Tammy Falkner's Blog, page 6

Unedited Chapter Three of CCC!

 

If you missed the first two chapters, you can find them here:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Pete

 

Damn, she’s pretty.  Then again, she’s the first girl I’ve had my hands on in almost two years. She lay there on top of me for a second looking down at me and I immediately knew who she was. I’ll never forget her. But the last time we met… it wasn’t a good night for her. And she would probably be uncomfortable if I brought it up.  I don’t want to get sent back to the city. I want to be here. I want to work with these kids. I want to have this damn tracking bracelet off my leg so I can go back to some semblance of a normal life. I just want to be Pete.

I wish the fuck I knew who Pete is. I had a pretty good idea of what my life would be like, until my brother Matt got sick.  Then things got all fucked up. 

Then I did what I did and ended up in jail. It was all my fault and I take full responsibility for it but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck ass.

She has green eyes and the same freckles I remember across the bridge of her nose. Shit. I can’t even think about things like that. If I were at home, I would ask her out to dinner. I would tell her about how I know her. I would find out if she’s all right. Then I would ask her out on a date. But here, I’m nothing. Nothing but a man who would get his nuts chopped off for talking to her. I have no doubts that her father was serious. Dead serious. I adjust my junk and keep moving.

But then she looks over at me, glancing over her shoulder. Her face colors, and my heart starts to do a little pitter patter in my chest. I’m an ex-con who’s still on house arrest, and she’s looking at me like I’m a real live man? She licks her lips and turns away to talk to someone else. I want her to look at me again.

Her blond hair is damp and it’s tangled up into a messy knot on top of her head. She’s not wearing any make up. The women I know paint their faces until they’re almost unrecognizable when they get out of the shower.  This one is all natural. And I like it. I shouldn’t. But I do. I could look at her all day.

There was a second there when she fell on top of me that she looked fearful. Was that because of what happened to her? Does she even remember me?

But then a motorized wheel chair zips toward me. “Hold on there, Speedy Gonzales,” I say, stepping in front of him. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

The young man is blond and fair and he has a piece of plastic sticking out of his neck. He signs to me, but his movements are jerky and off balance.  They’re not fluid like sign language usually is. Marshmallows, he spells with his fingers. He jerks his crooked finger toward where someone is lighting a campfire.

I wonder if this is the boy I’m supposed to work with.  An older woman runs up behind him, her breaths heaving from her. “Sorry,” she pants, clutching her side. “He’s hard to keep up with in that chair.” She extends a hand. “I’m Andrea. And this is my son, Karl. Karl’s excited to be a camper this year.” I shake hands with her and drop down in front of Karl.

“You can hear, right, Karl?” I ask, signing to him. He nods and smiles, but it’s jerky and crooked. He’s so damn excited he can barely sit still in his chair.

I can hear, he signs. I just can’t talk.

I nod. I get it. “How old are you?” I ask.

Fifteen. He looks around me toward the camp fire. I think he really wants to get to where the other kids are congregating.

“Such a lovely age,” his mother says, rolling her eyes.

He’s fifteen? He can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. I step out of his way. “Go get ‘em, Gonzales,” I say, nodding my head toward the fire. He grins and rolls away from me, stopping beside where Reagan is now setting up chairs by the fire.

“I think he already has a crush on Reagan,” she admits.

“Reagan?” I ask. My Reagan?

She arches a brow at me. “The owner’s daughter.”

Reagan is Caster’s daughter? All this time My Reagan’s father has been my pro bono attorney? Shit. This just got even more convoluted. I shake it away and I look at Gonzo’s mom. “Can you tell me a little about his challenges so I know what I’m working with?” I ask.

“Not what you’re working with,” she corrects. “Who you’re working with.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” I start.

She lays a hand on my arm. “Where did you learn to sign?”

“My brother is deaf,” I say. She nods, taking in my tattoos and my piercings, which I couldn’t even get back in after I got out of jail.  I had to get re-pierced last night, and they’re still sore. At least I don’t feel naked anymore. “I didn’t mean to insult your son,” I say. Now I feel bad.

“Karl’s only limitations are that he’s in a body that doesn’t do what he wants it to do, and that he can’t speak.” She looks at him across the clearing, her eyes full of love for her son. And exhaustion. “He still has all the desires and urges of a fifteen year old boy. There are just some things he can’t do.” She heaves a sigh. “He gets frustrated easily. That’s the hardest thing for him. His mind is sound and his body just won’t cooperate.”

I nod. I know what it feels like to be out of control. “Why don’t you take a break for a half hour or so?” I say. “I’ll go hang with Karl.”

Her eyes widen and she looks so excited that I wish I’d made the offer as soon as they arrived. “Really?” she asks.

I nod. “Have fun. I’ll take care of him.”

Tears fill her eyes and I realize how much this woman desperately needs a break.

“I’ll see you in thirty,” I say.

She nods and walks toward her cabin. She’s tired. And I can tell.

I walk toward the campfire. The sun has just barely set and there are only a few kids out here. “Hey Gonzo,” I say to Karl. He turns around and looks at me, his grin big and goofy and so fucking adorable that I already love this kid. “You giving Reagan a hard time?” I drop down to sit on a log that rims the fire.

She’s really pretty, he signs. He looks up at her, blinking his blue eyes, his face tilted toward hers. She smiles at him.

“What did he say?” she asks.

“He says you’re really pretty,” I translate.

He throws up his hands in protest. You’re not supposed to tell her!

Sorry, dude, I sign back, trying not to grin. If you’re going to talk about her, I’m going to have to tell her what you say. I grab his shoulder and squeeze. This is a rule my brothers came up with and we always stand by it. You don’t get to use sign language to talk about people. It’s for communication. So, unless you want her to know it, you better keep it to yourself.

Traitor, he signs. But he’s grinning.

Reagan blushes. But she says, “Thank you, Karl. I think you’re kind of cute, too.”

I’ve never seen a kid grin quite so big. She looks down at him. “Do you want to go with me to find some sticks for the fire?”

He nods, and he’s already moving, before she’s even ready to go.

“You think we should bring your mouth piece?” she asks, nodding her head toward me.

He signs to me. I got this. You stay here. He waggles his eyebrows at me.

Not a chance, dumbass, I say back. He laughs. It’s the first sound I’ve heard him make. She’s too old for you.

Maybe she likes younger men.

I look around like I’ve lost something. I don’t see any other men here. I see a pretty lady and a boy who’s hoping to get some action.

He grins and nods.

I laugh. She’s too old for you. So, lay off. We’ll find you a different one. One more your speed.

My speed is faster than you think.

Apparently.

She turns back from where she’s been walking in front of us. “Are you talking about my ass?” she asks. She doesn’t even crack a smile.

Gonzo points to me as if to say, “He was.”

She laughs and blushes again.

Traitor, I sign when she turns back around.

He laughs, jumping in his chair a little.

Now all I can do is stare at her ass. She’s cute. Like a fairy princess walking in the woods, picking up sticks. When her arms are full, she looks at Gonzo and says, “Can you be my hero and carry these back?”

He nods and lets her fill his lap up with sticks. He turns to take them to the fire, and leaves us standing there, gathering more of them.  “Hurry back,” I call to him. He turns back and signs, Hands off my girl.

I hold my hands out to the side and then give him a thumbs up.

She turns to me and extends her hand. “I’m Reagan.”

She doesn’t remember me. Should I even remind her? She probably works hard on a daily basis to forget that night.

I take her hand in mine and heat shoots straight through me. And it’s not because it’s been two years since I’ve had a woman in my arms. There’s something about this girl. She jerks her hand back and looks into my eyes. I want to ask her if she felt that. She wipes her hands on her jeans, and I realize she was just pulling back because my hands are sweaty. I’m an idiot.

“Pete,” I say.

“Why do you call him Gonzo?” she asks.

“Why not?” I continue to pick up sticks.

“He’s a sweet boy,” she says.

“He’s a hormone on wheels,” I correct.

She laughs. “At least you see him as a normal young man. Most people see the chair.” She shakes her head and looks up at me. I feel like she’s looking directly into my soul. “What makes you different?” she asks.

You mean aside from my tats, piercings and the fact that I came from prison? I shrug. I look in his direction. He’s already on his way back. “I just see a boy who wants to be treated like one.” I call to him when he gets close. “Hey Gonzo,” I say. “Can you take another load?” He grins and nods.  We load him up and he leaves again. I turn to her. “So, what makes you different, Reagan?” I ask. I want to touch her. But I don’t dare. So, I just look at her instead. I watch her lips and wait for her to explain the meaning of life to me.

 

Reagan

 

He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s a little distracting, because his piercings draw your attention away from his eyes and then you have to find your way back. He has tattoos all the way up his arms, from his wrists to where his t-shirt breaks up the designs. Then they start again and go all the way up his neck. He’s broad and tall, and he’s a little intimidating. But he’s not, all at the same time. He saw me at my most vulnerable point, and he did exactly what I needed.

“I don’t think I’m different,” I say. “I’m just like every one of those kids.” She nods toward the cabins. “No better. No worse. Same fears. Same drives.” I shrug.

