by K B Cinder
“I’m willing to work with you, Soraya,” Judge Morton announced, butchering my name again. “You’re lost. This situation screams it from a mile away.”
Lost?
Oh, please don’t try saving my soul with some bullshit sentence. There was no saving this raging dumpster fire.
I held my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
His face was grim. “Two months of house arrest enforced by electronic monitoring. You’re only to leave your residence for work or therapy. Hopefully, this will get you back on track and open your eyes to what’s important.”
“Therapy, your Honor?” my public defender, Donnie, cut in.
I was too busy reeling over spending every moment in my parents’ house to catch that part. I’d go insane with those people. Mama put the hell in helicopter parent, and Papa would slather on the guilt so thick I’d drown.
Judge Morton’s eyes flicked from Donnie to me. “Soraya must complete eight weekly group therapy sessions.”
“Group therapy?” I echoed. What the hell was that?
“Shh,” Donnie muttered. “I’ve got this.”
The judge furrowed his brows, staring down with hard eyes. “A group setting will serve you well, Soraya. You can learn from others and extend your knowledge in return.”
I wasn’t sure what knowledge he was talking about, but it beat rotting in jail and doing my business in front of everyone on a cold, metal potty the more I thought about it.
“And when she completes the sentence?” Donnie asked, jumping in front of the speeding train in his polyester before I said something stupid and derailed it.
Judge Morton sat tall. “There won’t be a mark on that pristine record of hers. We’ll consider this all a hiccup.”
Joy spread clear to my toes, though the old judge froze it over in a heartbeat with one look.
“There are no second chances in my courtroom, Soraya. If you cannot comply, I’ll throw you in jail so fast your little heels will fly off. And you can tap them together all your want—you won’t go home.”
Had I known that someone would fit me with an ankle bracelet, I would’ve shaved my legs in the shower that morning.
Especially if I’d known he’d look like fresh-baked sex.
Instead, I peeled off my stockings and presented my cactus calf to a man whose face I’d happily sit on. I tugged the skirt of my dress to cover my knee as I did, the grotesque scar stretching from the joint to my thigh a souvenir to remind me of that awful night forever.
It was only then—bared and vulnerable—that Mr. Handsome Cop dropped a bomb. “You could’ve kept your stockings on, ma’am.”
I died a little inside at the news, knowing that I could’ve saved myself the hairy revelation. That, and he called me ma’am, something I only ever called bitchy customers at the bakery.
My mouth formed an O, but the words never came out as he set about digitally imprisoning me with the device, sliding what appeared to be a dog-collar-meets-Fitbit around my ankle. An unfashionably thick plastic strap hid my lone tattoo as he locked the monitor into place, the tiny gemstone the only trace of an attempt at college out of state.
“You do this often?” I asked, realizing how dumb it sounded as soon as the words spilled out of my face.
Smooth, Raya, smooth.
“Every day.” Mr. Handsome Cop smiled as he worked, the front of his shirt unfolding to reveal his last name: Flame.
Fit like a glove.
The man was hot as hell with inky curls, sun-kissed skin, and smoky gray eyes. He might’ve worn long compression sleeves, but I saw the tattoos peeking out at his wrists too. Hubba hubba.
“Well, this is my first time,” I said as my cheeks blazed. “My first and last.”
“Good.” His fingers slid beneath the plastic and gave it a testing tug. I cringed as he did, knowing he totally felt my Sasquatch skin. “You’re all set, Mrs. Nunes.”
“It’s Miss Nunes,” I corrected, appreciating the hell out of his citrus cologne. “There is no Mr. Nunes.”
“Actually, there is,” Papa disputed, reaching to hoist me from the bench by my hand.
Shit. I’d totally forgotten about him standing next to me.
The pulsing vein in his neck said he wasn’t in the mood for my shit, and we still had a long ride home. I’d be lucky to make it a mile inland without having my ass verbally kicked into next week.
