Convict: A Bad Boy Romance

by Roxie Noir

  I’m still standing there, mouth open. I don’t call after him. He doesn’t look back.

  I have no fucking idea what just happened. Was I trying to push things too fast? Did I come on too strong?

  He can rub his boner against me but if I make a move it’s over?

  I get in my car and start the engine, but for a long time, I just stare at the the license plate of the car in front of me, both hands on the steering wheel. I can still feel his lips on mine, his hand on my back, and then just: I can’t.

  Maybe he’s some kind of crazy religious nut, I think. At least that would make sense.

  I feel half used, half stood up, and half like if he came back right now I’d still drive him to a cheap motel. Yeah, it’s three halves, but I’m baffled and angry and fractions aren’t at the forefront of my mind right now.

  I clear my throat and turn the keys. My car makes a scraping sound, because it’s already on, and I pull out of the spot and drive out of San Rafael. I don’t see Stone anywhere.

  I drive home too fast, but I don’t get stopped.

  7

  Stone

  My heart is pounding as I walk away from Luna. I’m not going anywhere, I just know that I have to be far away from her, now, because I can’t trust myself around her.

  You can’t get attached, and she deserves better, I think over and over again.

  With every step I’m afraid that the primal, screaming thing inside me will take over and I’ll walk back to Luna and get in her car.

  Hell, I don’t even know that I’d make it inside her car. The street is pretty dark and maybe no one would notice if I pushed her onto the hood, pulled her shorts down and tasted her right there, listening to her gasp in the cool night air.

  My dick twitches, and I tighten my fists again.

  Fucking stop it, I think. You just need to get laid so you can stop thinking about her.

  After a while I realize I’ve walked back to the bar, my hands clenched into fists in the pockets of my leather jacket. I pull open the door and step inside one more time. The bachelorette party is gone, and it’s more crowded now, full of locals and people on vacation. I stand to one side and look around for a moment.

  She doesn’t even have to be attractive, I think. She just has to be willing.

  An older brunette catches my eye, and while she’s looking at me, she puts her lips around a straw and takes a slow sip of whatever she’s drinking.

  Think about those lips sucking your cock, I command myself. I bet she’s horny as hell. I bet she’d moan while she sucked you off, she looks like that kind of girl.

  I lose focus for half a second, and suddenly, I’m imagining Luna again, on her knees, looking up at me with those deep, teasing brown eyes. I stiffen so fast it almost hurts.

  “Fuck this,” I mutter to myself, and leave the bar again.

  In moments I’m on my bike, wheeling it out of the parking lot, and then I’m riding slowly through the quiet streets of San Rafael, heading for Highway 1. I head south, open it up, and soon I’m doing seventy-five, the single headlight casting a bright cone onto the road in front of me.

  Think about something else. Anything else.

  I try. I think about the Syndicate shaking the trees. I think about my gun and wonder whether they’re coming for me at all.

  I think about the complicated engine rebuild I’m helping Eddie with. I think about the stacks of boxes that I still have in my house, full of things like dishes and clothes and towels and bed linens.

  Tony and the whole Witness Protection program are really, really trying, and I owe them. But once I unpacked the bare minimum of things I needed — and for me, it’s not much — I couldn’t ever find the motivation to unpack the rest.

  The truth is, deep down, I’ve always known I’m doomed. Ever since I moved to Tortuga, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even though I started over fresh, there’s no escaping my own nature, so of course they were always going to find me. That’s the only thing that makes sense.

  Happy endings are for other people. I’ve known that for almost as long as I can remember.

  I slow a little and round a curve. Luna’s face pops into my head again, shoving her wild mane of hair out of her face, laughing at something I’ve said.

  That’s another reason you can’t have her, I tell myself. Because she deserves a happy ending, and you know you can’t give her that.

  I’m fucked up, and at twenty-nine, I’ve spent more of my adult life behind bars than paying the rent. The longest I’ve had a girlfriend was two weeks, and that was because she went on vacation and I couldn’t break up with her sooner.

  When people disagree with me, my first instinct isn’t to argue. It’s to hit them right in the solar plexus, get them on the ground, and hurt them as much as I can before the guards step in.

  I ride my bike for another hour, lost in alternating thoughts of my old life, the Syndicate, and the way Luna’s hips moved against me. It’s only when I see a sign that says SANTA BARBARA, 10 MILES that I realize how far I’ve gone.

  The next morning, I’m carrying groceries in from my car when my phone rings.

  “Stone Williams,” I say.

  “This is Detective Batali with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department,” says a very official-sounding woman’s voice.

  “Hello, detective,” I say, even as my pulse starts racing.

  It’s about the auto shop, I tell myself. That’s all.

  “Sorry to call you on a Saturday, but I was wondering if you’d be able to spare a few minutes and come in for fingerprinting,” she says.

  No, I think, pure instinct. I clench my teeth together so I don’t say it out loud.

  “We’re processing all the prints from the vandalism case at Big Eddie’s, and we need yours so we can rule them out,” she goes on. “You’re not in any databases, Mr. Williams.”