He nods slowly and starts to pick up sticks again. He has a tattoo on the back of his neck. It’s written in gothic, chunky letters and it says, SAM.

“Is Sam your girlfriend?” I blurt out. I immediately want to bite the words back, but they’re already out there.

“Sam?” he asks.

I rub the back of my neck, then point to his. “The tattoo.”

He smiles. “Oh, that.”

But he doesn’t elaborate. I feel like a dummy for even asking the first time. I’m not going to ask again.

“So, you’re home from college?” he asks.  I can’t believe he doesn’t remember me.

I nod.

“Where do you go?” he asks. He looks at me, waiting for my answer. And I don’t think I’ve ever had this much attention from a man that I actually want to talk to. He really cares about what I say. Or at least he wants me to think he does.

“NYU,” I reply. “Junior this year.”

“My brother goes to NYU.”  He smiles. “Logan Reed?” he asks. But it’s a big school. The chance of me knowing his brother is small.  But I know about all his brothers because I asked a lot of questions when I was looking for him.

I shake my head.

“He’s deaf.”

I shake my head again. The only time I have seen him was outside the prison yesterday, but never at school.

“All tatted up, like me.” He looks down at his arms, and I take the opportunity to look at his tattoos.

“Can I see?” I ask. I don’t want to be rude, but I really want to look at him. I don’t want to touch him, but I want to look.

He grins. “You can look, but you can’t touch,” he teases. It’s like he read my mind. My heart starts to thud. I’m the last person he has to worry about touching him. “Because I like my nuts exactly as they’re hanging.”

My face floods with heat. But I don’t let the opportunity to study the drawings on his skin pass me by. I look at the cross that has the word “Mom” written inside it. “What’s this one for?” I ask.

“My mom died a few years ago.”

He also has the word “Dad” with wings attached. “Your dad died too?” I ask.

“He left after our mom died.” He stills. He’s suddenly tense, and I hate that I asked.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I don’t want your sympathy, Princess,” he says.

I snort. “Princess?”

He nods, his gaze lingering on my eyes, then my lips. He licks his, and draws his piercing into his mouth to play with it with his tongue. “Princess,” he says slowly.

“You couldn’t be farther from the truth,” I say. He has me pegged all wrong.

“I doubt it.” He looks at me for a minute too long.  My stomach flips.

But suddenly, I hear the crash of boots stomping through the woods. I look up and see my dad walking toward us, a scowl on his face, and he has the hatchet in his hand. Pete immediately crosses his hands in front of his lap and steps away from me.

“Go help with dinner,” Dad snaps at me. He glares at Pete.

“Yes, sir,” I say. I take the sticks Pete has in his arms and smile at him. “See you later,” I whisper.

“Don’t go,” he whispers back. “Who’s going to protect my nuts?”

“Princesses don’t do that.” I grin at him and walk away. It’s hard to do, but I don’t even look back over my shoulder.

Unedited Chapter Two of CCC

If you missed Chapter One, you can find it here:  http://tammyfalkner.wordpress.com/2013/11/03/unedited-chapter-one-of-ccc/

Pete

I don’t want to be back here. I didn’t miss jail at all last night. Not for a minute. And I don’t plan to be on the wrong side the bars again. Ever. But here I am, back where I never wanted to be. I’m outside the prison, but still… I’m wearing jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt, and a tracking bracelet on my ankle. The boys standing in line are still in prison garb. They haven’t been officially released from the youth program yet. But this volunteer program is their first step toward that.

Doors open in front of me and I step onto the bus, sliding into the front seat, pushing myself close to the window. I put my backpack with my meager belongings in the seat next to me, hoping the bus isn’t so crowded that someone has to sit with me.

A young man behind me sits forward in his seat. “You going to the farm, too?” he asks. His breath smells like he’s been eating the ass end out of a mule.

“Dude, sit back,” I grumble. I admit it. I’m a little hung over.

He leans back and I lay the back of my head against the window and stretch my legs along the length of the seat. But then his nose pops up near the crack between the seat and the window, right by my face. “You’re going to the farm, right?” He breathes heavily right by my ear. And it was two mules. Not just one ass that he ate.  Good God, somebody better get him a Tic-Tac. I reach into my backpack and pull out a roll of breath mints, and pass him one. He pops it into his mouth and smiles.

“Yeah, I’m going to the farm,” I say quietly.

“Me too. Cool, isn’t it?” He grins. He’s even younger than me. I’d guess he’s eighteen, compared to my twenty-one.

“Yeah, cool,” I mutter.

“What were you in for?”

They know I was in prison? For some reason, I thought I was coming as a mentor of sorts.  Not as an ex-con.

“Lay back and get some sleep,” I say, closing my eyes.

I really want to know what the kid was in for. But I would never ask. That would just be rude.

“I killed somebody,” he says. I open my eyes and see that he’s smiling. His eyes are a little maniacal, and they bounce from one place to another.

“Sure you did,” I mutter, but fuck it all… Now I’m intrigued.

“No, really,” he says. He’s suddenly excited, and he rubs his hands together. “Deader than a doornail.” He holds up his finger like it’s a gun and points it, then makes a pfewww sound with his mouth.

“Mm hmm,” I hum, closing my eyes again.

“Have you been there before?” he asks. He’s kind of like a puppy. A puppy that can kill people.  Maybe a cocker spaniel.  Those always were fucked up little dogs. My neighbor, Mrs. Connelly, had one and I used to walk it. That thing would bite you as quickly as it would look at you.

“Where?” I ask.

“The farm,” he says, getting all excited again. I hear him moving in his seat like he can’t sit still.

It’s actually called Cast-A-Way Farms, based on the brochures I saw yesterday. I force my eyes open. “No. Never been.”

“Me neither. But I know someone who went last year. He said it was nice. Except for the sick kids and the ones that are retarded.”

I fucking hate that word. “They’re not retarded,” I say. “They’re deaf. And some have MS. And some have autism. And lot of other things that make them special. But they’re not retarded.”  I fucking hate labels. My brother, Logan, the one who is deaf, has been called more names than I can count.

“Oh, okay,” he says. He nods. “Okay.” He repeats himself.

“Don’t use that word again,” I warn.

“Okay,” he says. He nods, his head bobbing like a dashboard dog.

The bus driver gets on the bus and my parole officer enters, carrying his clipboard. He sits down in the seat opposite me and flips through his paperwork. He’s big and beefy and he’s packing. He’s dressed in a V-neck shirt that stretches tight across his shoulders, and khaki pants. He looks over at me and his brows draw together. “You Reed?” he asks.

I open my eyes. “Yes, sir,” I say. We actually met at the prison, but he must not remember.

“How’d you score this program?” he asks.

I shrug. “No idea.”  I have a good idea it had something to do with Mr. Caster, but I don’t know what happened.  He acts like this is an honor, or something.

His brows pucker again and he reaches for his clipboard. “You’re the one whose brother is deaf.”

I glare at him. “Yep.”

He nods and sets his clipboard to the side. “There will be a few hearing impaired kids at the camp. And there’s one boy who has MS and has a tracheostomy, so he can’t talk. You’ll be working with him as a translator.”

I nod. “Sounds good.”

“How long have you been signing?” he asks.

My brother lost his hearing when he was thirteen, and that was ten years ago. “About ten years?” I say. I’m not completely sure. I’ve been signing so long that I don’t even realize I’m doing it most of the time.

He turns so that his knees are facing me. “What were you in for?” he asks quietly.

I nod toward his clipboard. “You already know,” I say. I close my eyes again.

He grabs my foot and shakes it. I jerk my leg back. That’s something one of my brothers would do. “I’d rather you tell me.”

“Possession with intent,” I say quietly. I really don’t want Tic-Tac behind me to hear me.

He extends a hand to me. “My name’s Phil,” he says.

I grip his hand in mine. “Pete.”

“You’re not going to be any trouble, are you, Pete?” he asks.

“No, sir,” I reply. No trouble at all. I want to go home when this over.

He nods.  “Fair enough.  I may need for you to help me with some of the younger kids.” He jerks a thumb toward the back of the bus.

I nod. I’m the oldest one here, aside from Phil.

Phil gets up and sits down across from Tic-Tac and goes through the same drill.  I see him do it with everyone.  There are about ten young men on the bus, all under the age of eighteen, if I had to guess.  There’s one younger boy who doesn’t look older than sixteen.

I heave a sigh and close my eyes. I cross my arms over my chest and try to sleep.  If I’m correct, we have a few hours to go until we get to Cast-A-Way Farms.

Reagan

The pool is wonderful. It’s too bad it’s surrounded by assholes. I squeal and cover my head when another one jumps into the water right beside me, drenching me with water, despite the fact that I specifically said I didn’t want to get wet. I have somewhere to be when I leave here.

Chase pops his head up out of the water and rests on his elbows right beside my head, his nose almost touching mine. “Didn’t get you wet, did I?” he asks. He looks at me just long enough to make me uncomfortable. Or make me want to punch him in the nose. I shrug to myself. Whichever comes first. He has been dropping these sexy hints ever since I went out to dinner with him two weeks ago. If I could do it with anyone, it wouldn’t be Chase Gerald. Besides, he doesn’t know what happened to me my first semester at college.  Nobody knows about it, except for my family, Peter Reed, Rachel and the man who turned me off sex forever.

