To say we had rebelled would be the understatement of the century.
My cherry got popped at barely sixteen; my sister followed suit.
We bought makeup that we hoarded under floorboards like contraband in a fascist dictatorship.
At eighteen, my ass had high-tailed it out of there into a shitty apartment with a shitty boyfriend.
A few years later, as I was just about ready to open my store, my sister moved out and joined me.
She promptly pierced her ears and nose, tatted her arms and chest, and colored her hair like a mermaid.
Peyton was, well, the best roommate you could ask for.
And the best sister there was on the planet.
It had never really even occurred to either of us to live apart. It simply worked. Men came and went, all of us either fitting comfortably, or us spending more time at their apartments. I worked mostly days; Peyton worked mostly nights. Someone was always around for Coop.
It was the best arrangement.
But, ah, yeah, Peyton was not the kind of sister or friend to have all kinds of limits. No topic of discussion was off the table, from dick size to period products, we discussed it all. As far as I was concerned, nothing in the whole damn world would ever be half as funny as Peyton discussing her misadventures with a Diva Cup after having half a bottle of Citron vodka in her system. There were props involved. Including ketchup. And she had made a 'Flo' chart, the name of which made her laugh until she almost peed her pants.
She had been right there beside me on the couch watching Oz, cheering on the eye-gouging and stabbing and hangings. See, where I cringed at violence, Peyton loved it. She watched all the shows my stomach couldn't handle that everyone else in the world adored. From Sons of Anarchy to Game of Thrones, she was my own little story teller. She would watch the episodes, then tell them to me, going light on the murder and rape stuff she knew I couldn't handle. Her love of gore and horror extended most extensively to her book collection. You wouldn't believe the stuff these twisted psychos come up with, she once gushed, talking about why she chose to read indie over traditional. No way would any publishing house touch this content.
If there was a single person in the world who I could hide absolutely nothing from, it was Peyton.
So there was no use even trying to deny that I was disappointed about the sudden lack of contact.
"I hope he didn't get killed or something."
"He's probably in the hole," she tried to comfort, in her very Peyton-way - meaning a bit matter-of-fact and aloof even on a heavy subject. "That should get the vibe going don't you think?"
"Ah, how so?"
"You know," she said, climbing off the couch, lips twitching. "In a cell. Naked. Nothing to do but jerk-off. Likely to the memory of you. That's some hot shit right there."
Okay, maybe it was mildly hot.
Maybe the image of him naked with his hard cock in his hand was, well, scorching. But, for me, the whole punishment in a cold, dark, damp cell somewhere kind of ruined the image for me.
Not for my sister, mind you, because that was just her kind of twisted.
But for me.
I would definitely rather he be in a cell jerking off than dead, though, so I had to hold onto that, erm, hope.
It shouldn't have mattered.
He was just some dude who got arrested, who occasionally wrote me letters in his detached way, who had a really pain in the ass, but wholly lovable, dog that I happened to adopt.
What we had was a whole lot of little nothings.
But even a lot of little nothings could add up to something, right?
A whole lot of tiny grains of sand made up the entire shoreline.
Oh, good God.
What was wrong with me?
"What?" Peyton asked, over her shoulder from where she was bent looking in the fridge, brow raised, making me realize that the growling noise I thought I had made internally, actually came out of my mouth.
"Nothing."
"Don't you be going 'nothing-ing' me, young lady!" she snapped in the absolute perfect imitation of our father.
We hadn't exactly cut ties with our parents, but one could say things were rather, ah, strained. They couldn't have us at their Thanksgiving table. I mean, what would they tell their other ultra conservative friends?
My eldest daughter slings smut for a living and, as you can see, our youngest is intent on becoming a human canvas.
Since we both moved out, there had always been this unspoken rule that we didn't show our faces at their events, but we must call on Christmas, Mother's Day, Father's Day, and their anniversary.
It was a system that worked out well for all involved since we were all such different people. That being said, Peyton liked to imitate the way they continued to speak to us on occasion. You know, to remind us what we weren't missing by not being too in touch.
"Were you having impure thoughts about a boy?" she went on, this time making her voice high and just slightly nasal - a spot-on mother impersonation. "Because you know what you're supposed to do when you have impure thoughts, dear," she went on, but then came back with a big cucumber and wiggled her eyebrows at me.
I laughed, snatching it away from her, deciding a salad was in order for dinner. Mainly because I planned to hit the local bakery and bring home half a dozen donuts just for myself.
"It's not that," I said, then rolled my eyes at her raised brow. "Okay, there is a little bit of that. But it's more that... I shouldn't care. Right? I mean, it's crazy. I don't even know the man. I haven't even officially met him."
"And yet you share a dog with him."
"I don't share Coop with anyone. Except you. I mean, I've had him for almost six years now. He's mine."
"You send him pictures. And updates. Let's face it, your doggy-daddy is serving time in the penn, and you are making sure he gets to watch him grow up."
"Be serious."
