by Zoey Parker
But none of that mattered because it was mine. After the embarrassment of living at home during an unsuccessful two-year search for employment, I finally had a job, and I could afford to rent my own place for the first time in my life.
Even with a Bachelor's degree in business administration, the job market in Chicago was scarce, especially for people without any experience. Other than academic achievements, my resume was very thin. I'd spent countless days scrolling through listings on job-seeking websites and met with over a dozen recruiters at staffing agencies, all of whom had smiled with the empty encouragement of a preschool teacher and promised to call as soon as something became available.
But day after day, my phone remained silent, and I spent every night sleeping in the bed I'd had since I was eight. Being surrounded by all of the posters and stuffed animals from my childhood made me feel like I'd never really grow up, especially since I couldn't bring dates home.
There were several nights when I felt like giving up on looking for anything related to business and just applying for part-time positions serving fast food or working a cash register. Each time I talked about it at the dinner table, my parents would exchange a look of concern, then turn to me and encourage me to keep at it.
“You're worth a heck of a lot more than a name tag, Jewel,” Dad used to say, “so you should hold out for more. Someday, someone will see how valuable you are and snatch you right up. Until then, your room will always be here for you.”
As though he could read my mind, Dad stepped around a stack of boxes and put his arm around my shoulders, smiling. “See? I knew you could do it. I'm so proud of you.”
The job I eventually found was a lot like the apartment. It was shabby and low-rent, but at least it was mine. I was offered a position as a general receptionist and administrative assistant to a CPA. His office was at the southern end of LaSalle Street in a plain gray cement building with narrow windows. There were retail spaces at the street level, but they were boarded up and covered with graffiti.
I'd taken the slow, creaky old elevator up to the fifth floor, gripping my resume as I nervously prepared for my interview. The walls of the outer office were painted an ugly putty color, and the desks, chairs, and electronics all looked like beige relics from the 1980s. There was no one sitting at the front desk and I had to knock on it loudly before Bertrand Heeney, the owner, came out of his office. He was a short, egg-shaped man in his fifties with a bad wig of mousy brown hair. He wore an ill-fitting green suit and a loud yellow tie, and the lenses of his glasses were so thick that his watery brown eyes seemed to bulge like a frog's.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Bertrand droned all the way from his office to the front desk like some kind of mantra. He kept his head down and slowly shuffled the entire distance with his hand out for me to shake, as though he couldn't actually determine how close I was until I took it. When he'd made it two-thirds of the way, I couldn't resist closing the distance and shaking the hand.
“Sorry, no receptionist, quit last week, sorry, sorry,” Bertrand continued as he pumped my hand. His lips were always parted to expose his yellowed teeth, and all of his sentences seemed to run together in a single tired groan.
I opened my mouth to sympathize with him, but he continued. “Okay, sorry, so can you answer phones, type, do basic math, greet clients, make coffee, water the plants...”
I expected his inflection to rise at the end, implying a finished question. Instead, he trailed off, blinking at me as though he expected a response. I waited a moment to make sure he was finished, then answered. “Well, yes, I can do all of those things. I can actually type over 80 words per minute, but if you want me to take some kind of test to prove...”
“Don't need to,” Bertrand replied. “Hired, start tomorrow. Twenty-four grand a year, hour for lunch each day, five sick days a year. No benefits.”
I wanted to be delighted by my good luck, but I mostly felt confused. As Bertrand turned to shuffle back to his office, I cleared my throat. He turned to stare at me blankly.
“Um, thank you very much,” I said. “I certainly appreciate this opportunity and I won't let you down. But out of curiosity, I have to ask...”
“Why you?” Bertrand replied, raising his bushy eyebrows. For the first time, I saw a twinkle of humor in his eyes.
I nodded.
“Simple,” he said. “Anyone can do the job, no one else wants to, see you at nine.”
My first two months working for Bertrand Heeney went well. It turned out that Bertrand did most of the typing and math himself, and even preferred to water his own plants. Answering the phone was easy since there weren't that many clients, and even though I'd never made coffee for anyone except my parents before, Bertrand loved how I made it and refused to drink anyone else's from that point forward. He even insisted that I make extra and put it in a thermos for him to drink during the weekends.
The only drawback was walking from the Grand Red Line stop to the office and back each day. The el station was near the bright lights and posh shopping centers of Michigan Avenue, but even though LaSalle Street was just four blocks west, it seemed like a world away. There were gang signs spray-painted on almost every wall and door, and each time I passed an alley, I could feel eyes staring out at me.
I tried to always keep my eyes focused straight ahead. I didn't know what happened in those alleys and I prayed that I'd never find out.
Once I'd gotten the job, Mom and Dad had immediately offered to pay the security deposit and application fees for an apartment for me. I was tempted, but I knew how much more it would mean to me if I could pay those costs myself. I waited until I'd saved enough, then found the studio and hired the movers, all without any help.
Of course my parents were proud. I was proud of me, too.