I want to tell Chase to fuck off, to tell him that he can just stop trying, because I’m never going to be the easy girl who will fall into bed with him. But I can’t tell him I was raped, because then he’ll look at me with pity. That’s the last thing I want.

I pretend like I didn’t hear his comment about getting wet. The type of wet he’s talking about isn’t even in my vocabulary.  Chase grunts, and pulls himself from the water. I don’t know why I invited him over. He brought his buddies, and I don’t know which one of them gives me the creeps more. Even worse, they brought their girlfriends. These are the same girls who look at my little brother like he’s some kind of carnival side show.

Chase stands over me and shakes the water from his hair. His kneecap is directly beside my head. With a leg swipe, I could take him out…

His eyes narrow and I hear the rumble of a bus coming up the driveway. I stand up and grab my towel, dry off really quickly and then I pull my clothes on over my bathing suit. “Sorry, Chase. I have to go.”

“Are those the camp kids?” he asks.

I twist my hair up into a messy pony tail.

“Yep.”  This is my favorite part of the summer.  My dad has been holding his camps here since my brother was three, when we realized there wasn’t a safe place to send him to camp where he could be what he is – a normal little boy with autism.

The first year we did it, we invited only autistic kids. Through the years, it’s grown. Now we have kids with challenges like Down’s syndrome, autism, processing disorders and this year there’s even a group of young boys coming who are deaf.  I’m excited. These boys need me. And they don’t threaten me. I don’t dream about them hurting me… Not like the others.

“Is that a prison van?” Chase asks.

“Yep,” I say.

Every year, my dad invites young men from the local youth detention center to come and volunteer at the camp.  They’re not violent young men and are screened carefully, and they’ll come with their own director. But they all do have a criminal history. They get community service hours at the camp.

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Chase asks.

“Yep,” I say. I’d be more worried about Chase than I would them.  “You guys can see yourselves out, right?” I ask over my shoulder, not really caring about their responses.

I step into my flip flops when I get to the gate and I see my dad coming toward me. “You ready to go meet the new campers?” he asks, dropping his arm around my shoulders. He’s one of very few people I allow to touch me. If anybody else grabbed me like he does, I would have to take him out. Dad smiles at me and kisses my forehead.

My mom comes around the corner of the house and catches up with us, and she has my brother Lincoln in tow. Link doesn’t like to hold hands with anyone, and he rarely looks anyone in the eye, but he looks like your average kid in every other way. Only he’s not average. He’s autistic. He speaks when he wants to speak, and when he doesn’t… well, there’s not much of a chance of getting anything out of him. We’ve had a lot of kids with autism at the camp and they all have different challenges, and not one is like another. I hold out my hand for Link to give me five. He grins in that sideways way he does, and it still makes my heart turn over even after all these years.

“The prison bus is here,” my mom warns.

“I’ll go talk to them,” my dad says. “You go unload the kids and help them get settled.”

I really want to go and find Pete, but instead I have to help settle kids into their cabins. Some of them have caregivers. Some of them don’t. Some of them have a parent with them. The ones who don’t will have a camp counselor assigned to their care. They’ll sleep with the boys and hang out with the boys and make sure they eat, drink, take their meds and shower. The counselors are all from the local hospital. Some are medical students.  The youth offenders won’t be responsible for the kids’ needs at all.  They’ll interact with them, but in a very small way.

My mom gives me a clipboard and we pin color coded name tags to all their shirts so we will know who the non-verbal ones are at all times.  I read through the descriptions, see what their challenges are, and make notes in my head about each of their special needs.

The boys are always fun. We had girls here last month, and the girls are more of a challenge. They always have drama. Boys are just boys, and they want to ride the horses and swim in the pool and have a good time. They want to be boys in the most basic sense of the word. And this is where they can do it.

When the kids are all settled, I go to find my dad. He’s sitting on the top of a picnic table with his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling down between his thighs. He’s giving them the speech I’ve heard every year since I was eleven.

“You’ve been given a lot of responsibility, and I just hope you’re up to it,” he says. He holds up a single finger. I stand behind a tree and smile, because I know this part of the speech. “I have one rule,” he says. “If you break it, I’ll send you back to the center immediately.”

The young men all look at him with expectant faces. “My daughter is home for the summer from college. If you touch her, if you look at her, if you talk to her, if you think inappropriate thoughts about her, I will chop your nuts off while you sleep.” He picks up a hatchet he had on the picnic table for dramatic effect and slams it into the wood. He waits for a minute and I see the young men all ball into themselves. I cover my mouth to hold in a laugh. It’s always the same routine. He threatens and then they spend the week avoiding me.

I stand there a little longer, until I feel like he’s done, and then I get ready to go and talk to my dad. He’s with the parole officer so I wait. I turn and lift my foot to take a step, but the tip of my flip flop gets caught on a tree root and I trip, my hands flailing as I careen toward the ground. But before it happens, strong arms catch me and I tumble into something solid.

I roll over and look down. I brush my hair back from my face. I’m laying half way across Pete and he’s holding his hands out to the side to keep from touching me. I scamper to roll off of him.

“Shit,” he grunts as he lumbers to his feet. “Ten bucks says you’re the daughter.”

I close my eyes for a second and try to control my breaths. I have wanted to talk to this man for almost two and a half years. But he looks at me like he doesn’t know me.

“And there go my nuts.”

My gaze slices to meet his. His eyes twinkle.

He jerks his thumb toward my father. “He was serious about the hatchet, wasn’t he?”

He looks so worried that I feel a bubble of laughter building within me, replacing hurt that came with him not recognizing me. “’Fraid so,” I say, biting back a grin.

“Figures,” he mumbles, and he walks toward his cabin, shaking his head. I watch him walk away. He doesn’t remember me.

Unedited Chapter One of CCC!

 

Pete

 

Nobody fucks with you in prison when you’re all tatted up.

Not a single, solitary soul.

It could have something to do with being big, too.  I haven’t asked. I’ve just enjoyed it.

At home, it’s a completely different story.  At home, everyone fucks with me.  I am the youngest of five, all brothers, they’re all as big as me, if not bigger, and they have even more tats than I do.  You don’t get any points for being adorable. At my house, all you get points for is being a good person, contributing to the household, and supporting your family in every way possible.

It’s too bad I sucked at all the requirements.  I fucked things up royally two years ago.

I never should have done what I did. But I did it, and I did my time behind bars.  I just hope that they can forgive me at home and not hold it over my head.

A hand clapped onto my shoulder jerks me from my internal dialogue. I look up and see my pro bono attorney, Mr. Caster. “Good to see you again, son,” he says as he sits down across from me. He opens a file folder in front of him.

“Why are you here?” I blurt out. I wince immediately, realizing how rude that sounded.  But his brow just arches as he shakes his head. “I mean, it’s good to see you, sir.”

He chuckles.  “Nice to see you, too, Pete,” he says. He takes a brochure from the folder and turns it so I can read it.  “I have an opportunity for you.”

My oldest brother, Paul, says opportunities are other people’s problems.  “What kind of opportunity?” I ask hesitantly. I open the brochure.  There are pictures of horses and children and climbing structures and a pool with lots of splashing going on. I look up at him.

“This is a brochure for Cast-A-Way farms,” he says.

“And?” I ask.

“The opportunity,” he says. “I talked to the judge and told him you would be good for this program.” He raises his brow again. “I hope I’m not wrong.”

I hate to sound like a numbskull, but… “Not following, Mr. Caster.”

“I need a few good young men to help out at the Cast-A-Way camp for five days this summer.” He starts to reload his folder and closes it. “I read your file. I liked what I saw. I think you have potential. And you have the skillset that I need for this particular camp.”

Skillset?  All I can do is ink people. I work at my brothers’ tattoo shop when I’m not behind bars. I don’t know how to do much else. “You want me to tattoo them?”

He chuckles again. “I need your signing ability,” he admits. “We have a camp every year for special needs kids. We have a very special boy this year who has MS, so he has a tracheostomy. He can’t speak.  He signs. His mother’s going, but she can’t be with him twenty-four seven.  So, I thought you might be able to come and help.” He shrugs. “There will also be a small group of boys there who are hearing impaired. You might work with them some, too.”

I look at Mr. Caster’s forearms and think I see a tattoo creeping out of his short sleeve dress shirt.  He follows my gaze and shrugs.

“You think you’re the only one who wears your heart on your sleeve, Mr. Reed?” he asks, but he’s smiling.

I shake my head. “Your opportunity sounds interesting,” I say. “But I’m on house arrest for a year. I can only go to work and-or approved activities.”

“I already talked to your parole officer,” he says. “He’s in favor of it.” He crosses his arms in front of him on the table and leans on his elbows. “Only if you want to, though. No one is going to force you.”

I pick up the brochure and start to read.  It actually looks kind of interesting.

“You’d be doing me a big favor,” he says. “I need another man present who can be a good role model for the boys we’ll be taking from the juvenile detention facility. They’ll be there working, getting service hours.  I need someone to help me with them. That’s why I need you.” He narrows his eyes. “You’re big and scary looking enough.” He grins. “And your file looks good.”

