harley and its apparent exhaust problem.
He paused behind me. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”
I scowled over my shoulder. “Nothing. My panties are fine, thank you.”
“Uh huh.” He circled the motorcycle so he could look me in the face. “Majorly fucked?” The tip of his chin indicated the bike.
“Not as bad as I thought.” There was that.
He nodded, his eyes roving over the sleek lines of the Dyna Glide. “She’s a beauty.”
“Yes. She is.” But my mind was back on Rachel Chaseman’s Hershey Kisses eyes.
Thankfully, Blake walked away and I could continue my work in peace. Behind me, Trace tinkered quietly with a Honda, while Micah took care of paperwork in the back office.
I worked contentedly for a few hours, my mind only drifting from the Harley every once in a while. I figured I would spend a little time this afternoon searching online for Rachel’s parts and seeing what I could find. I had no illusions it would be easy, but it would be so worth the trouble. I’d been dreaming of getting my hands on a classic Indian for a while. And Rachel. Could I separate the two?
“Lunch?” Trace asked, interrupting my thoughts.
I shifted and faced him. He had washed up, but grease was still smeared on his T-shirt, sweat beading on his face. “Sure.” My stomach rumbled its agreement as I uncoiled to stand. “What do you want to eat?”
He shrugged and watched me idly as I washed and dried my hands. “Pizza? I told Blake and Micah we’d bring them back subs.”
Mentally, I rejoiced at the thought of grease and cheese. I wouldn’t have to suffer through another of Micah’s healthy lunch runs. “Sounds good.”
Trace’s aqua blue ’55 Chevy rumbled to a start and we rolled down the windows. I inhaled a breath of the fresh, if humid, Gulf air as he drove out of the lot, passing Mr. Gallion bringing in his Olds for its regular service. The old man was like clockwork. Every three thousand miles, he was here for an oil change and look over. Blake was the only one he tr
usted with his baby though.
“How’s it going with Mr. Riley’s Harley?” Trace asked, the wind now whipping through the car and madly ruffling our hair.
“All right. The exhaust is pretty bad. I haven’t finished going through the engine yet, but it’s looking like it’ll be a pretty big job.”
He nodded as we turned into the Pizza Shack. “Well, I’m glad we got the bid over Mike’s. I know Blake and Micah have been making noises about building up our motorcycle business.” He glanced over. “And you’re our guy on that.”
All things with an engine warmed my heart, but motorcycles were by far my first love.
After I’d been paroled, Blake was the first person to take a chance on me, giving me a job. I’d do just about anything to return the favor. The shop had been doing booming business since he’d amped up the restoration side of things and I think he really needed me. That made me feel like less of a charity case.
We ambled inside the restaurant and the yeasty scent of dough filled the air along with pizza spices and garlic. My mouth began to water. The teenage hostess showed us to our table and we ordered our drinks.
“How’s Ryder doing?” Seemed to me that Trace had mentioned his young son was having some issues at school.
Trace sipped and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “He’s okay, I guess. Good days and bad days.”
“Still nothing from Kristi?”
Trace’s clouded eyes darted to mine as I brought up his ex and the absent mother of his son. “No.” His tone shouted that I’d brought up a sore subject.
As much as I wasn’t sure about the whole father thing, I couldn’t comprehend a mother just taking off and leaving her kid behind without a word. Good thing Trace was an upstanding guy who took care of his own, or that poor kid would be lost.
The waitress approached and killed that conversation. “Can I take your order?”
“Usual?” Trace asked.
I nodded and handed back our unopened menus.
“Large thin-crust meat lovers,” he ordered.
She nodded as she jotted it down and sauntered away. She was cute, but I noticed my buddy didn’t give her a second look. Not like the girl at the Funky Monkey I’d seen him ogling. Yeah, I’d noticed.
We shot the shit until we were served our lunch, which we downed without another word. Afterward, I picked up the tab and we headed out with full bellies.
Back at Jack ‘Em Up, we gave Blake and Micah their sandwiches—meatball sub for Blake and veggie crap for Micah—and got to work.
About thirty minutes later, as we all tinkered with our individual jobs, Iron Maiden pulsing in the background, a throat cleared in the front of the shop.
I watched idly as Blake uncoiled from under the hood of the Olds and made his way over, smiling and greeting the new customer. I vaguely recognized him from town somewhere, but I couldn’t place him. I did, however, notice the shiny sport bike strapped to the trailer behind his truck.
He and Blake chatted a bit and he indicated the bike behind him. The customer’s eyes eventually darted to me then back quickly. A few more words were exchanged as the air subtly changed. Blake’s face fell. A couple more things were said before the guy left.
I watched Blake’s head drop and he stared at the concrete. Shit. That didn’t look good. Once the truck was out of the lot and safely down the road, I stood and cautiously made my way over.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I studied the road where the truck and bike had now disappeared, my brow furrowed. “What did he want?”
Blake’s troubled eyes met mine. “He was, uh, looking for a bike mechanic.”
I said nothing as unease uncoiled in my belly.
“He’s going down the way to Mike’s.” He spun away and moved back to the Olds, leaving me standing there dumbstruck.
“And?” I murmured.
He stayed bent under the hood. “And nothing. He’s going to Mike’s.”
Ice hit my belly. “Why?”
Sigh. “He just is.”
“Because of me?”
Nothing.
“Blake!”
His head snapped up, sympathy in his eyes, which I fucking hated.
“Did. He. Leave. Because. Of. Me?” I bit out.
