by Rae, Harloe
“And then what? I just walk free?”
Paul’s laugh is rusty, grit from rare use evident in the harsh tone. “You’ll be assigned a probation officer. They’ll meet with you on a near-constant basis to ensure you’re on a straight road to rehabilitation. There will probably be others hovering nearby on your return to civilization.”
“Like a social worker?” I have no business getting a jolt at the idea, but it comes just the same.
“Potentially. They’re usually a vital part of any supportive recovery team. Are you interested in a certain one?” He grins in a way that clearly states I’m not hiding a damn thing.
There’s no reason to expose myself completely. I give him a limp shrug. “Not necessarily.”
His smile stretches wider. “Do you want me to see if Blakely has availability in her schedule?”
Just her name gets blood pumping south at an alarming rate. “Is that a role she would typically take?”
“For you? Of course. Any decent person who has heard your story wants to lend a helping hand.”
Any heat I’d been feeling fizzles out with a hiss. “I don’t want charity. Especially from her.”
Paul’s chuckle has a bit more girth this round. “Oh, she’ll be more than adequately compensated. Don’t worry.”
“And this wouldn’t be a weird request?” Why I’m even considering this proves how detached from women I’ve become. The possibility of getting another hit off her, however small, is enough to send me straining against my leash.
“I’m not sure about Blakely’s specialty. You can always ask her.”
“Maybe I will.”
His jaw almost drops to the chipped tabletop. “No shit. Does this mean you’re actually going to grow a pair and speak with her?”
A semblance of a twinge tips one side of my lips. “I’ll consider that as one of my options.”
He gestures at my mandated jumpsuit. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate seeing you in a different shade. Normal clothes will do wonders for your complexion.”
“Maybe she’s a fan of orange.”
Paul’s grunt bounces off the concrete walls. “The prison hue isn’t a turn on. No matter what she says.”
Yeah, I’m not fooling anyone with my faux bout of confidence. “I’ll have a better chance at appearing human once my innocence is proven. Speaking of, what’s the latest on those assholes responsible for putting me in here?”
“As of now, there’s nothing new to report.”
“How is that possible? They’re dirtier than any man in this joint.”
His exhale is long-winded, gaining strength to let me down. “The system is complicated. I have no doubt Stefano and his right hands are being watched around the clock. But effectively taking down a complex operation is no easy task.”
This comes as no surprise, yet disappointment sinks heavier than a boulder. My previous employer is a very dangerous and motivated man. There is a bank of knowledge and secrets that I hold the key to. Stefano made sure those secrets will never be leaked. But the questions remain. “Why didn’t the authorities question me further on my involvement?”
“The officials gathered all they wanted to know. What could’ve changed during lockup? You’ve been considered a loose end who went rogue.”
“I’m supposed to forget who did this to me? Just move on as if all is forgiven?”
“Pretty sure no one expects that, least of all me. You’re well aware of those who belong behind bars. Start building a case against them. Go to the police when you’re ready.”
I rub over my eyes, a dull ache forming the longer we circle this topic. “Because they’ll listen to a convicted criminal.”
“Worth a shot.”
“Pass. I’ll take care of them myself.”
A shadow passes over his expression, a guard settling into place. “Watch your back, Rane.”
“What are they gonna do? I can’t be tried for the same crimes twice.”
“There are far worse consequences than attempted murder and selling illegal substances. They could also kill you.”
“Why bother?”
He stares at me for several beats, probably waiting for me to connect some obvious dots. “Because you plan to out them.”
“They fucking deserve it,” I growl under my breath.
Paul sends me a placating grin. “I’m well aware, Halder. Their crimes will catch up to them eventually. In the meantime, let’s focus on ending your incarceration. Watching Streebston Correctional Facility disappear in the rearview needs top priority. Are you good with talking to the parole board? How can I best prepare you for the hearing? Should we review what’s expected of you?”