“You’ll have the youth offenders at your camp? Working with the kids?”

He shakes his head quickly. “They’ll interact some with the kids. But not much. They’ll be there more to help with the daily living tasks – feeding the horses, moving hay, stacking boxes, doing odd jobs, helping with meals…”

I’ve never been afraid of manual labor. My brothers have drilled it into me from day one that I am going to work hard at everything I do, or I’ll have to answer to them. I heave a sigh. I’m slowly talking myself into this.

“There’s a perk,” he says. He grins.

“Do tell,” I say. I sit back and cross my arms in front of me.

“If your time spent at the camp goes well, I can ask for leniency with regard to your house arrest, based on merit.” He looks into my eyes. “If you earn it, that is.”

Wow. I could get leniency? “It’s for five days?” I ask.

He nods. “Monday through Friday.”

I heave a sigh. “When do we leave?”

He grins and holds out a hand for me to shake. I put my hand in his and he grips it tightly. “We leave tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?” I gasp. I haven’t even gone home yet. I haven’t gotten to spend any time at all with my brothers.

He nods. “At oh-dark-thirty.” He smiles again. “You still up for it?”

“It can really shorten my sentence?” I ask.

He nods. “Maybe. It’s up to the judge. And depends on how things go at camp.” He sobers and looks directly into my eyes. “Pete, I think you could help with the boys I’ve invited to the camp.  With all of them.  Both the hearing impaired boys, the ones who can’t talk, and the ones from the youth program. I think you can do brilliant things. I believe in you, Pete, and I want to give you an opportunity to prove you’re better than this.” He makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the room.

Better than jail? Am I better than what I have become? I am not so sure.

“Do we have a deal?” he asks.

I nod and stick out my hand again for him to shake. “We have a deal.”

“Do you need for someone to pick you up in the morning?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I can get here.”

“I’ll see you at six am.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and points toward the door. “I believe your family is waiting outside.”

My heart trips a beat. It’s been so long. I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like to be with them again. To feel normal.

I nod and bite my lower lip. But I steel my spine and walk out the door. The guards lead me by the guard station and toward the door, where they give me a bag with my belongings and ask me to check it. I slide my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans. I put my watch back on my wrist. I drop my piercings into my pocket. I might be able to get at least some of them back in later.

“Ready?” Mr. Caster asks. I didn’t realize he was right beside me until I look into his eyes. Very softly he says, “Stop worrying so much. They’re the same family you left two years ago.”

They might be, but I’m the one who’s different. I nod my head, though. I can’t speak past the lump in my throat.

I shove through the door, pressing hard on the lock bar, pushing and then I find myself outside the walls of the prison for the first time in two years. I take a deep breath and look up at the sky. Then I see my brothers waiting at the end of the walk and the lump in my throat grows twice the size. I blink hard, trying to squeeze back the emotion. Paul, my oldest brother, is standing beside Matt, who has the biggest grin on his face.  His hair has grown back, and it’s gotten longer than I’ve ever seen it on him. He told me in a letter that he had decided to let it grow out now that he knows what it’s like to lose it all to cancer.  He’s recovering. I missed it all because I was behind bars. But that’s one of the reasons why I was there. I thought I could help him and just ended up getting myself in trouble. Logan is standing with his arm draped over his girlfriend Emily’s shoulder. She looks up at him like he hung the stars and the moon. He points and smiles toward me, and she looks up and yells. Then she wiggles out of Logan’s arms and runs toward me full force. She hits me hard in the chest, her arms wrapping around my neck. I lift her off the ground and spin her around as she squeezes me. She murmurs in my ear. “I’m so glad you’re coming home,” she says. “We missed you so much.”

I look around.  Someone is missing. “Where’s Sam?” I ask. Her face falls and she looks everywhere but at me.  Sam’s my twin. But he’s not here. My gut clenches. I really hoped he would be.

“He’s stuck at school. You know how tight school schedules can be.” She won’t look me in the face, so I know she’s lying. I put my arm around her for a second and walk toward my brothers, but it’s only a few steps before Paul jerks me away from Emily and wraps me up in a big bear hug. He squeezes me so tightly that my breath jerks out of me.

“Let me go, you big ox,” I grunt out, but when he does, he grabs my head in his hands and runs his fingers through my prison cut. My hair’s so short it’s not much more than fuzz on the top of my head.

Logan punches me in the arm and I turn to look at him. Logan’s deaf and he uses sign language. But, after eight years of silence, he started to talk right before I went to prison.  He signs while he speaks. “Somebody scalp you while you were sleeping?” he asks, pointing to his hair. It’s so strange hearing words come out of Logan’s mouth. He went so long without speaking. But Emily brings out the best in him, including his voice. “It looks like you went three rounds with a weed eater. And lost.”

Before I can answer, he’s pulling me in for a hug. Logan’s special. He’s wicked smart and he’s ultra talented. Emily’s his and everyone knows it. They’re meant to be together forever and no one doubted it from the first night he brought her home with her ass tossed over his shoulder and her Betty Boop panties shining.

Logan lets me go and I look at Matt. He looks so healthy he’s glowing. “Speaking of haircuts,” I say, pulling on a lock of his hair, “when do you think you might get one?”

He cuffs me gently on the side of my head and pulls me into his shoulder. God, I have missed them.

“We’re going to start calling you Goldilocks,” I warn. We’re all blonde, and some of us are more blonde than others.

“Try it, asswipe,” he warns as he punches my shoulder. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a good match.”

Emily wraps her arm around my forearm and squeezes. “I think you’re bigger than when you went in,” she says.

“Not much else to do but work out and read.” I shrug.

“I can still take you,” Logan says. He flexes his muscles. It’s so good to hear him speak.

Logan was injured in a car accident right after I went to jail and he almost died. I wanted to go to him so badly. But they wouldn’t let me out. “I heard you’re an old man with a limp now.” I duck when he tries to grab my head for a noogie and I dance away from him.

“Nothing about me is limp,” he says with a chuckle. “Right Emily?” he says, grinning. She punches him in the arm. He bends at the waist and tosses her over his shoulder. She squeals and beats on his butt, but he pays her no mind. He never does when they do this. He starts toward the subway so we can go home. The rest of us follow.

Emily gives up, and dangles there over Logan’s shoulder. She’s right by my face, so I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. “You all right?” she asks quietly. It’s fucking ridiculous the way she’s just bobbing there.

“It’s good to be going home,” I admit. “Strange, but good.”

She wraps her hands around her mouth and whispers dramatically. “We have beer at the apartment! For your birthday!”

I grin. I spent my twenty-first birthday behind bars. But I had a feeling they wouldn’t let it pass by without some kind of celebration. “Just beer?” I whisper back playfully.

She winks. “There might be some other stuff, too. Like wine.”

My brothers don’t do anything more than drink occasionally. “Is there cake?” I ask.

She nods. “Sam made it.” Sam’s the baker in the family. It’s too bad he had to play football to earn his way into college, because he’d make a damn fine baker. And he’d be happier doing it.

“So he was home this weekend?” Hearing that he was home this weekend but he’s not there now is like a knife to my gut. It fucking hurts. I can’t say I blame him, though.

She nods, and she does that thing she does where she doesn’t look me in the face. She’d be terrible at poker because she can’t lie worth shit.

“How long do you think he’ll avoid me?” I ask.

Matt looks over at me, his face searching mine, but he doesn’t answer my question either.

 

Reagan

 

I sit in my dad’s truck and drum my thumb on the steering wheel along with the music. I dropped Dad off an hour ago, and he sent me on an errand because he hates the idea of me sitting outside of a prison by myself.  I finished his errand and now I’m waiting. He can’t fault me for that, can he?

I freeze when I see three tatted up men walk by where I’m parked.  They’re blond and huge.  But one of them is holding hands with a girl, a pretty lady with dirty blonde hair. I sit up taller and watch them. They’re friendly with one another and you can almost see how happy they are to be together.  The one holding hands with the girl slaps her on the bottom and runs from her and she streaks off after him until she can jump on his back. She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek.  He puts her down because she’s signing something to him.  My heartbeat stutters.  This is the family. I’m almost certain of it.  They’re Peter Reed’s brothers.

Peter Reed is someone I have wanted to meet for two and a half years. He saved me one night when I really needed saving.  He found me huddled in a room in the back of a frat house after the unthinkable happened.

I’m huddled by the wall, still shaking from what happened.  He turned out the light when he left, so I sit in the dark, with my teeth chattering so hard that my jaw hurts.  My panties are still wrapped around my ankle, dangling there like the useless piece of cloth they are.  One side is broken from where he ripped them off me, but I can’t make my arms unwrap from around myself long enough to pull them up. Or off.  My skirt is hiked up around my waist. He didn’t bother to even pull it down when he was done. He just whispered in my ear about how no one would ever believe me if I told, and how I had better keep it to myself if I knew what was good for me.

My phone dings beside me, its bright face a beacon in the darkness and I look down at it. I want to pick it up. It’s probably one of my friends wondering where I’ve gotten off to. But I can’t unwrap my arms long enough to reach for it either. If I unwrap, I’ll fall apart. I can’t fall apart. I just can’t.