  My palms start to sweat.

  Think of a reason you can’t do it. Not today, not ever. Something plausible.

  Cooperating with cops, like we’re on the same side or something, goes against everything I’ve ever learned. Even if right now, we really are on the same side.

  “If you’re not available, another time would be fine,” Batali says. I realize I still haven’t responded to her.

  “Sorry, let me check my schedule for today,” I say.

  Like I’ve got a fucking schedule, but I need a minute to think. To come up with a good reason that I can’t come in for finger printing today, or tomorrow, or ever. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a constitutional right about that, but won’t that just seem more suspicious?

  Best to fly under the radar, always.

  Call Tony, I think.

  Then I almost laugh out loud. Of course I call Tony. That’s what he’s there for.

  “Can I call you back later?” I ask.

  My voice sounds like someone else, someone who didn’t just nearly have a heart attack in his kitchen.

  “Just give your name at the front desk and they’ll get you taken care of,” Batali says, her voice still hard and businesslike. “Thanks, Mr. Williams.”

  We hang up without saying goodbye.

  You’re just another phone call to her, I remind myself.

  I dial Tony. His number isn’t in my phone, it’s memorized. It goes straight to voicemail, just like always. I clear my throat.

  “Hey, Tony, it’s Stone,” I say. “I’ve got two tickets to the ball game tomorrow and was just calling to see if you’d like to come with me. Go Kings!”

  I hang up and pace back and forth, from my kitchen to my living room, over and over. This rental house isn’t much more than a one-bedroom bungalow, but it’s more space than I need.

  Hell, I spent five years learning that anything bigger than six feet by eight feet is more space than I need.

  My phone buzzes at last. I get four texts from an anonymous number in quick succession, all a string of numbers. Quickly, I sort them and plug them into my phone’s
GPS.

  It’s a parking lot, just off a two-lane road. I zoom out. It’s deep in Los Osos State Park, about thirty minutes away.

  I’m already halfway out the door when I get the fifth text.

  The Kings play hockey, it reads.

  Shit.

  When I get there, Tony’s already sitting at a picnic table, hands folded in front of himself. There’s a sealed bag of chips on the table in front of him. We’re the only people here.

  “Stone,” he says, rising to shake my hand.

  “Thanks for coming on short notice,” I say.

  Tony just nods once. Every movement he makes is trained, practiced. He looks military from a hundred feet away, just from the way he carries himself.

  Though his habit of tucking polo shirts into jeans doesn’t exactly help, and neither does the fact that he’s probably fifty years old but still pure muscle, his neck nearly the width of his head.

  If you look up Federal Marshal in the dictionary, Tony’s picture might be there.

  We couldn’t be more different, but I like him. He takes this shit seriously.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, pulling open the bag of chips and turning it toward me.

  I raise my eyebrows at the chips.

  “We’re having a picnic,” he explains.

  I guess that’s our cover, so I take a chip, even though I’m not hungry.

  “The place where I work was vandalized,” I say.

  I tell the story, though I leave out the Syndicate’s symbol. I don’t want to involve anyone but myself with that.

  I’m not supposed to say specific names out loud, just in case someone’s bugged the pine trees here, so I’m vague — “The place I work,” “The town where I live,” “My boss,” that sort of thing.

  Tony listens carefully. He eats one chip. This is the least convincing picnic that’s ever taken place.

  “You’re asking whether you should allow the San Luis Obispo Sheriff to obtain your fingerprints,” he says, his hands clasped in front of him.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Well, you do have a constitutional right to privacy, though several court cases have been waged over to what extent this right exists in private individuals,” he says. “If you refuse, it’s unlikely that anything will come of it.”

  I’m silent. He usually gets around to his point.

  “However, if you’re asking whether volunteering your fingerprints might compromise your current status, it would not,” he goes on.

  “I’m not in a database somewhere?” I ask.

  I know I used to be. I probably used to be in every database.

  “No,” Tony says. “Not unless your fingerprints have been collected elsewhere in connection with a crime since your entry into the program. Which they haven’t, right, Stone?”

  He fixes me with a slightly stern look. I think it’s supposed to be fatherly, not that I’d fucking know.

  “I sure hope not,” I say, and try not to smile.

  Tony stands.

  “You want my advice?” he asks.

  “That’s why I called,” I say.

  “Get fingerprinted,” he says. “Cooperate with the police. I know it feels strange, but it’s good practice.”

  “Thanks, Tony,” I say, and stand.

  As he walks past me, he claps his big, beefy hand to my shoulder.

  “Most people who give up and go home or get found do it in the first six months,” he says, keeping his voice low. “You’re past that hurdle. You’re doing okay, Stone.”

  If only you fucking knew, I think.

  Then he walks back to his car.

  I drive straight to the station. I tell the receptionist my name, and a uniformed officer comes out and takes me into the back.

  Luna’s not there, even though I keep craning my neck around, hoping for a glimpse of her curly deep gold hair. I’m somewhere between relieved and disappointed, because being in a police station again is bad enough, even if this time the officer is making polite conversation and I’m not in handcuffs.