Dad excused himself, saying he'd left something in the car and needed to go get it. As he left, I heard Mom making sounds of muted disapproval as she tested the water in the bathroom. “You'll want to tell the rental company about this,” she called out.
“I'm pretty sure they already know, Mom,” I answered, unpacking my clothes and tossing them into the dresser drawers.
“So they'll send someone to fix it?” she asked. She was standing in the bathroom doorway, wiping the brown water off her hands with a paper towel and trying not to grimace.
“Yeah, soon probably,” I said. With how little I was paying in rent, I doubt they'd have sent someone even if a bomb went off. But hey, at least it was home and I didn't have to share it with anyone.
Well, except maybe a boyfriend someday.
Dad entered the apartment again, red-faced and panting. My studio was on the third floor and the building didn't have an elevator. My father was pushing sixty and had a bad knee, and for a moment, I felt a deep twinge of guilt for not offering to run down to the car to get whatever he needed.
Then I saw the gift-wrapped box under his arm.
“Guys, what is this?” I asked. “You already took me to my favorite place for dinner. You didn't have to get me anything else!”
“We actually bought this for you when you first got hired,” Mom said, smiling. “We wanted to give it to you then, to celebrate, but your father said...”
“I didn't want to jinx it for you, that's all,” Dad said, handing it to me. There were tears in his eyes. “But after two months, we figure it should be pretty safe now. Congratulations, Jewel. On everything.”
I opened the box and saw a gorgeous blouse and pleated skirt resting on a bed of pink tissue paper. My parents weren't wealthy and they tended to buy their clothes from Target or JCPenney, but I could tell they'd paid a lot for this outfit. A stunning brooch of gold and emeralds was perched on top of the blouse.
“The brooch was your great-grandmother's,” Mom said. “She was one of Chicago's first female attorneys, and she wore it to court every day. The rest is from Saks.”
“Mom, Dad...I don't know what to say,” I said, feeling a lump in my throat. I didn't want to cry, but I
wasn't sure I could help it.
“You don't have to say anything,” Mom said, kissing me on the forehead. “Every time you put it on, just try to remember how much we love you and believe in you.”
“And we always will,” Dad added gruffly, sniffling and ruffling my hair affectionately.
“I will,” I said. “Even when I don't have it on, I'll always remember that.”
Mom and Dad looked at each other uneasily. “Well, I guess we'd better be getting home before the traffic gets too bad,” Dad sighed. “I know you've got a lot of unpacking and settling in to do.”
Mom nodded, and I realized that neither of them really wanted to go. For the first time, I understood how much they'd enjoyed having me live with them, and I was worried that they'd be sad now that my room was empty. I hoped they'd be okay.
“I'll come visit next weekend,” I offered, “if that works for you?”
Dad smiled heavily. “We'll see,” he said.
“Your father means if you want to come and spend time with us, that would be lovely,” Mom added. “But we can wait until it's closer to make plans. You have your own life now, with a job and a place to yourself, and probably soon there'll be friends and boys...”
“Mom,” I said, feeling myself blush.
“...and that's what weekends are for,” Mom finished, patting my shoulder. “So we'll see. Until then, call, okay? Not every day, just sometimes. So we'll know how you're doing.”
“I will,” I promised.
I had no idea how soon I'd have to break that promise to them.
Chapter 3
Rafe
The rest of the hours ticked away as I sat in my cell until it was finally time to leave.
Clyde came to open my cell door and lead me to the processing area. I almost expected him to take me on a detour to a supply closet or something and beat me to death on Jester's orders since everyone else had failed. He was just a hack and in spite of how fair he'd seemed during my time there, on the outside, hacks were just men with gambling debts and vulnerable families. Just about anyone could be bought or threatened. I'd seen it lots of times before.
Instead, Clyde took me to the warehouse-like room I'd originally walked through seven years ago. There was a plexiglass window with a pass-through drawer in it. Behind it were shelves of boxes stacked all the way to the ceiling. Each one was taped shut and labeled with the name and ID number of the prisoner whose belongings it held. Since I was the only one scheduled for release today, I didn't have to wait in line.
The guard behind the glass was the same one who'd processed me when I came in. He'd looked about a hundred and fifty years old the first time I'd seen him, and I was surprised he hadn't retired since then. He had my box in front of him already and was slowly cutting the tape with a box-cutter. He removed each item with trembling, liver-spotted hands, placing them in the pass-through one by one.
“Logan, Rafe,” he wheezed, making check-marks in his notebook. “Prisoner number 09L281. One pair of boots, snake skin. One pair of socks, black. One pair of underwear, black. One pair of jeans, blue. One t-shirt, black. One denim vest, War Reaper patch. One cigarette lighter, silver. One wrist watch, silver, black leather band. One Swiss Army knife.”