The door opens and a sliver of light tumbles into the room. A young man laughs at someone as he closes the door in a girl’s face. He flips the light on and leans back against the door cursing playfully. I crawl on my hands toward the shadow in the corner. Maybe he won’t see me. But he does. I can tell when he freezes and curses for real.

My teeth are still chattering and I can’t draw in a complete breath. He drops down to squat in front of me. “Hey, are you all right?” he asks. He reaches a hand toward me. An animalistic sound leaves my throat. It’s one that scares even me, and he jerks his hand back like I’m a rabid dog and he’s afraid I’ll bite. The guy who just left, he wasn’t afraid of me at all. After a few minutes of really nice kissing, I was ready to stop but he pushed me down, tore off my panties, held me still and raped me.

I look into this man’s sky blue eyes and they’re so different from the brown ones that hurt me. I open my mouth to speak, but only a squeak comes out. My phone dings again and I look toward it.

“Do you want me to get it for you?” he asks softly. He reaches for it and then puts it within my reach. I take it, jerking it from his hand as I crouch further into the corner. He pulls back like I scare him. I look down at the screen.

Rachel: Where are you, hussy? I saw you locking lips with the douchebag. Did you leave with him?

I need to reply. But my fingers are shaking too much.

“Do you want me to do it?” the man asks. He gently takes the phone from my grasp with a twisty tug and I let it go. It’s of no use to me. I’m shaking too badly to use it.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks.

I swallow hard. I screamed when it started, before he covered my mouth with his hand, right before he banged my head onto the bathroom countertop, and now my throat hurts. “Help me.” The words are a whisper and he leans closer, because he can’t hear what I’m saying.

“What?” he asks softly.

“Help me,” I say. He looks at my face. He doesn’t look down at my exposed body. He just looks at my face, like I’m not sitting here with my skirt hiked up above my hips, like my shirts not torn open. Like I wasn’t just raped. Defiled. Used. I tug at my skirt and he looks around the room, opens a cabinet and lays an unfolded towel over me. I start to adjust my clothes beneath it. He looks down and picks up my shoes, which I must have kicked off when I was flailing. He sets them next to my feet. He sees my panties hanging over my ankle and he reaches for them, lifting my leg gently so he can pull them off my foot.  “I need those,” I say. I really, really need them. 

He shakes them out and holds them up, like if I was putting them on. “They’re torn,” he says.

“I need them,” I say again.  A tear rolls down my cheek and his face softens. He finds the scraps of fabric where the man who hurt me ripped them at the hip and he ties a knot in them. He holds them up, like I’m two and need his help getting dressed. I put my feet in them and stand up, unsteady on my legs. He reaches out to support me.  My hands are shaking so badly that I can’t pull them up. He helps me. He hisses in a breath when he pulls them past the blood on my inner thighs. He lifts his gaze, looking into my face as he pulls them over my hips and then he tugs my skirt down to cover them.  I lower the towel and he closes my shirt with gentle fingers. He bends over and picks up my phone where I dropped it.

“Can I call someone for you?” he asks.

I nod. But I can’t think of who. I can’t call my parents. I wasn’t supposed to be at this party. I was supposed to be in my dorm room studying.

“Call Rachel,” I say. I lean against the counter, feeling like I can’t hold myself up anymore.

He scrolls through my contacts until he finds her name. He calls and I can hear the faint ring through the phone.  “Hello, Rachel?” he asks.

“Who are you and why do you have that hussy’s phone?” I hear Rachel ask.

He looks at me.  “Do you want to talk to her?” he asks me over the phone.

I shake my head.

He closes his eyes and says, “My name is Peter Reed and I’m here with your friend…” He stops and looks at me, his eyebrows scrunching together. “What’s your name?”

“Reagan,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And he really looks like he is. “I can’t hear you.” His tone is soft and much more sympathetic than I deserve.

“Reagan,” I bark. I groan inwardly at the way I said that. It was a spurt. But he heard me. That’s what matters.

“I’m here with your friend, Reagan. She needs you.”

“Where?” I hear Rachel say.

“J-just tell her the party. M-master bathroom, I think.” I look around.

“Do you want me to just go find her?” he asks, looking at me over the phone.

My gut clenches. “Don’t leave me,” I whisper. My jaw quivers and I hate it. But this man makes me feel safe.

He reaches out and very gently lays his hand on the side of my head. I jerk back, and he immediately realizes that touching me was a mistake. “I won’t leave. I promise,” he says. He turns back to the phone. “We’re in the back bedroom, in the bathroom. She’s hurt.” He looks at my face while he says it. Not at my abused body. His eyes stare into mine. “She’s strong,” he says. “But I think she needs you.” He looks down at the phone. “I think she hung up on me.”

I nod. “Thank you,” I say.

“I’m going to stay with you,” he says to assure me. “I’m not leaving. I promise.”

I nod and lean against the counter, crossing my arms beneath my breasts. 

“I’m going with you so I can be sure you go to the hospital,” he says.

I shake my head. “That’s not necessary.”

He looks into my eyes. “A rape kit is necessary.”

Oh, I’m going to the hospital. I need to be tested for STD’s. And get a morning after pill. And do all the things I never thought I’d have to think about, much less do. “I know. I’ll go.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I shake my head. He’s already seen enough of my shame.

“I can’t walk away and leave you like this.”

There’s a quick knock on the door and he calls out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Rachel,” says a muffled voice. My soul cries out for her. I nod and he opens the door. She rushes in and stops short. Her face contorts, but she bites it back quickly when she sees a tear roll down my face. “What happened?” she croons. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me in tight. I sob into her shoulder as she holds me. I look up at him through the curtain of her hair and see that he’s blinking furiously. He sniffles and straightens his spine when he sees me looking at him.

“She needs to go to the hospital,” he says quietly.

“I’ll take her.” She looks around. “How can we get her out of here without everyone seeing her?” she asks.

He pulls his hoodie over his head and walks over to me. He bunches it up like he wants to put it over my head, but he asks for permission to do it with his eyes. I nod and he drops it over me, and his scent wraps around me. It’s like citrus and woodsy outdoor smells combined.  It wraps me up and holds me close, still warm from his body. I tug it down around my hips. Rachel wets a corner of the towel he gave me earlier and wipes beneath my eyes. “You have scratches on your face,” she says. Then she sees my neck. “Did he choke you?” she gasps. But she quickly recovers. I cover my neck with my hand. That’s not the worst he did.

A growl starts low in Pete’s belly, but I can hear it. He’s angry for me. “Thank you,” I whisper to him as she leads me to the door, her hand holding tightly to mine.

“Can I come with you?” he asks.

Rachel looks at me for confirmation but I shake my head.

“Can I at least check on you later?” he asks. “How can I find you again?”

“We need to go,” Rachel says.

He follows us down the hallway and through the noisy kitchen and the even noisier living room. He shields my body with the width of his and opens the door for us so we can walk in front of him. Rachel’s hand is in mine, but I feel the need to reach for his, because he represents strength for me. “Thank you, Peter Reed,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome,” he whispers back. He opens the car door for me and I gingerly sit down. I’m sore, so I hiss. He stiffens. “Are you sure I can’t go?”

I nod. I lay my head back and close my eyes. And let Rachel drive me to the hospital.

A shriek jerks me from my memories. I watch as a blond man walks out of the front of the jail and the girl who was with the three men launches herself at Peter Reed. I know it’s him. I haven’t seen him since that night, but I am completely sure that my savior just walked out of the prison.

A knock sounds on the passenger window and I jump. I look over at my dad, who makes a face at me through the window. I unlock the door and he gets in. He looks at the scene in front of us. “Are you happy now?” he asks.

My dad’s an attorney, and he took over Pete’s legal needs when I found out where he was. I went looking for him a few weeks after the attack.  I asked around campus, until I finally found someone who knew one of his brothers.  Pete was in jail for a foolish mistake.  So, I asked my dad to help him. He’s been working to have him freed ever since.

My dad’s well known in this town for his work with the youth detention program, and he does a lot of pro bono work for people who can’t afford representation.  Dad found out that Pete had legal counsel that someone else set up for him, so he asked to assist in the case. Pete still had to go to jail, but he got a much lighter sentence because of Dad’s help.  Pete doesn’t deserve to be in jail. He deserves to be given a medal of honor.

I look at Dad and smile. “Yes, I’m happy now. Did you get to ask him about coming to the farm?” I ask it very shyly, because my dad reads me like I’m a book.

He nods.

“And?” My insides are flipping around and my heart is racing.

“He’s coming.”

I lay a hand on my chest and force myself to take a deep breath.

“What do you hope to get out of seeing this boy?” Dad asks.

“I just want to thank him, Dad.”

Dad grins and rolls his eyes. “I was thinking you might want to have his babies.”

I snort. “Not yet.”

I’ll see Pete tomorrow. I can’t wait.

“Hey, kid,” he says softly. “He’s been in jail two years. He may be a little harder than that boy you met that night so long ago.”

Dad talks about it like it happened years ago. But it happens again and again in my head, every single night.

“He still saved me, Dad,” I say quietly.

A sneak peek at Pete’s story!

 

And here’s an unedited excerpt!