Papa didn’t wait for me to eyefuck Officer Flame any longer before tugging me toward the exit like dented cans behind a newlywed’s car.
“Do I need to get you spayed like a cat?” Papa growled as we stepped outside into the bright mid-morning light. “Behave yourself for one day, Raya. Please. One damn day.”
Fuck inland. We hadn’t even made it to the parking lot.
The spring morning brought a breeze of salt air to tease as we descended the courthouse steps, the ugly strap on my ankle sure to rat me out if I tried to enjoy it with a trip to the boardwalk.
The trek to the parking lot would be my last flicker of freedom. After that—lockdown.
According to Officer Flame’s initial rundown before collaring me, I had to call before any job interview, and someone at the courthouse needed to verify it was legit before I could go.
Talk about an interview killer. Oh, hi. Care to talk to my legal babysitter? A potential employer would love that.
Once I had therapy scheduled, I had to call that in too. I was less excited about that one. A room loaded with people talking about their problems wasn’t my scene. I preferred parties or concerts. Living rather than moping.
As we trudged along in silence, Mama stood waiting at the crosswalk. She’d fled when I was dismissed by the judge, refusing to look at me. A pair of jet black sunglasses shielded what I knew were angry tears. They were always angry tears with me. I was the proverbial fuckup of her nest.
My eldest sister, Rini had a multi-million dollar sex toy business, a husband, and two kids, while Lita hit the life lottery by marrying TV-star Theron frigging Slater, popping out an adorable baby girl, and opening a successful restaurant in Ocean City. The two made my accomplishments look beyond pathetic. Granted, a cake decorating certificate wasn’t exactly on a par with wealth out of the wazoo.
“I’m sorry.” It was the thousandth time that I’d uttered the words at least, but I still needed to say them as we neared Mama. It was instinctive. A knee-jerk reaction.
“Don’t say it; show it,” Papa grumbled, brushing a piece of lint from his gray suit jacket. “I’m getting too old for this crap, Raya. It’s time to grow up. We can’t save you forever.”
Mama crossed her arms over her silk blouse, the mustard tone bringing out the warmth of her olive skin. “At least she won’t have anything on her record.”
“As long as she stays out of trouble,” Papa added with a frown as he dropped my wrist for Mama’s hand. “We all know how hard that is.”
“The wild child,” Mama muttered as she tapped her foot against the sidewalk while waiting for the traffic light to change. “Someday she’ll meet her match.”
2
Raya
Believe it or not, Honey Hills wasn’t bursting with job openings, and people weren’t tripping over one another to hire me.
I could dress it up in diamonds and satin, but my resume still said the same thing when you boiled it down: high school graduate with meh grades seeking anything to pay the bills.
Online job boards brought pages of scams and will work for peanuts opportunities, while the local paper only listed gigs that required so-called physical stamina, which based on my leg, wasn’t possible.
That meant that the only way I’d taste freedom was by working connections.
Well, what connections I had left.
Most of my so-called friends bailed after the accident. Turns out a girl with a limp cramped their style. I couldn’t party, therefore I was useless—dropped as if we hadn’t shared laughs, tears, blackouts, and more over the years.
<
br /> At least I had a family.
In-laws, actually.
My brother-in-law, Sage, owned a gym in town. Admittedly, it wasn’t my first choice, but at least it’d allow me to escape the cookie-cutter cul-de-sac, Holly Hearth, until something else came along.
I invited him and Rini over while Mama and Papa went to dinner, my parents needing time away from me after the tense three days since the court date. Neither said it, but their disappointment rolled off in waves whenever we crossed paths.
The doorbell rang at a quarter past seven, sending my parents’ ancient dachshunds, Gordo and Porco, into a frenzy of cough-barks from their donut beds.
“Hush it, old men.”
I limped by the half-blind duo to the door, my leg on the fritz after helping Mama move Easter decorations back into the basement all afternoon. I swore the bunny decorations got frisky and multiplied since we’d set them out. That, or Mama hit up Target and raided the rabbit display.