I flare my nostrils as the implications of what he’s asking poison the air. Admitting to any involvement in this ring of corruption goes against my nature, and everything I’ve been fighting for five years. But remaining in prison for a moment longer than necessary is by far worse.
Movement just beyond the door snags my attention. Shit, has it already been an hour? Being forced to leave the semblance of comfort this space offers has an itch attacking my skin. Nearing footsteps are a thunderous clap across an already stormy scene. I’m one step away from getting dragged back to my cell, and the decision is still hanging in suspense.
A streak of lightning in the shape of my salvation breaks apart the chaos. “Yes, I’m ready. No matter the circumstances. I’ll do whatever it takes to get out of here.”
My lawyer hoots, standing so fast his chair topples backward. “Then you, my friend, are about to be a free man.”
Survival tip #3: Never be afraid to ask for extra salt and limes.
I dodge left to avoid a murky puddle on the sidewalk, almost bumping into another pedestrian on the narrow sidewalk. He lurches to the side while shooting a scowl at me. There’s a wince on my face waiting for him in return. To cover extra bases, I offer a quick wave with my fingers. I’m a prime example of Minnesota nice—born and raised, down to my very core.
We go our separate ways, but his slew of expletives tramples me before he disappears from view. Dwelling on his reaction takes root and will remain with me until I’m distracted by something else. Many claim my heart is too soft. I’m sensitive to a fault. The fact I can’t simply brush off that stranger’s aggression proves the accusations over the years that I’m soft—even weak. Caring too much is a bit of a curse, especially in my profession.
Once my mind begins wandering along that path, lists of unfinished business surface to the forefront. It wouldn’t have hurt to stay in the office for thirty more minutes. I’m running behind schedule as it is, though. The mid-week happy hour with Casey and Grace is a required reprieve in my calendar. Burning out from compassion fatigue at the age of twenty-five would look horrible on my resume.
A blast of crisp wind stings my cheeks, effective in moving me along. At least I’m no longer obsessing over the almost collision. I dip my chin to fight off the chill and set a faster pace. Fingers crossed I don’t disturb anyone else in the next block.
Glowing lights from the gaudy neon sign skip across the concrete in front of me. As I step through the entrance, a jolly chime welcomes me into the warmth of Cup & Plate. The rich aroma of garlic bread and baked cheese makes me moan. Being enveloped in a familiar and comforting atmosphere instantly flicks a few pesky pounds off my shoulders. Leaving the stacks of paperwork on my desk was the correct decision.
I pause in the lobby to search the crowded restaurant for my friends. The hustle and bustle of the approaching dinner rush makes this feel like a hidden items puzzle. A visual sweep to the left exposes their smiling faces greeting me from a corner booth. I blow a few loose strands of hair from my forehead and begin weaving through the maze of tables.
“We were beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.” Grace winks at me while taking an obvious glance at the clock on her phone.
Casey pats the empty spot beside her. “Did we pull you away from an important case?”
I plop onto the leather bench seat with a huff. “I wrapped stuff up for the day. All is well.”
“Are you sure? You seem to be buried lately.”
A shrug lifts my shoulders. “No more than usual.”
“I bet there’s some fresh meat at the prison who’s stealing all of your attention.” Grace waggles her eyebrows as she nudges a frosty margarita my way.
I indulge in a hearty gulp, hoping the slushy contents will cool the sudden inferno burning up my neck. Tangy lime with a strong hint of tequila burst on my tongue. A sigh of pleasure escapes me at the tasty combination. “Nope, I haven’t been assigned to a new inmate for several months.”
They’re well aware that I’m tied to strict confidentiality agreements in regard to my clients. Not that my friends would have any clue who I’m blabbing about anyway. But that’s beside the point. A breach of trust is a cardinal sin and almost impossible to fix. I do indulge their curiosity with common facts and figures that can be found by simple research methods. Anyone with access to the internet can gain plenty of intel on convicted criminals. There are no rules being broken by sharing general knowledge and basic demographics.