"I mean, this will be new for me, but I can sure try," she agreed, pressing her lips into firm lines, but her eyes were dancing. "This is my serious face." It took two seconds for her face to break out into a grin. "Come on, Autumn!" she said, shoving her shoulder into mine. "What does it matter if you maybe get the downstairs tinglies about some guy you saw once?"
"It's not the 'downstairs tinglies' as you so maturely put it," I countered. "It's more that, I dunno."
"You give a shit about him?" she suggested, her shoulder moving up to her ear as her nose scrunched up, like the idea was completely foreign to her. "And you think you shouldn't because he's a prisoner."
"It's less the prison thing--" though maybe that should have been more of a factor, "and more that I don't even know him! But I think about him way too much."
"You know what it is?"
"No, what?" I asked, turning toward her.
"You desperately need to play sink the sausage." At my snort/laugh hybrid, her smile curled further upward. "When was the last time you rocked the Casbah? Or kneeled at the altar? Given someone your lunchbox? Oh, wait, I know. It's been almost two years. Years, Autumn. Years."
"I can't do..."
"Sex without a commitment. I know, I know," Peyton finished for me, shaking her head. "I'm just saying. If you're wondering why you can't get Hottie Mc Death Row--"
"He's not on death row!"
"Off your mind," she went on. "It's because you haven't done the four-legged foxtrot in far too long."
"Nice alliteration."
"Just saying," she said, raising the cucumber again, giving me a serious nod.
"I own a sex store! I can more than keep my sexual appetites appeased."
"Oh, please. You and I both know that that is not the same. You need to feel a man's weight on you, have his hands sink into your ass, have his mouth over your tits, hear his grunts and growls while he fucks you... it's different. You know it is."
I did.
That was maybe the worst part.
I loved sex.
I mean I loved it.
I almost felt bad for the men I did end up dating because they needed to mainline Gatorade and protein shakes to be able to keep up with me.
And I loved all the amazing, brilliant nuances of the act. The feels, the tastes, the smells, the sounds. It was the best creation in the universe - the way two bodies entwined.
I missed it.
But I couldn't foxtrot with a partner who was going to tap someone else's shoulder for the next song.
"Yeah, I know," I agreed, wondering how many sessions with a vibrator it would take to even get the edge off my frustration.
I had a feeling there weren't enough batteries in the world.
But it would have to do.
And no matter how much I told myself to think of the UPS guy, the biker, or the silver fox, oh yeah, I thought of him.
THREE
Eli
There was some kind of ingrained, internal barrier as I took my belongings from the officer at the desk and moved toward the door.
The door that would lead me outside.
To freedom.
I actually stopped in my tracks and had to force my legs to keep moving forward.
The early fall air met me as I walked out the door wearing a beanie I had bought at commissary and clothes that I had traded with someone else inside, clothes that were baggy and nothing like I would normally wear - a dark blue button-up mechanic shirt with a white name tag belonging to the owner, Mitch, and a pair of huge wide-leg jeans that were eerily reminiscent of the JNCO phase I had luckily been slightly too old to indulge in when they were around. I left the shirt open, sporting a white wifebeater I'd never have been caught dead wearing as an outer garment before.
When I had looked at myself, I gave my reflection a nod.
They wouldn't recognize me, not from a distance, and they wouldn't be allowed to park right out front.
As I walked down the chain and barbed wire path that led to the road, there was an odd churning inside. I had been preparing for months, but it still felt surreal. I understood why so many people had a hard time staying out when it felt so strange to be free.
I spotted a black SUV with dark windows parked almost near the corner. I didn't have to see in to know it was them. Not my brothers, though. No. They would be waiting back at my parents' home. It was Mom and Pops.
I had expected - no matter how much I had prepared myself, steeled myself, cooled myself toward them - to feel a pang.
I was surprised to feel nothing but that hollow space in my chest where my heart should have been as I turned my back on them and made my way up to the waiting beat-up, rusted blue sedan that Bobby was driving.
He didn't bother to get out; he knew the deal.
I needed to get the fuck out of Dodge.
I dropped down into the white fake leather seat. Before I could even reach for my belt, he was peeling away.
"You need a decent fucking burger and a drink," he declared.
And, in a rush though I was to get to my new place, to get into clothes that didn't smell like someone else, to start rebuilding my life, well, I had to admit, I needed a fucking burger and a drink.
Thirty minutes later, my stomach almost bursting for the first time in six fucking years, Bobby and I were pulling into the cul-de-sac where the duplexes were located, all varying degrees of worn out. A couple six-packs of beer were sweating in the backseat.
"Home sweet home," he said, parking, and waving at the hunter green duplex with matching half-rotted front porches, chipped paint windows, and a shared crumbling path.
Work.
It needed some serious work.
I didn't need to live in a fancy place, but I wasn't going to sit in a house that was falling down around my feet either.