I pulled the door wide to Rini holding a giggling two-year-old Vida, while Sage and their five-year-old daughter, Ava, stood to the side in a perfect family photo op.
“Hey, guys.” I propped the squeaky screen door open, ushering them in.
It was still a little embarrassing to have them visit me at our parents’ place, but after six months in our childhood home, it was about damn time I got over it. Life wasn’t changing anytime soon. I might as well own my sad state and make the best of it.
“Where’s the strap?” Rini asked as she hungrily scanned my ankles. “I need to see it to believe it.”
My baggy sweatpants hid the goods, and I intended on keeping it that way for the duration of the monitor’s wear. No sense advertising my temporary criminal status in the court’s eyes.
“Tucked away.” I plucked Vida from her arms as I spoke, in no mood for the jokes she wielded like the toy samples in her handbag.
“Wyah! Wyah!” Vida cheered, the pigtailed tot wrapping her chubby little arms around my neck.
“Does it shock you if you’re bad like a dog collar?” Rini teased.
I swatted at her as she leaned in for a side hug followed by Sage and then Ava, my eldest niece locking around my left thigh in a vice grip. I smoothed her curls, grateful that at least the kids still adored me. Everyone else seemed ready to trade me in.
We all filed into the living room, and the girls made a beeline to the toy chest Mama kept in the corner once I set Vida down.
“How’s your leg?” Rini asked as she sat beside Sage on the loveseat, the back draped in one of Mama’s countless homemade afghans.
Seeing the two side by side always made me laugh, with Rini being all of five-foot-nothing like me and Sage a giant more than a human with bulging muscles and broad shoulders.
“Fine,” I lied, ignoring its ache while I lowered into Papa’s leather recliner angled toward the television.
“Then why are you hobbling around like House?” she pushed, my eldest sister more like Mama than she’d ever admit, spying things from a mile away and swooping in before you had a chance to duck for cover.
“Because I have half of a toolbox screwed into my leg,” I grumbled. “I can’t go anywhere without setting off every metal detector within a five-mile radius and have a newfound phobia of giant magnets. I’m allowed to hobble.”
“Well, you’re still a babe,” she said with a shrug.
I ignored the fake compliment to rub my hand along my aching limb. I lived in sweats and kept my hair in a rat’s nest of a bun since the accident. Babe and I didn’t belong in the same sentence anymore.
Meanwhile, she looked straight off a runway in skinny jeans, heeled boots, and a cold-shoulder top. Even her curls seemed fresh from the salon. All while taking care of two kids, a business, and making it all appear effortless.
“You should train with one of my guys,” Sage suggested as he ran his paw of a hand along his whiskered jaw. “You need to build the strength in that leg or physical therapy was for nothing.”
I shook my head. Doing anything with my leg was a big fat nope. Three months of PT was brutal enough.
“Don’t be a stubborn ass,” Rini added, eyeing me as Porco waddled over for pets from his favorite person other than Mama. “It’s free. Take the opportunity.”
“I’ll think about it.” I wouldn’t, but it’d shut her up for a little while. “I need help with something else, though.”
Rini straightened, her mouth falling into a grim line as the fun drained out of her. “Is that why you invited us over?”
“Well, I miss you…” I trailed, trying to save face. “I’m stuck in this house. I can only talk about the Eagles and family gossip so much.”
I loved my parents, but football and he-said/she-said got old quick.
Rini didn’t mince words. “What do you need?”
“A job,” I replied, looking at Sage rather than her. She would tell me no without flinching, but Sage was a mush under all that muscle. Rini was laser-focused on teaching me a lesson at every turn. “Nothing long-term—just til I get this stupid monitor off and can go job-hunting for real.”
I had no clue where I’d end up, but I’d find something. Hopefully making enough to afford an apartment that wasn’t crawling in cockroaches—not an easy feat in our neck of the woods. Jersey and affordable didn’t go hand-in-hand.
