“Umm,” she purses her lips thoughtfully, before sitting back down. “If I answer your question, you’re going to have to answer one of mine.”
I don’t want to explain to her why I don’t want to leave. She, along with everyone else won’t understand. “It’s all right I probably shouldn’t have asked anyway.”
“Jagger, whether I answer the question or not, you’re getting out of here.”
“I’ve got another three years in here. Fifteen all up. I was at the court case, I heard everything they said.”
“Well you must’ve missed the part where they said you’re eligible for parole at ten years.”
“That was two years ago, why now?”
Flipping through the pile of papers, she pulls one out and turns it to face me. “It says here a Hendrix Michaels applied for you.”
“Fuck,” I mutter. Covering my face with my hands, I try to maintain my composure. “Isn’t there a rule? He can’t do this without my consent.”
“Everyone wants to leave,” she argues. “Your brother wants you out. I’m sure your family misses you.”
“Miss Lane, was it?”
“You can call me Emerson.” Biting the inside of her cheek, she stops a smirk from appearing on her face, but I can see the hint of satisfaction throwing my own words at me gives her.
“Emerson. You don’t know anything about me, or my family.”
Bringing her hand up to her face, she pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep, loud breath. “You know what? If that angle isn’t going to work then how about some hard truths, huh?” She’s angry, struggling to come to terms with my admission. The tone of her voice becomes unsympathetic. Apathy clear as day, that wasn't there before. “The government isn’t going to keep you here and house and feed you when you are one hundred percent able to pay taxes.”
“Pay taxes?” I scoff. “Who the fuck is going to hire a criminal? There’s nothing out there for me.”
“I promise you, it’s better than in here. Any bad day out there is a million times better than having your freedom restricted.”
“I deserve to have it taken away from me.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Are you sure? Because the conviction that’s going to follow me around for the rest of my life says otherwise.”
“Jagger,” she sighs. “You’ve accomplished so much in here; you deserve to show that off.” She pauses and purposefully looks me in the eye before pouring salt on all my open wounds. “What about Dakota?”
“Don’t bring her into this.”
“Don’t bring your daughter into this?”
“This isn’t up for discussion Miss Lane,” I spit her name out at her. Any sort of comfort between us is dissipating instantly.
“Don’t you want to be there for her?” She narrows her eyebrows in disbelief. I see her thoughts ticking over, wondering what man doesn’t want to see his own flesh and blood.
“You seem to have done your homework, so you know very well what happened the last time I was fucking there for her.” Resting my elbows on the steel table, I push my hands through my hair, pulling the ends in frustration. “Are we done?”
Ignoring my question, she scribbles something on to a post-it note and slides it across the table, “remember this date, because that’s when you’re getting out of here. You’ll have to spend some time with a parole officer and myself, but together we’ll set up your reintegration plan.”
Skimming the edges of the small piece of paper, I focus on the date. Six weeks. The possibilities of freedom begin to knock on my hardened heart, threatening to push past my fears of failure. “So, I’m really getting out of here, huh?”
“Be happy about it Jagger.” She leans forward, matching my posture. Our hands centimetres from touching, and I’m no longer concentrating on what she’s saying, but rather what it would be like to feel her hand in mine. You don’t realise how much you miss something until it’s right there, being flaunted in front of you. I slide my hands off the table, and clasp them together beneath it, ridding myself of the temptation.
“Hands where I can see them, Michaels.” The guards voice cuts through the illusion, and I’m brought back to the hell hole where I live on someone else’s terms.
“I’m not going to pretend I know what it’s like to be you,” she continues, unaffected by the interruption. “But trust me when I say the system is not setting you up to fail. Conditional release is only given to those who deserve it. By the time you leave, you’ll have a place to live, a parole officer to report to, and as many job opportunities as we can line up for you.”
“You can get me all that?”
She grabs a business card and leaves it in between us. “I’ll try my hardest. Just call me if you need anything.”
I nod and watch her begin to pack up her files into her bag. Lifting the strap onto her shoulder, she clutches it to her side. “Can you do one thing for me, please?”
“It’s a bit early to ask for favours isn’t it?” The blush returns, paired with a smile that could end wars and save lives; I’m putty in her hands.
“It’s time to call your family, Jagger. Get ready to go home.”
Tapping incessantly, my fingers thrum against the wall-mounted telephone. The phone rings. Once, twice, three times.
“Hello?” The automated voice tells him it’s a call from Goulburn Correctional Services, reminding him that all phone calls are monitored. There’s no anonymity, the element of surprise gone, but when the line finally connects, he stays silent.
I take a deep breath. “Drix.”
The sun beams down on my back while my feet drag across the uneven concrete, each step heavier than the last. With my head down, I subconsciously concentrate on the cracks in the ground, reminiscing on the childhood game I used to play with my brother. A time when the world was a lot simpler, and wanting to win was my only concern. A time where I wasn’t a fuck up trying to forever right my wrongs.