“When did you last visit the penitentiary?” Casey’s husky tone makes that word sound indecent.
I glance at her over the salted rim of my drink. “Yesterday.”
“And did anything exciting happen?”
A vision of broad shoulders rolling back and flexing with pride, disappearing beyond concrete barriers, flashes with clarity. But that’s my personal memory. “No.”
Her sigh is coated with frustration. “Give me more than that.”
“Yeah,” Grace chimes in. “We need to live vicariously, Blake.”
This line of questioning isn’t unusual or surprising. I can understand their frequent interest. My friends work in the corporate world, surrounded by suits and ties. The experiences I deal with are on the opposite end of a totally different spectrum. “What do you want me to tell you?”
Grace hums a happy sound, leaning her cheek into an open palm. “Are they all super hot?”
I snort out a laugh. “Sorry to bust your lust bubble, but no.”
Her mouth quirks in the corners. “A bad boy who needs to be redeemed is a sexy thought.”
She earns a flat look from me. “Don’t romanticize their stories. The vast majority of these men are very dangerous. They’ve committed serious enough crimes that sent them to prison. Not sure many of them can be reformed.”
But even as I douse those words with conviction, they taste sour. Do I want to believe they can all be saved, in whatever sense that might be? Absolutely. That’s not realistic, though. Regardless of how plausible, the innocent claims of one particular case seem to appeal louder than others. He’s one that I’ve been secretly rooting for. I bite my bottom lip and attempt to chase away thoughts of troubled brown eyes.
Casey swats at the air. “Don’t kill the fantasy. Let’s not pretend a certain someone hasn’t piqued your interest.”
No amount of alcohol can disguise the raging flush once he’s brought up, by name or mere suggestion alone. I do my best not to squirm as a tingle skitters along my thighs. Halder Rane has been my slice of forbidden over the last few years. I’ve treated myself to countless servings of the visual variety, but that’s the extent of our interactions. We’ve never shared anything more than heated looks. Had I been finding excuses to visit the prison more often? It’s shameful to admit that the answer is yes. But that’s all over now.
A loud slap on the table has me returning to the moment. Both of my friends are gawking at me. Grace is the first to speak. “Oh, my gosh. Are you blushing?”
Casey lets a giggle loose. “I was mostly joking, but your reaction says otherwise. There is a special guy in there, huh?”
“Not anymore,” I mutter.
She scoffs. “There’s no way he turned you down. What other options does the man have?”
I roll my eyes. “Because I would actually make a move.”
Grace scoots closer, seeming to be overly invested in the possibility. “Why not?”
“Um, for starters? He’s a convicted criminal.”
“That’s a bit judgmental,” Casey deadpans.
“It’s really not,” I retort. “He was found guilty for a reason.”
“Which is?”
“Even if I knew, I’m not allowed to discuss the specific details.”
Grace takes a long sip of her cocktail. “Can we look it up?”
“Well, yeah. But that feels like an invasion of privacy.”
She raises a brow. “You’re the one who told us all that stuff is accessible in a public database.”
“It is, for the most part. Feel free to investigate, if that’s what you want to do.”
Casey frowns. “Your lack of enthusiasm takes the fun out of this.”
Letting this topic taper off seems like the way to go. Maybe I should be concerned that we haven’t switched to something more exhilarating, like the latest episode of The Bachelor. I avert my gaze, finding a spot in the ceiling beams to focus on. “Sorry to be a downer, but not really. I’d rather find out straight from the source.”
“Oh, that’s a great plan. What’s his name?” Grace winks at me in a very suggestive fashion.
Another wave of heat blasts my face. “Halder.”
Casey whistles. “Unique. I like it. How well do you know him?”
“Not at all. I’ve just seen him in passing. We haven’t talked or anything.”
“So, he isn’t your client?”
Not yet. But I keep that to myself. “Nope.”
Grace snaps her fingers. “That’s lame. Could he be?”