He pulled a lever and the pass-through drawer opened on my side of the glass. I gathered up my stuff and let Clyde lead me to the table across the room. I stripped down in front of him for the final time, tossing the prison uniform on the table and slipping into my real clothes. Their original smell of sweat and machine grease had been mostly eclipsed by the moth balls they'd been packed in, and the t-shirt was a little tight around my chest and shoulders from all the exercise I'd done while in prison.
Still, I finally felt like a human again instead of just a fucking ant in an ant farm, indistinguishable from all the rest.
Better than that, when I put on my cut, I finally felt like a Reaper again.
Clyde led me to the tall doors on the other side of the room and signaled to another guard behind another plexiglass window. As the heavy doors rolled apart from each other, the sunlight hit my face and I squinted, smiling. I'd been in the prison yard almost every day since I'd gotten there so I'd seen plenty of sunlight, but this felt different. In there, the sunlight was a cruel tease of freedom that could never be had inside the stone walls. No matter how bright it was, the light from it still felt cold somehow.
This time, it felt warm and welcoming.
Clyde walked me out into the breezy air and up to the front gates. He gestured to another guard behind another plexiglass window and the gates pulled back. I listened to the crunch of gravel under my boots and felt the old swagger in my hips again. I realized Clyde wasn't walking with me anymore, and turned to look at him. He stood at the doors, looking at me with raised eyebrows.
“I reckon I'll be seeing you again real soon, Logan,” Clyde said.
“Only in your head, Clyde,” I replied, “and only when you're jerking off. Have a nice life, though.”
Clyde smirked and stepped back inside. He never took his eyes off me as the doors rolled shut.
I knew there was a shuttle that would show up in a few minutes to take me back to the city. But before I could walk over to the bus stop, I heard a series of loud honks from a car horn, accompanied by loud yelling and death metal music. I peered down the road and saw a cloud of dust getting closer.
Son of a bitch, I thought, laughing. The fuckers actually came to pick me up. They remembered.
The Reapers’ War Chariot skidded to a halt in front of the Potawatomi gates. The doors immediately sprung open to reveal Boomer, Ditch, and Sperm, three of my best friends from the MC. Boomer practically tackled me as he wrapped his huge arms around me, his burn-scarred face beaming. The other two embraced me a second later, hooting with excitement and clapping me on the shoulders.
“How the fuck are you, man?” Boomer exclaimed, releasing me. “Jesus, did you do anything except lift weights in there? Your arms are the size of goddamn tree trunks.”
“Hey, I'm sure he found time to do other stuff, like bite a pillow or two,” Sperm guffawed.
I cuffed him playfully on the back of the head. “Nah, they didn't have anyone as pretty as you in there, Sperm,” I jeered. “Hey, how's your mother?”
“Still not as fat as yours,” Sperm answered. The other two laughed as Sperm and I launched into the ritual we'd had ever since he joined the Reapers. “Your mamma's so fat that when she went to KFC, they asked her what size bucket she wanted and she said, 'The one on the roof.'”
I figured I was out of practice, but hey, what the hell. “Yeah? Well, your mamma's so fat that when God said 'Let there be light,' he asked her to move out of the way.”
“Your mamma's so ugly that she went into a haunted house and came out with a job application!” Sperm snapped back with a grin. Clearly, he'd been preparing these for quite a while.
“Sperm, your mamma's pussy is so loose, she can grab the lips, flap 'em, and fly away like a fuckin' bat.”
We went back and forth like that a few more times until we heard the voice of the guard in the outer tower barking through the PA system. “This ain't no comedy club, boys! Now get in your van and piss off before we find a reason to keep you here.”
Boomer displayed his middle finger to the guard and we hopped into the van, speeding back to Chicago. On the way, we stopped at a roadside diner and I ordered a big plate of turkey with gravy and fresh mashed potatoes.
It was the best damn meal I'd ever had.
Chapter 4
Rafe
When I stepped through the front door of the Devil's Nest, I almost jumped out of my skin as an entire room full of Reapers yelled, “Surprise!”
There were clusters of black balloons arranged at every table and a huge banner that read “Welcome Home, Rafe!” was strung from the ceiling. There was a large cake on the bar with chocolate and vanilla frosting arranged in the shape of the War Reapers symbol.
I made a show of clutching
my chest like I was having a heart attack. “Jesus Christ, guys! I just spent the past seven years looking over my shoulder an' you jump out at me like that? I could've shivved the lot of you!” They laughed.
Bard stepped forward. He was a short man with neatly-trimmed gray hair and glasses. Most people would look at someone like him and assume he was some kind of accountant or store manager. But then, most people hadn't seen Bard kick ass like I had.
“Congratulations on your newfound liberation,” Bard said, embracing me quickly and slapping my back.
The others came forward too, hugging me and shaking my hand. There was the usual chorus of prison food jokes, prison shower jokes, and all the other corny stuff that dudes like me got to hear when they got out of the joint. I'd heard them all before, but it didn't matter. At least I was finally home and surrounded by the people who cared about me.