Today is my last day of school, and lucky for me, it’s also my eighteenth birthday. According to the law, I’m officially an adult. According to my mum, it means it’s time to grow up, be a man, and get the fuck out of her house. Part of me knows she’s right. I do need to make changes and start taking care of my family, but my steps to independence are questionable. As both right and wrong comfortably find their voices in the cluster fuck that is my mind, it seems I can’t accomplish one without the other.
The sound of footsteps pounding against the pavement drag me out of my thoughts, my senses on high alert. I keep my head down, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. I don’t live in the best neighbourhood, and being dog shot from behind isn’t unusual or unexpected. A simple, careless moment could change your life. I’d seen it happen… I’d also made it happen.
“Jagger, wait up.” My brother’s familiar voice instantly calms me down. As each of my muscles take their time to relax, I turn to see Hendrix and his shaggy head of hair jogging toward me.
“What the fuck, bro? You know not to come running behind me like that.”
“Relax, who’s it gonna be?”
“Fuck, Drix, try anyone that hates us.” I run my hands over my face in frustration and continue walking. “Don’t be careless. I got a lot of shit on my mind today and I don’t need you adding to that.”
Hendrix and I are twins--born minutes apart--we have a bond like no other. We have relied on each other our whole lives, but besides our looks, birth date, and our blood type, we have nothing else in common.
“You know I’m coming tonight? You’re not meeting up with those guys without me.”
I want him there; he’s my security blanket. But I don’t want any of tonight’s consequences touching him. Ever.
“And it’s our birthday, so we can have a few beers, I can find myself a few girls and make sure the whole night isn’t wasted.”
“A few beers?” I chuckle, grateful for the change in subject. “You say it like we haven’t been getting shitfaced every w
eekend since we were fifteen.”
Placing his hand on my shoulder, he stops me mid-walk, and I turn to see his face etched with concern. “Take it or leave it bro. My point is, I’m coming with you.”
I nod at him in defeat, grateful for his solidarity.
They say blood is thicker than water, and if it wasn’t for Hendrix I’d have a hard time believing it. Our dad bailed on us when we were too young to remember he existed, but our mum has never been able to forget him. Her heart hardened the day he walked out, and neither Hendrix nor I seemed to make a difference.
We remind her of everything bad in her life. We are the reason he hurt her, and the reason he walked out on her. Like souvenirs he left behind, branding her with memories of all his failures and every individual mistake, Hendrix is her truth, and I am her pain. Together, for eighteen years we have managed to hurt the only woman we love most in the world. Because all she can see is him.
The music thumps throughout the layers of cement sheeting that make up the structure of the house, the walls vibrating with every beat of the bass. My back sinks into the worn corduroy couch, the stench of tobacco embedded in the thick padding. My eyes roam around the room, watching arms and legs lace with one another in a blur. I’m fucking tired, and the gravity of what’s about to go down weighs heavily on my shoulders.
Raising the perspiring beer bottle, the cool glass touches my lips, and the chilled liquid soothes my nerves. I let my head fall back and close my eyes, desperately seeking relief. The alcohol slowly leaks into my veins while a potent gust of weed permeates the room. I will my body to succumb to the numbness, to fall under the spell of my surroundings and for a moment forget about the rest of the world.
I feel a nudge at my feet, and I groan at the interruption. Expecting to see my brother, the insult halts at the tip of my tongue. Cocking my head to the side, I purposely let my gaze linger on the body of the half naked girl in front of me.
“Hey, Jagger,” she purrs.
The way her eyes bounce around my body has my dick stirring with interest. She bites her over-glossed bottom lip, and I can’t help but wonder if she minds getting her perfect pout messy. Staring at me with ice blue doe eyes, her pale skin and rosy cheeks ooze youth and innocence. But her perfectly-shaped tits, exposed midriff, and glistening navel piercing scream risqué and experienced. Long, lean legs change my focus and have my eyes drifting to the bottom of her frayed denim skirt. The fabric barely covers the apex of her thighs, and my imagination runs wild. I’m a teenager with raging hormones and an insatiable libido. I eat this shit up, and Little Miss Sunshine knows it.
“Do I know you?” My eyes do a quick scan of the room, wondering if she’s here with some friends or alone.
“No, I’m only here for the weekend. I’m staying with my cousin.”
“Who’s your cousin?”
“Oh you probably don’t know him. His name is Jay.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as soon as she says his name. Jay and I have a long history of hating each other. I can’t remember when it started or how, but as we got older it went from small time to dangerous, and she. Is. Dangerous.
“Is he cool with you being out tonight?”
“He’s not my dad,” she quips. “I can do what I want.”
“I’m guessing he’s how you knew who I was?”
“It’s hard not to know who you are. Jay’s got a lot of hate for you.” She smirks, as she delivers the unfiltered truth, and the challenge becomes painstakingly obvious. My body rises to the bait as I stand, coming face to face with Little Miss Sunshine turned Little Miss Dangerous. Pissing Jay off is a good enough reason to see where this goes, but an opportunity to take the edge off before I sell my soul to the devil is even better.