It takes great effort to force my expression to remain neutral. Leaking the truth is somewhat of a talent, willing or not. A soft hike of one shoulder is all they get from me. “There’s always a chance.”
“You should offer up your services. Inmates could always use a social worker to care about them, right?” Casey wags her brows.
I let my jaw drop a few inches. “Are you actually encouraging this?”
She swirls the remaining contents in her glass, ice cubes rattling with each impatient lap. “What’s the harm? You can write each other letters. How sweet would that be?”
“More like unprofessional.” I rub at the pressure building in my temples.
Casey slouches against the wall at her side. “You’re being difficult.”
“No, it’s really not possible. He was released.”
Grace holds up a hand. “Pump the brakes for a hot second. He’s no longer in prison?”
“He just got out this week.”
Casey smacks the table again. “Talk about a game changer. You should totally hook up with him.”
It seems as though this conversation is going in circles. Either that or I’m getting desperate for an exit route. My legs are beginning to twitch just sitting still. “Why are we wasting so much energy discussing a very fictitious situation? Nothing is going to happen between us.”
“How can you say that for sure? Aren’t you willing to try?”
Their level of enthusiasm is reaching record breaking limits. “The last thing he needs is a relationship and the last thing I need is a felon for a boyfriend.”
Grace snorts. “Who said anything about getting serious? That guy needs to bang. Do him a solid favor by volunteering. You’ll be paying it forward or whatever.”
A laugh bubbles out of me at her spin on that concept. “Pretty sure sex is not included in those random acts of kindness. I’m not interested in treating him like a charity case, either. There will be plenty of willing women lining up, I’m sure.”
“Why can’t you be leading the harem?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Do you even know me? And besides, all of this is a bunch of hot air. I refuse to get romantically involved with anyone I work with.”
Casey’s eyes double in size. “But you said he wasn’t your client.”
“W
ell, he isn’t. Yet. They contacted me this morning to be part of his rehabilitation team. It takes a massive amount of support for convicted felons to successfully rejoin society. I’ll be responsible for helping him get his life on track.” Are there notes of pride in my voice? Quite possibly. The role of a competent and skilled social worker can make all the difference in these situations.
A giggle lifts the apples of Grace’s cheeks. “I can offer a few suggestions for you.”
“For real? I can’t even handle you two tonight.” Not sure why I entertained this conversation for so long to begin with.
They exchange a high-five. “We’re mostly messing around, Blake. What else are three single ladies expected to gossip about?”
I huff and send them a stare that’s meant to appear bored. “Men who are actually available to date?”
Casey chokes on a cough. “Snooze alert.”
“Pass,” Grace adds on.
“Whatever.” I drain the rest of my margarita and begin searching for the server. Another round is mandatory based on the first hour we’ve been together.
Grace reaches for my hand. “Tell me one thing before we drop the Halder subject.”
“Okay, fine.”
“Is he good looking?”
“Unbelievably so.” I blame the liquor for loosening my tongue.
My friends wear a matching pair of blinding smiles. “You’re totally going to bang him.”
Survival tip #4: The concept of safety cannot be defined by the masses.
I stride across the living room, a loose floorboard squeaking beneath my bare feet. These sounds have become somewhat of a soothing playlist since I moved in last week. To me, they’re the melody of redemption. Concrete doesn’t squeak. Getting released from that cell is a surreal feeling I’m still trying to digest. There’s no denying the facts, unbelievable as they might seem. I’m a free man, out early on parole. No more handcuffs and shackles. Watching the rising sun is a choice I’ll never again take for granted. This apartment is all mine. The noisy collection of grunts and groans is an added bonus.
The landlord won’t hear me bitch about the thin layer of carpet slapped down to cover what needs fixing. I’m doing the same damn thing in a pair of faded jeans and plain button-down. Try as I might to create a mask, the pungent stench of prison still lingers in my pores. But each step forward brings me farther away from that shithole.