“You can work on my website and social media at home,” Rini offered in a stilted voice, tucking a curl back into place behind her ear as she sat back and crossed her legs. Her face didn’t match her words, screaming silently that she didn’t want to help.
The accident was a blow to our once-strong relationship, and I had no idea how to rebuild her faith in me. She didn’t even trust me alone with the girls anymore, treating me like a snappish dog rather than her sister.
“I would love to, but I can’t work from home,” I murmured, leaning into the leather as I gave her an out. I didn’t want help that she didn’t want to give. “I’ll go insane.”
Sage studied Rini a long moment before turning to me. “Do you want to work at the gym’s front desk? It’s not much, but it’ll get you out and about.”
I pounced. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“I only have one stipulation,” he warned, his face hardening. It was amazing how quickly he could go from friendly to terrifying, not that it was difficult at his size. Each bicep was bigger than my damn head.
I offered a tentative smile. “Anything.”
I meant it, too. I’d take morning, evenings, weekends—it didn’t matter.
He matched my smile, though I didn’t feel comforted by the flash of white. “Train with one of my guys two days a week before or after your shift.”
Fuck.
“You’re a cruel man,” I grumbled, but I offered a hand over the space between us. “You have my word.”
I wouldn’t like it, but I’d do it. They’d invented ibuprofen for a reason.
“When can you start?” he asked as he shook my hand, sealing my fate.
“Friday. I start group therapy tomorrow.”
3
Raya
Group therapy was a mystery egg that I was eager to crack.
Would we lounge on padded chaises as a therapist tackled one childhood trauma at a time?
Or sit around a classroom while a shrink tried to show us how to adult properly?
Would we have a group project at the end I’d have to carry to the finish line like high school?
I had no clue what to expect as I walked in the soaring glass doors of the downtown counseling center I’d passed countless times without a second glance, but it sure as hell wasn’t a sea of gray.
Gray walls.
Gray floors.
Gray-scale art.
Shouldn’t therapy centers be bright rather than sad and dreary? A snap of color somewhere wouldn’t kill their budget. Jeez. I got a case of contact depression the moment my feet touched the lobby tile.
Paired with irritation from sitting on
hold with the court monitor waiting on my job’s approval, it wasn’t the best way to start off something new.
You could’ve heard a pin drop as I walked toward a wheeled bulletin-board at the empty atrium’s center. The glass-paneled ceiling above offered a view of the sky, though up there I only found more gray as April showers brewed overhead.
My rain boots made a God-awful squeak with every step, the rubber tread producing its own symphony with the linoleum to fill the void.
A crooked sign hanging from masking tape greeted me at the board, the blue printer ink stating that group would be in the community room as scheduled. Great, because I knew where the hell that was.
I scanned the room for someone to ask but found no one. I spied a matching sign hanging on a pillar with an arrow and community room written, however.
I followed its direction, and the subsequent smattering of signage down a long corridor to the back of the building and into what looked like an abandoned teachers’ lounge, complete with the smell of stale coffee and whiteboard markers.
In its center sat a half-circle of blue plastic chairs facing a whiteboard—far from the chaise lounges I’d imagined. Bodies occupied all except for two side by side: one next to a girl with dead eyes and another to a man in a white poncho, matching slacks, and weathered Birkenstocks.
Dead Eyes looked around my age with mousy brown hair and chapped lips, while poncho man had wavy hair and a full beard. Paired with the outfit, he could’ve passed for Jesus. Well, except for the cracked iPhone clutched in one hand and the colossal Wawa coffee in the other.
“Soraya?” a bespectacled woman called from behind a desk in the corner. I almost didn’t see her thanks to an enormous fake fern in front of it. Her asymmetrical bob and Buddy Holly glasses shouted hipster a mile away, but her smile held the warmth of an old friend.