“You want a drink?” I ask. Reaching for the beer in my hand, she raises the bottle to her lips. Seductively she tilts her head back, elongating the length of her neck, swallowing every remaining drop.
“I’m good for now, thanks.” Licking her lips, she hands me the empty bottle and smiles. “Want to get out of here for a while?”
Without a word I grab her hand, linking my fingers through hers. Pushing through the bodies I lead us to the back door of the house. Just as I kick open the flyscreen, I hear Hendrix call my name. Ignoring him, we walk out onto the back porch, dousing ourselves in fresh air.
“Jagger,” he calls out again.
“Can you give me a second?”
She nods, her eyes moving past me to see all the commotion.
Hendrix storms outside, anger written all over his face. “What about Sasha?” he seethes, looking at Jay’s cousin with disgust, even though the question is directed at me.
“What about her?”
“She’s going to be pissed.”
“And how is that my fault?”
“You can’t just forget about your responsibilities to her.”
I push him back up to the house, my fists clutching his shirt. “Is that what I’m doing here tonight, is it? Forgetting about my fucking responsibilities?”
He shoves my hands off of him and puffs his chest up challengingly. Sizing me up, we stand toe to toe, one breath away from exploding. Our strength is easily matched, but my temper can beat his any day, and right now I see nothing but rage.
His shoulders slump--his ability to empathise is his saving grace, another obvious difference between him and me. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant,” I spit, “but she needs to stop brainwashing you with that shit.”
“It’s not just her—”
“I know.” I hang my head in shame, as my mother’s words ring in my ears.
“But I’m not him, Drix. I’m taking care of my daughter, and I don’t need to play house with Sasha to do that.”
“Are you there?” he asks.
“Yeah, bro. I’m here.”
“Fuck. I’ve been waiting for you to call.”
My throat closes up, my tongue refusing to work.
Like always, he saves the day. “Tell me what you need?”
“Can you come up for a visit?”
“I’ll be there. “
3
Emerson
“Ouch,” I hiss as I take the hot, metal fork full of boiled packet noodles out of my mouth.
“You eat that shit almost every day and still haven’t figured out how long to wait for it to cool down,” my best friend Taylah teases from her desk opposite mine. Taylah and I also started working here together. Becoming quick friends, we live in one another’s pockets. If we’re not together, we’re texting or calling, constantly updating one another about every minute detail. It’s probably not healthy, but it works for us.
“It’s not that I haven’t figured out to wait, it’s just that I’m so hungry when I finally get it in front of me.” My stomach rumbles loudly reaffirming my argument.
“I have no idea how you eat that. Even plain boiled pasta tastes better than that stuff. And,” she adds with emphasis, “if you weren’t glued to your computer you would remember to eat.”
“Like being on the computer is an option, do you not remember where we work?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.” She leaves her desk and walks around mine to pry. “See? First, his release is in five weeks so you have plenty of time. Second, you’re going beyond the call of duty here. It doesn’t have to be this detailed.”
“I just want to make sure there’s no stone left unturned. You know how hard employment is with a record. It’s the biggest setback.”
“I get it, but it’s not worth you eating that nasty shit.”
I smile at her disdain for my eating choices and purposefully overfill my mouth with noodles.
“You’re sick, you know that. Sick and disgusting.”
“Hello ladies.” Joe’s arrival has us both side eyeing one another. Joe and I don’t get along, but an awkward encounter at a Christmas party few years ago solidified Joe and Taylah
as mortal enemies.
“Hello asshat, how are you this week?”
He ignores her and zeroes in on my computer screen. “What are you doing?”
“At my work desk on a friday? Geez Joe, what do you think I’m doing?”
It’s been a week since we drove back to the city in an awkward, judgement-fueled silence, and every day since he’s been trying to start conversations that I’m not interested in.
“Working over lunch?” he asks, ignoring my snarkiness. I return my focus to the computer screen in front of me and continue to scroll through the list of Google recommendations.
“Yeah, I’ve got a few extra things I need to take care of. Do you mind?”
His head lowers near mine as he nosily peers over my shoulder. “I wonder who this is for?” Sarcasm laces his voice, and Taylah looks between us mouthing “what the fuck?”
“Was there a point to your visit, Joe?”
“You’re crossing lines with this guy.” There’s a hint of concern, but his usual arrogant self overshadows any good deed, and has me dropping the cutlery in agitation. Irritated, I turn, my body stiff and on the defensive. “Crossing lines? Since when is looking for employment for my client crossing lines?”
“He can do it with his parole officer,” he argues.
“It’s not unheard of that I work with a parole officer for the best possible outcome.”
“Maybe, but I saw the way he looked at you.”
“And somehow the way he looked at me means I’m crossing lines?”
“You went to hold his hand,” he says through clenched teeth.
“What?” Taylah’s voice breaks through.
“Yes,” I glare at both of them, “occasionally physical touch is comforting for people who hear life changing news.”
“Stop trying to twist what I say,” he argues.
Reclaim: (A Redemption Novel) Page 2