Reluctantly, he nodded. “Yeah. He didn’t want someone . . . it’s your history . . . I’m sorry, man.”
No, I was sorry. It just proved my point with Rachel. Try as I might, hope as I might, I could not outrun my past.
By five, I had myself worked up into one hell of a lather. I’d lost Blake business and my preoccupation was making me fuck up on Mr. Riley’s bike.
Damn it!
I launched my tools back into my box with a metallic clang and slammed the lid. But it did nothing to make me feel better. I wasn’t sure anything could make me feel better; could erase the black hole writhing in my gut. It was so much more than just being a felon, went so much deeper. I’d been an idiot to think I could have a life. Any kind of life.
Rachel had made me forget all that ugliness for one brief, sun-filled moment, but she was an illusion, too. She could spout off her non-judgment, but I knew, deep down, she would see me for what I was. What everyone else saw. She was good and pure and innocent. She had no choice. It didn’t matter what we wanted or how we were attracted to each other. I would soil her, hurt her, and I’d hate myself even more.
Without even realizing I’d decided, I yanked out my cell and dialed her number. It rolled over automatically to voicemail and I was glad I wouldn’t have to talk to her. Not now.
“Hey. It’s Jesse. Listen . . . I’ve been thinking . . .” I glanced around the shop. Blake and Micah were laughing about something in the far corner, Trace was nowhere to be seen. “We’re really busy here at the shop and your Indian will need a lot of work. More than I can probably do. You’d be better off taking it down to Mike’s Bikes on Main.” I sucked in a big breath and squeezed my eyes shut. “So, uh, good luck. Bye.”
I ended the call and wondered why I didn’t feel any better.
Trace ambled by, his phone to his ear. “All right, buddy. That’s good. I’ll talk to you later. Love you.” He caught my eye as he hung up.
“Everything good with the kid?”
He nodded, his eyes on me warily. “Yeah. He’s with my parents for a couple weeks before school starts. I miss the shit outta that little guy.”
I mumbled some kind of agreement, though I had no idea. I’d missed my family in prison, yes, but I was pretty sure kids were different.
“Got plans tonight?” he asked.
“Nope.” Definitely wasn’t going to Rachel’s.
“Wanna grab a beer at the Funky Monkey? Micah’s in and I think I’ve talked Blake into leaving the wife and baby long enough for one drink.”
Did it make me a loser that I’d rather go home and read a book? Probably. So, I agreed.
“Cool. Meet you there?”
I helped lock up the shop then straddled my own Harley, revving the engine. While the weather cooperated, I rode as much as I could. It was the only time I felt freedom down to my bones. I had my dad’s old Charger for the rest of the year . . . my graduation present from high school. Luckily, he’d kept it up while I was locked away. Another stark reminder of all I’d missed, how life had passed me by in so many ways.
I whipped down the road, sneaking past Trace’s Chevy, and made my way to the highway, letting my throttle rip. My cell vibrated in my back pocket, but I kept going. By the time I pulled in and parked in the Funky Monkey’s gravel lot, my phone had vibrated three more times. Standing and stowing my helmet, I yanked it out.
Rachel.
Three missed calls from her, one from my parole officer. Damn it. The only voicemail was from Lopez confirming I’d be at his office tomorrow morning and that I’d be taking one of my court-ordered random drug tests. Short, sweet, and snide, he was in rare form.
Two spots over, Trace pul
led in, quickly followed by Micah’s Jeep and Blake’s Camaro. We strolled in the front door in single-file to the crooning of Travis Tritt and the scent of beer. It was dead tonight, so we had our choice of tables. We plopped down at a corner four-top as the jukebox shifted to a pissed off girl singing about her cheating man.
Blake took a call on his cell . . . obviously Delilah, if the way he was grinning was any indication. Micah grabbed a handful of peanuts, his gaze darting to Trace, who was scanning the bar like a starved beast. As he eye-fucked the waitress approaching, the reason was obvious. He salivated over her every single time we came in and I wondered why he didn’t do something about it. She was cute in a unique kind of way. Her short blond hair was streaked with royal purple tonight, her eyes lined with smoky black stuff, her nose dotted with a little diamond stud.
“Hey, guys,” she said, her smile lingering a moment longer on Trace. “What can I get you?”
Blake ordered a mug of whatever light beer was on tap, Micah the same. Trace about tripped over his tongue ordering a Jack and Coke. I rolled my eyes.
The cutie faced me and I would swear she was flushed, but it was hard to tell in the dim lighting. “And you?”
“Just a Coke, thanks.”
She nodded and pivoted toward the bar, Trace’s eyes glued to her ass.
“You’re not having a drink?” Blake asked.
“Nah.” My gaze dipped to my phone as it vibrated again. I shut it off without looking at the caller ID. “Piss test tomorrow with Lopez.”
He nodded his understanding then changed the subject to our upcoming work week and some business numbers shit with Micah. I zoned out, wondering why I felt so damn crappy.
The cute waitress served our drinks and we talked shop a little longer while we sipped. To our right, the front door opened, letting in a wisp of the last vestiges of the setting sun as it silhouetted the person entering. I paused with my drink halfway to my mouth and frowned as our eyes met.
Joel Mackie.
Automatic anger slithered through me at the sight of the fucker. Five years had not dulled the vision of my little sister cowering beneath him, her lip swollen and bloodied, her clothes ripped. That abusive, wannabe-rapist has strolled this town free for five years while I rotted away in a cell for giving him a taste of his own medicine. As he glowered at me, I realized I would do it again. In a fucking heartbeat.