 

She picks up the stick he left and threads a marshmallow onto it, and then holds it out to me. “Here you go, city boy. Your first marshmallow roasting.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I say. “You got one of my firsts.”

She freezes.

Shit. I made a mistake. “I was just kidding,” I rush to say. I’m watching her face and she looks everywhere but at me in the firelight. “I shouldn’t have said that. Out loud.”

I haven’t stuck the marshmallow in the flames yet. She reaches out tentatively and wraps her hand around mine. She turns her wrist, and moves my hand closer to the flames. “Like this,” she whispers. She’s trembling, but she doesn’t let go. I watch as the marshmallow roasts, its creamy skin turning brown. A purple flame engulfs it, and she jerks our hands back, raising the marshmallow toward her lips so she can blow out the fire.

Her lips purse and she blows, and I feel it deep in the center of me. I want to kiss her so bad that I can already taste her. “I would give just about anything to kiss you right now,” I say softly. Shit. Did I say that out loud?

She smiles, but she still doesn’t look at me. She seems almost… regretful? “I would give just about anything for you not to,” she says quietly. She leans the stick so that the marshmallow is closest to me.

She may as well have punched me in the gut.

“You going to eat that?” she asks, nodding toward the marshmallow.

“It’s burned.”

“Some people like them like that.” I watched enough kids eat charred marshmallows tonight to know she’s telling the truth. “If you’re not going to eat it, I am.” She raises her brow at me.

“Go for it, Princess,” I say. She pulls it from the stick, peels off half the outer coating, and passes the rest to me. She talks around the hot goo.

“Try it,” she says.

I’d do just about anything she asked me to do right now.

I eat the marshmallow. “I don’t understand why people like these things. That wasn’t that great.”

“Tomorrow night, we’ll make s’mores.” She rubs her hands together like she’s excited.

“What the f**k’s a s’more?” I ask.

She laughs, throwing her head back. Her hair falls down her back, and I want to gather it up and wrap it around my hand to see if it’s as soft as it looks. “A s’more is a cooked marshmallow, a square of chocolate and a graham cracker, pressed together to make a sandwhich.”

“Anything is better with chocolate,” I say. My mom used to say that.

“True.” She doesn’t speak.

We’re quiet, the crackling flames the only sound, aside from crickets and the occasional kid crying out to ask a question. Before, when I was with girls, it was all about trying to get them out of their clothes. It’s been two years since a woman has taken me inside her, and right this second, I can’t imagine enjoying that any more than what I’m doing right now.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable asking for a kiss,” I finally say.

She snorts. “At least you asked.”

I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is.

“You promised Gonzo you’d only put the moves on me when he’s around.” Gonzo has the biggest crush on her. It’s too bad he’s only a little kid.

“Let’s go and wake him up, then.” I make like I’m going to get up and she reaches for my hand to stop me. There’s that tremble again. I sit down, but this time, I’m a little closer to her.

She’s quiet for a moment. “This is nice,” she says.

I reach up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear and she flinches. “Do I scare you?” I ask. I did just get out of prison.

She shakes her head. “No. Not for the reasons you think.”

She picks up a stick and starts to draw in the dirt, her arm clenched around her knees until she’s folded into a ball.

She looks up, her green eyes bright in the firelight. “I just don’t like to be touched.” She shrugs. “That’s all.”

“Why not, Princess?” It comes out more like a whisper.

Her eyes fill up with tears and she blinks them back furiously. I want to touch her, but I have a feeling that would be the wrong thing to do.

“It’s me,” she says. “Not you.” She waits a beat. “I’m sure you’re a perfectly amazing kisser. And I’m missing out on one of the best experiences ever.” She lays a hand on her chest and grins. She’s teasing me now. This is better than a moment before. It’s easier to deal with. But I almost long for the quiet, emotion-filled whispers. “You’ve kissed a lot of women?” she asks.

“A few.”

“A few hundred? A few thousand?” She laughs. It’s a tinny, hollow sound.

“A few,” I repeat.

“Does it get more common-feeling after a while? Like your heart stops feeling like it’s going to beat out of your chest after you’ve done it a few thousand times?”

I chuckle. “Not if you’re doing it right.” I adjust my body, hunching over my lap a little. Her whispered words and heat filled glances are affecting me and I’ll be damned if I want her to see it. “You feel like yours is going to beat out of our chest when you kiss a man?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Then why are you asking?” I ask.

“I feel like that now,” she says. She gets up and I want to grab her and pull her to me. “I had better get to bed.” She stretches, and I can see the little strip of skin between the bottom of her shirt and her jeans. I reach up and tug her shirt down. She covers her belly with her hand, like she wants to block my touch.

She stares into my eyes. She doesn’t say a word. “Can I kiss you yet?” I blurt out. God, you’d think I’d never done this before.

“No.” She laughs.

“Can I keep asking?”

She nods, biting her lower lip and smiling. “Good night,” she says.

“Good night,” I call to her retreating back. She walks into the darkness until it swallows her up.

Happy book birthday to me!

Smart, Sexy and Secretive is now available at:

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

Amazon

A teaser for Smart, Sexy and Secretive!

Subtle changes to my covers

When I first started writing Tall, Tatted and Tempting, I had a definite vision in my head of what Logan Reed looked like. He was tall, shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway, had curly blond hair and he has tattoos from his wrists to his shoulders. But when I went looking for cover art, I couldn’t find anything with enough tattoos!

It took a little work, but I just had my covers remade, and now Logan looks like he did in my head when I wrote the book.

Before:

After:

And for those of you who like tatted heroes, here’s what he looks like without the title in the way!

This new look is much closer to how I imagined him. How about you?

Chapter One (unedited) of Smart, Sexy and Secretive

Smart, Sexy and Secretive will be out in August! Here’s the unedited version of Chapter One that I shared with my newsletter subscribers last week!

Emily

My dad doesn’t want me to go back to New York. He’s wholeheartedly opposed to it. But New York is where my heart is. It’s where Logan is.

I met Logan in the fall. He took care of me when I needed a place to stay and he let me take care of him when his brother got sick with cancer. Matt needed an expensive treatment, and the only way to get the money was for me to suck it up and take one for the team. So, I did. I went back to California, leaving the only man I’ve ever loved in New York, and returned to my estranged family – the one I’d run away from. Matt went into treatment, paid for by my father. And Logan went on with his life.

I have wanted to communicate with him so many times. But communication is hard between us. Logan is deaf, and he communicates by writing. I have dyslexia, and reading is hard for me. So letters and phone calls are not possible for us. The Reed family is poor and they don’t even have a computer. I considered buying them one and shipping it to them so we could talk using sign language on Skype, but they are both poor and proud, which is a killer combination. They don’t take handouts.

It’s been almost three months since the last time I saw Logan. It has been just as long since I’ve talked to him. I want to look into his eyes. I need to see him. Soon.

The pilot announces that we’ll be arriving in New York over the intercom. Mom and Dad look over at me. Mom is smiling. Dad is not. Dad’s bodyguard sets his newspaper to the side and buckles his seat belt. My dad has money. Lots and lots of money. My mom spends money. Lots and lots of money. I am so glad my mom married my dad, because no other man on the face of the earth could ever afford her.

Dad owns Madison Avenue. Not the street—the upscale clothing and accessory line. It’s a popular line of really expensive items that started out in California, and has now spread nationwide. My parents have more money than God.

“Are you excited, Emily?” my mother asks as the wheels touch down. I take a deep breath. I can already breathe easier just knowing I’m in the same city as him.

I look directly into her eyes, since she knows how much I love Logan and she’s in favor of us being together, and say, “More than you know.”

“I don’t know why you feel the need to go to college, Emily,” my father barks. “You could have just gotten married and lived a life of ease and privilege.”

Last year, my dad tried to marry me off to the son of one of his business partners. But it didn’t work out. That’s why I left California with nothing and took a bus all the way to New York. I didn’t take a dime of my father’s money, and I supported myself by busking in the subways with my guitar for change. My dad doesn’t know everything about my life away from him. Like how I lived in shelters when money was tight. And how I went for days without food sometimes. He chooses to think I lived an upscale life when I was here. But I didn’t. It was hard. But I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. Because it’s what brought me to Logan.

God, I want to see him so badly. I want my parents to go away, but they want to see me settled into my new apartment. It’s around the corner from the college I’ll be attending, Julliard. I’ve always wanted to study music and now I can. That was my mother’s doing.

My mother smacks my father on the arm. It’s a breezy wave, but it gets his attention. “We’ve already discussed this, darling. She doesn’t want to get married. Least of all to the young Mr. Fields.

I snort. I wouldn’t marry that ass if he were the last man on earth.

“Fields is a fine young man,” my father says. What’s bad is that he believes that. Trip is an opportunistic asshole who wants to climb the financial ladder and he wants to use me as the top rung. He’ll never get over this rung, I can say that much.

“Mmm hmm,” I hum noncommittally.

“Fields is an ass, darling,” my mother says. She gets her purse and we disembark the plane. The limo is waiting for us outside, and we all slide inside while someone I will never see unloads the luggage.

“He blows his nose constantly, Dad,” I say. And he doesn’t shower after he plays basketball.