  He takes his time getting my prints, carefully rolling each finger through the black ink pad and placing them precisely onto the paper. I’m perfectly cooperative and pleasant, even joking with the officer.

  God, my life has changed.

  I can still remember the first time I got taken into custody, the memory perfectly clear, like it happened this morning. I was seventeen. The guy who arrested me was a Floyd County Sheriff’s Deputy, a fat old man who had teeth stained from chewing tobacco and called me son in the most patronizing way I’ve ever heard.

  My hands are behind my back held in place by plastic ties, not even handcuffs. My shoulders are screaming in pain, but I grind my teeth together and try to ignore it, because I know he wants this to hurt. This good old boy is pushing me too hard between the shoulder blades, nearly shoving me over.

  He walks me through the station like he’s showing off a prize. The other officers, all white men, look over at us like I’m an animal on a leash.

  “Can we guess?” one of them asks, his southern accent thick as mud.

  “Go on,” the fat old man says.

  “Dealing oxy at the high school,” someone says. “Looks the type.”

  By ‘the type,’ he means ‘poor.’

  “Fuck you,” I spit.

  They all laugh.

  “Naked with his thirteen-year-old cousin,” someone else guesses.

  I snort.

  “Why fuck my cousin when your wife begs me for it?” I snarl.

  The cop cuffs me hard on the back of the head.

  “He tried to steal Doug Childers’s new Dodge Ram,” the cop leading me says. Then he leans in. “They got alarm systems now, boy,” he tells me, uncomfortably close. “Guess there’s not many new cars in the trailer park, are there?”

  I don’t answer. I know what the cops here do to people they don’t like. I’ve seen it.

  He pushes me onward, through a door, shoves me into a cell. I sit there for three hours before they finally process me.

  “You get one phone call,” someone tells me. They all blend together after a while.

  “I got nobody to call,” I say.

  It’s the first time I spend the night in jail, but not the last.

  When I leave the Sheriff’s Department in Tortuga, I walk down to the beach, because nothing in town is very far from the water. I spend a long time standing on the jetty and staring out at the ocean, trying to process this.

  When I was ten or eleven, I rode my third-hand bike into town and stole a copy of Point Break from the video store in town. I remember watching it on our shitty VCR, wavy lines tracing over Keanu Reeves’s face, as my mother snored on the couch.

  I thought California was another country, like Canada or Mexico. It still feels like one. I still feel like I’m living someone else’s life.

  Sometimes, late at night, I hear cars roar by on the highway, and more than anything I want to go back. At least I knew what I was doing: one job at a time, don’t get caught. Until I did.

  I think about Luna again. I can’t stop myself. I think of her lips on mine, her body underneath me. I think of her saying it looks like the Cheshire Cat took a piss in a martini glass, and smile.

  I think of her saying I’m anything but, even though she’s dead wrong.

  I don’t think I’ve ever liked a single thing that wasn’t trouble.

  8

  Luna

  I slather the ruby-red jam onto a thick slice of homemade bread and push it into my mouth. My mother watches me expectantly.

  “It’s really good,” I say, my mouth still full.

  “Mhm,” says Cedar, my older brother.

  “Which one is that?” I ask, cheeks still bulging.

  “It’s a blind taste test, Luna,” she says patiently. “You have to try them both.”

  I swallow, then slather more jam onto the rest of the bread, passing the knife to Cedar. We both chew in silence for a moment.

&
nbsp; “That one’s really good too,” I say. “Is that ginger in there?”

  “Secret recipe,” my mom says, but she looks pleased.

  “Are you gonna make us guess which is which?” Cedar asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  My mom sits back in the Adirondack chair, her long, flowing skirt settling, and tucks her legs under her. She’s not wearing shoes. She’s never wearing shoes.

  “Which one tastes like it came from the garden?” she asks.

  I look at Cedar. He looks at me. I narrow my eyes, and we take a step away and turn our backs to mom.

  “The first one was a little darker-colored, but a little less sweet,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  Cedar nods very seriously, his arms still crossed in front of himself, his dark hair in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. He’s only fourteen months older than me, so we’ve always been close.

  “She may have put more sugar in the store-bought strawberries to make up for their lack of sweetness,” he says. “I thought jam number one did have a slightly deeper flavor.”

  I glance back at the jams. Mom’s watching us, entertained.

  “Which one tasted like it was grown with sunshine, harmony, and love?” I whisper.

  “I think it’s number one,” he whispers back. “I could almost hear kumbaya playing as I ate it.”

  We grin at each other.

  Sometimes, I’m pretty sure that my parents had Skye and Raine because Cedar and I came out so different from them. They love growing their own food, meditating, and kombucha; we prefer grocery stores, surfing, and beer.

  Cedar’s a forest ranger, so he wears a uniform and works for the government. My parents hated it. Then I entered the police academy and gave them something to really get angry about.

  That was the only real fight we ever had.

  “So number one is the garden strawberries?” I whisper.

  Cedar nods. We turn around, and I point at the jam on the left.