"I scoped it out for you. Two bedroom, one full bath. Kitchen is straight out of the seventies. The floors are shit. And the radiator likes it rough, but works after you go at it for a while. It's not bad. I've stayed in a lot worse. And that's me and Nat," he went on, getting out, and waving across the street at a slightly better-looking brown duplex. "I'll help you bring your shit in."
And he did.
Right inside the door.
Before handing me a burner I had requested, and the keys to my place. "Been in your place a few too many times. Know you need to settle back in alone. My number is in the phone. I'm across the street. Don't forget to call your parole officer." He moved to walk away, then turned back, whacking me on the shoulder. "Glad to see you out, man."
"You too," I agreed, giving him a nod.
With that, he was gone.
And I was truly alone for the first time in six years.
There was no such thing as alone in prison. Not even when I was between cellmates after Bobby left. Even then, I was in a fishbowl.
It was almost foreign after so long.
I turned, looking around the main area of the house. It was narrow, as all duplexes are, with a staircase leading up right inside the door. The small living room with windows that peeped out onto the porch ran beside the stairs and back toward the kitchen that, yep, was straight out of the seventies. And the ugly seventies with yellow cabinets, floral backsplashes, and faux wood linoleum on the floor.
With a head shake, I moved back out toward the living room, grabbing one of my bags to take up the stairs that creaked loudly enough for the neighbors to hear me each time I went up or down. Which, in turn, meant I would hear them as well. But, whatever, it was the price that came with freedom and detachment from the life that would make a shitty duplex a laughable concept.
I would fix it up.
I would make it home.
The upstairs was cursed with thick brown shag carpeting in every room except the bathroom that had small black and white tile, a shower stall that needed a serious bleaching, and a cracked mirror over the pedestal sink.
The spare bedroom was maybe eight by nine with a window looking right into the window to the next set of duplexes. But it was plenty big for the studio I had planned for it. It was certainly more than I was used to.
The master bedroom was maybe ten by ten with a decent set of windows overlooking a courtyard that it seemed all the duplexes on this side of the street shared, littered with bikes, plastic slides, skate boards, a plastic kiddie pool full of sand, and a push mower wrapped in tarp.
I made a mental note to hit the local home improvement store for flooring, cabinet solutions, and window treatment options when I went to buy a cot to hold me over until I could order furniture.
I'd never truly started over again.
Not completely.
Anytime I had moved, from my parents' to my first apartment, from my first to my second, second to third, I had always had shit with me, the little stuff you compile over time that you need. Cleaning supplies, towels, sheets. Life stuff.
I shot Bobby a text asking to borrow his car until I got around to getting one for myself. I couldn't even fucking shower and wash off the penn because I didn't even have any goddamned soap.
Three hours later, my apartment had more bags and supplies than actual floorspace.
Once I got my bearings, things like withdrawing money from my bank as I waited for up-to-date cards to get sent to me, like shopping, like unpacking, like cleaning with actual supplies, yeah, it all came back as easily as you might expect, no matter how much time had passed.
By the time mid-afternoon passed, I had a clean enough place, a spot to sleep on, some food in the fridge, three beers in me, and a sense of self-satisfaction I hadn't experienced in far too long.
I dragged myself into the bathroom, tossing the clothes I would never wear again, showering, and changing into the new digs I picked up at the store.
Then I paced.
Like I did in prison.
Like a caged animal.
It took an almost embarrassingly long time to realize I didn't have to pace, that I could just... go for a walk. I could get back whenever I wanted.
So I called my parole officer, grabbed my keys and wallet,
and headed out, waving a hand to Bobby who I was pretending not to notice was handing out pot to a couple of kids who were likely still in high school.
Not my business.
I learned that motto in prison.
It was something you had to roll around your head a dozen times a day, no matter what crazy shit was going on around you.
Not my business.
I had no real plan in mind, maybe just a walk up the street and back, just clearing my head, just trying to keep focused.
But then I saw it.
She's Bean Around.
I swear to shit, I literally stopped dead in my tracks, making the guy who was walking behind me ram into my shoulder with a muttered curse.
See, I tried.
To stop writing her when she wrote me. To put an end to that connection.
Not because I didn't want it.
I wanted it too much.
That was the problem.
When I found myself going out into the common room when it was time for mail, finding myself disappointed each time there was nothing, even though that was generally the pattern - a few months between each letter, though there were times when it was more frequent.
When I found myself reading and re-reading her sometimes several page-long letters about the prison shows she was watching, or the new places popping up in Navesink Bank, or whatever new trouble Coop was getting himself into that week, and fucking smiling at myself all alone in my bunk, yeah, I knew I needed to get it together.
I couldn't be creating connections with some chick who didn't understand what a monster I could be.
I couldn't drag a seemingly good woman down with me.
That wasn't in my cards.
Why she was even contacting me was beyond me. She was beautiful, smart, funny, and warm. She should have been out there getting worshipped by some normal man, not sitting and penning letters to a fucking criminal.
Eli (Mallick Brothers Book 4) Page 5