My dad’s lips twitch. “That boy has a lot of potential. Great vision. He would make a fine husband.”

What he means is that we could combine the two families like a business deal, increasing the net worth of both. I have no interest in being richer. In fact, the happiest time in my life was when I lived with Logan and his brothers. He has four – two older and two younger. They live alone since their mom died and their dad left. They don’t have much, but they love one another like crazy. My parents love me, but it’s not the same thing. Not by a long shot.

“You should partner with him, Dad. Because I never will,” I grouse. I can’t count the number of times in the past few months I have had this conversation.

My dad heaves a sigh. He is a master at business, but he knows very little about relationships.

“Do you plan to see that boy while you’re here, Emily?” my dad asks.

Only every chance I get, if he’ll have me. “I doubt he’ll want to see me. I left him without a single word and haven’t talked to him since then.” He’s probably angry at me. So angry that he has moved on. My heart lurches at the very thought of it.

My dad refused to let me contact Logan after I came home. I knew that I was giving Logan up when my dad paid for his brother’s treatment, but I didn’t assume it would be permanent. I look down at the tattoo on my inner forearm. My father hates it. I love it. It is a key and Logan’s name is printed down the shaft of the key. Logan unlocked my world. He accepted and loved me just as I am. I just hope he still does.

It takes forever to get to my apartment. I have to listen to my dad talk about how fit Trip would be as a husband the whole ride. My mom makes a face at me. She makes me laugh. We have a new understanding since I spilled my guts to her after coming home. I think she gets it and she’s on my side. But that doesn’t make things any better with my father.

“If that boy is smart, he’ll stay far, far away from you,” my father nearly snarls. He’s adamantly opposed to me being with someone so poor. Logan is rich in all the ways I wish I was. He’s rich in family, steeped in love and compassion, and he loves what he does for a living. Logan’s an amazing artist and he works at his family’s tattoo parlor putting his fabulous art on people’s skin. The last time I talked to him, he wanted to go back to college. He got a scholarship, but he had to get a deferment when his brother Matt got sick. They took out a lot of loans to pay for Matt’s first treatment, but then Matt couldn’t work anymore so Logan quit school and took over for him.

“If that boy has any sense at all,” Mom says, “he’s just waiting for you to come back to New York.”

I hope that’s the case. But that’s asking for an awful lot.

Mom pats Dad on the knee. “How is his brother doing, darling? I know you get reports.”

I scoot to the edge of the seat. Please tell me he’s ok. Please.

“Fine.”

That’s all he says. Just that one word. I flop back against the seat back.

“Elaborate, please,” my mom says, smiling at my dad.

“The treatment is working. But he’s not out of the woods. He has scans every month and then they’ll start spreading them out as time goes on.”

My heart clenches in my chest. Matt is better. My sacrifice wasn’t for nothing. Tears prick at the backs of my lashes and Mom reaches over to squeeze my knee. “That’s good, darling,” she says to Dad. “I’m so glad you were able to help him.”

“I did it so she would come back home,” he says. He glares at me. “Our deal was that she would come home, not go to Julliard.”

Mom pats his knee again. “She did come home, darling. And now she’s going to Julliard.”

“I just hope he stays away from her,” Dad grumbles, more to himself than to me. We all know who he is. He’s Logan. And he had better not stay away from me. Not for a day. Not for a minute. Not for an hour.

We arrive at my apartment, and my dad scowls. “This is the best you could find?” He glowers at my mother.

“It’s perfect,” I say. It’s pretty, with a small garden out front. I’m on the tenth level, and that’s all right with me.

There’s a doorman and he smiles at me, bowing to all of us as we walk into the building.

“Ah, Mr. Madison,” he says. He knows who my dad is. He doesn’t hold out a hand, though he does take mine when I extend it. I am not better than this man. I want him to know it. “Miss Madison,” he says, grinning at me. “Henry is my name.”

“Mr. Henry,” I say, squeezing his hand in my grip.

“Just Henry will do.” He looks over at my father’s scornful face.

“Don’t make friends with the help, Emily,” my dad warns.

Henry’s face falls.

I wink at Henry. “I wouldn’t dare try to make friends with Henry,” I say. “He’s way too good for the likes of us.”

Dad’s brows draw together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Kindness trumps money, Dad,” I say. I learned that the hard way. And even though I can’t read well, I feel so much smarter than my dad right now. I bump knuckles with Henry and he smiles at me.

He holds up a finger and goes to a locked box beside his desk. He retrieves a key. “I’ll be sure your luggage is delivered, Miss Madison.”

“Thank you, Henry.” I wink at him as my family walks to the elevator. He smiles back at me like I just gave him a million dollars.

My parents are quiet on the ride up. My dad taps his thumb on the railing, and Mom just stands quietly. “I don’t know why you felt the need to come here. I can settle myself in.”

“I’m not sending you off to a strange city all by yourself.” He glares. He knows I was all alone in this city last year. “That was your choice,” he says quietly. “Not mine.”

I step up on my tippy toes and kiss his cheek. He looks down his nose at me, which makes me grin. “I’m glad you’re here.” I just hope they don’t stay long. I want to go and see Logan. It’s Friday night, and he’s probably at the club working. He’s a bouncer there.

My dad walks around my new apartment, appraising it with a critical eye. It was rented furnished, and it’s actually really cute. It has one bedroom, and a security system that NASA couldn’t beat.

I wanted to be in the dorm, but Dad felt like it was a bad idea. I kind of agree with him. At least I’m close by.

My mom winks at me and says, “Darling, I think we should get to the hotel, soon.”

He lifts a brow. “Already?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t say more than that. Just yes.

Dad heaves a sigh. Then he kisses my forehead, wrapping my head up in the crook of his hefty forearm. “We’ll see you first thing tomorrow.”

I nod. “I’ll be here.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” He worries. Excessively.

I need Logan. That’s all I need. I shake my head.

My mom whispers in my ear. “Use protection, dear.”

A grin tugs at my lips. “Yes, Mom.”

The door closes behind them. I need a shower. And I need to go and find Logan. I need him like I need air.

Logan

A hand lands on my back, the fingers light and teasing, as someone draws a figure eight with her fingertips. I look back over my shoulder and flinch inwardly when I see Trish. I take her hand in mine and pluck it from my back, then set it to the side as gently as I can.

“Oh, Logan,” she says, her lips tipped upward with laughter. I’m really glad I can’t hear, because if her laugh is anything like her, her laughter is as grating as that smile. It’s one of those smiles without any real happiness behind it. Her hand lands on my chest, her fingers pressing insistently against me. “How long are you going to pine for that one girl? There are so many other fish in the sea.”

I can talk. But sometimes I choose not to, and people accept it from me because I’m deaf. I tap the face of my watch and look at her, arching my brows. She’s due to be back on stage in two minutes.

She heaves a sigh and tromps off in that direction.

If I had been forced to answer her question, I would have said forever and always. Emily is supposed to be back in New York any day now, as spring courses are starting at Julliard. I just started my own classes at NYU, and she shouldn’t be far behind. That is, if she’s coming. I haven’t talked to her since the day she left, and that was months ago.

I have, however, seen her in the tabloids. She’s been to lunches, clubs and social events with her ex-boyfriend, Trip Fields. The media outlets never cease talking about the way they fell apart and then came back together. But when I see them in the papers, she doesn’t look happy, not like she was when she lived with me. I like to think it’s all a ruse.

Emily sold herself back to her father in exchange for Matt’s life. He’s my brother, and he means the world to me. Matt’s alive because of her sacrifice. I’m glad she did it, but I miss her like crazy.

I haven’t looked at another girl since she left. Not one. She’s all I think about. When girls like Trish touch me and say let’s go with their eyes, I can’t imagine anything that might make me want to go. Or whatever made me want to go in the past. All I can think about is Emily.

I look toward the door where Ford, one of the other bouncers, is barring the entrance. Bone is in the doorway and Ford knows that if he comes within five feet of me, I’ll try to kill him with my bare hands. My younger brother, Pete, is going to get himself in trouble with Bone. I caught them together talking in the street a few days ago. I don’t like it. Bone is an accident waiting to happen, and I told him last week to stay the fuck away from my family. Pete doesn’t seem to understand what kind of trouble Bone could get him into.

I take a step toward the doorway, but my brother Matt is suddenly in front of me, getting between me and Bone. It’s not worth it, he signs.

Would be to me, I reply. I’ve been trying to catch that bastard alone ever since the last time I saw him with Pete. Pete suddenly has a phone and he suddenly has money in his pocket. The boy has a job, but he’s not making enough money to pay for those things. And he puts every dime he legitimately takes into the family kitty to pay the bills. I’m afraid Bone is going to get Pete in trouble.

He’s scum. My hands fly wildly as I talk, drawing the attention of several people around us.

I know, Matt replies. We’ll take care of it. But we don’t need to do it here. He looks me in the eye. You know he’s strapped.



One more reason to keep him out of here.

Matt shakes his head. Not tonight.

Damn it. Ford moves to the side and admits him when the owner of the club walks over to force the issue. He glares at Ford. Ford’s a good friend. And he knows how I feel about Bone. All things considered, I don’t want to put Ford into Bone’s line of fire, either. I’m glad he let him through just for that reason.

Bone smiles at me, looking directly into my eyes as mine follow him across the room. Then he slides into a booth and breaks eye contact.

A fight breaks out at the front of the bar. I clap my hands together to get Matt’s attention. He’s not working tonight. He’s not strong enough for bouncing yet, but he’s here as a wingman of sorts.

I see it, he signs. The big one is drunk.

The big ones always fall the hardest.

And they’re a bitch to pick up off the floor.

Matt laughs. I’m so fucking glad he’s getting back to normal.

I’ll take the little one, if you’ll take the big one. He cracks his knuckles and grins at me.

You’re such a pussy, I sign. And you can’t even claim chemo did it to you because you were a pussy before you got sick. I grin at him.

He shrugs his shoulders and smiles unabashedly back at me. It makes me so happy to see him like this. I watched him deteriorate last fall to the point where we though he wouldn’t pull through. He still might not. But we have hope.

At least I can get some pussy if I try. He looks down at the crotch of my jeans. Your dick, however, is going to rot off from lack of use.

I can’t help it if I’m a one woman man.

He claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. When do you think she’ll be back? I need to thank her.

She wouldn’t want any thanks. I shrug my shoulders. I wish I knew.

Matt points toward the fight, which is about to escalate into a full out brawl. The little guy is dumb enough to shove the big guy. The big guy falls into a woman behind him, and then her boyfriend starts swinging.

Now, Matt says.

Now. I fucking love this part of the job. It takes four of us. Matt and I, Ford and another bouncer all jump into the fray and then we have it under control. But the big one is on the floor with his eyes closed. He has a smile on his face and he’s murmuring something but I can’t read his lips.

I think he’s singing? Matt says, his brows arching in question. Girl you make my speakers go boom boom?

I laugh. People look over as noise bursts from my throat. But I don’t care. Laughter feels good. Emily taught me that. Help me get him up.

Matt takes one arm while I take the other and we hoist him onto his wobbly legs. His girlfriend, who is pretty unsturdy herself, says, “We need a cab.”

Matt and I haul him out to the cabstand and throw him into a taxi. The girlfriend gets in behind him. I feel bad for the cab driver who will have to throw his big ass out on the sidewalk.

I dust my hands off. At least it’s done.

Snow is falling on us and I brush my hand across my hair. Suddenly, Matt tenses beside me. What? I ask.

He smiles, claps me on the shoulder and says take the rest of the night off. Then he points beyond me.

I turn around and freeze. My lungs refuse to do their job, and I stand there, not breathing, not moving, trying not to feel anything. But there she is. Emily is standing on the sidewalk looking at me. She shifts from foot to foot, looking nervous as hell. Snow is falling on her hair and she’s not wearing a coat. Surely she can afford a coat. Her family is worth billions.

Her dark blond hair, so unlike the black hair with the blue stripe she had when I met her, falls down to the middle of her back, and she has it tucked behind her ear. She’s not wearing clothes from around here. She’s full-on Madison Avenue right now.

But the best thing about it is… she’s mine.

Matt says something to her. But she doesn’t speak to him. She doesn’t break eye contact with me, and I feel like there’s an invisible tether between the two of us.

I look at Matt to tell him I’m going wherever she is. He grins. I guess we won’t have to worry about your dick dying from lack of use after all.

I’ll see you later.

I doubt it, he says. But he’s still grinning that goofy smile. I want to go and hug her, but I guess you get first dibs.

And last dibs. And all the dibs in between.

He waves to her and signs the word later.

She nods, throws him a kiss with the tips of her fingers and then she starts toward me. Her boots leave footprints in the snow, and I force myself to stay still. I tuck my hands in my jean pockets to keep from grabbing her.

Hi, she signs.

I can’t stand it any longer. I reach for her so quickly that she startles, but she’s reaching for me, too. I haul her against me, needing to feel her heart beating against mine.

Her breath brushes my ear and I am almost overcome with emotion. I tuck my face into her neck and breathe in the scent that is uniquely her. She wraps her arms around my waist, and her hands slide into my back pockets. We stand there in the snow like that until I feel dampness on my shirt. I tilt her face up to mine so I can look at her.

“I’m so glad you’re home.” I use my voice because I don’t want to take my hands off of her.

“Me, too,” she says. And a lone tear tracks down her cheek. I wipe it away with the pad of my thumb.

“You’re back?” I ask.

She nods, turning her head to kiss my palm.

“For how long?”

“Always.” She smiles. God, she can undo me with that smile.

“Promise?” My heart is pounding in my chest.

She nods and draws a cross over her chest. “I swear it.”

“What about your father?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about my father right now.”

“I’ll never survive it if you leave me again.” I swallow past the lump in my throat.

“Can you come home with me?” she asks.

If I take her home right now, we won’t get to talk at all, because I’ll be all over her. “Let’s go and get some pie,” I say instead.

Her face falls. “You’re mad at me.”

“I love you like crazy, girl. How could I be mad at you?” I drink her in, from the crook of her lips to the way the way that her eyes look almost back in the darkness of the night.

She squeezes my hands. “Is Matt all right?”

I nod. “Thanks to you, yes.”

She exhales, and it’s like a balloon has been emptied inside her. “What do we do now?” she asks.

“Pie,” we both say at the same time. I take her hand in mine and lead her to the diner where we had our first meal together. Pie is safe. Pie is good. Pie will buy me enough time to be sure she still loves me as much as I love her.

Finding that freakin’ key

For those of you who know me, you know that I have a houseful of boys. Well, two really. Three if you count their dad. I say houseful because they literally fill up my house, just the two of them. My oldest is 18 and will be off to college this fall and my youngest is 9.

My oldest devoured books like they’re water when he was younger. He would stand and wait for the bus with a book open in his hands. He read in the hallways and at lunch. He had a frequent flyer card at the library. He loved books. So, I was thoroughly dismayed when I realized that my nine year old hated to read.

Yes. There’s my big old confession. My nine year old hated to read.

I was devastated when I realized it.

Absolutely devastated.

I’m a writer, for heaven’s sake. I’m also a reader. I devour no less than five and sometimes more than ten books a week. I admit it. I’m hooked on books. My husband is a reader. He and I lay in bed at night and read by the light of the iPads. Granted, his usually hits him in the face long before mine does. But he loves books.

So, where-oh-where did I go wrong? Why did my nine year old hate reading so much? And what could I do about it? It’s not natural not to read. It’s just not. Right?

We tried everything. We read with him. We got him special books. Had outings about books. We exhausted every opportunity. He had no interest.

Now, keep in mind that my youngest had some processing problems when he was younger. He didn’t hear for first two years of his life, and it was really tough on him when he was smaller. When he was two and a half, he had surgery on his ears and went home hearing that day. But at that point, he had no spoken language. He frustrated easily. Tasks that were easy for others were hard for him. He had a lot of catching up to do. And he did it. He’s officially on the same level as other kids now, and he’s doing great.

But there was that one last hurdle. He didn’t like to read.

I had just about given up hope and accepted that he wasn’t going to be a reader. But then I saw an ad for a cheap, used Kindle Fire. It was $50 and although I already had one, I thought it might be nice to have a spare in case mine breaks (or I wear it out). I bought it and took it home.

“Can I use it?” he asked.

My heart leaped. Absolutely leaped. I asked my dear friends on Facebook which series might be good for a nine year old and I got tons of wonderful recommendations. The first book – I sat and read that one with him. I did the voices and oohed and ah-ed over the pictures. And he enjoyed it. But he was listening rather than reading. (Remember the processing problem?)

When we finished, I tentatively asked, “Do you want to try another one?”

He shrugged. I deflated like a big old balloon. But I bought another book. At bedtime, I passed him the Kindle and made the offer that he could sit up and read if he wanted. He shrugged again and took it with him. An hour later, under the cover of darkness, he was still reading. I sneaked out of his room, because he didn’t even hear me come in, and pumped my fist in the air, absolutely giddy about the fact that my kid was reading.

The next day, he wanted to talk about it. And boy did he talk. He recounted the whole story. At bedtime, he asked me if he could have another book. He has been reading chapter books ever since. He’s devouring them like they’re water. He’s cutting into my book budget and I DON’T CARE. He’s reading.

Apparently, he really, really likes the Kindle medium. He does not like paper books. He may never like to hold a paper book in his hand, smell the glue or dog ear pages. But he loves reading on his Kindle. Yes, he took over the new Kindle. And I don’t care. I’d buy him a brand new one tomorrow if anything happened to his.

My kid is a reader. He’s exploring new worlds and taking journeys I never thought he would be able to enjoy. And it’s all because of a $50 Kindle Fire I just happened to pick up for cheap.

A book is a book, right? I assumed that he didn’t like books in general. That they were hard for him. But that doesn’t appear to be the case. So, I am sharing my suggestion in case any of you are bumping your heads against the wall with regard to your kids and the ways they learn. Sometimes it’s not about the book, the level of intelligence, or even the desire to read. Sometimes it’s about the platform in which the book is presented. And with all the new ways there are to read, are you making sure your kids can choose their own medium?

Books unlock doors to new worlds. But sometimes you have to find the key as well.

Review contest!