by Shelly Bell
“Man?” She shook her head. “We don’t have enough male officers to cover the caseload. Each of us has more than a hundred parolees assigned to us at any given time.” She brought him to an office and waved him inside. “Have a seat, Mr. Turner.”
Right. He was Mr. Turner, her parolee, and she was his parole officer. Not a potential lover. Not even his friend. From this point on, he had to remember that.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, seating himself in front of her desk. He noticed it was angled so that she was closer to the door than him. Good. Harder for some deranged parolee to trap her in here. Hopefully she had a panic button too.
“You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am.’ I’m Dreama Agosto. Call me Dreama. Do you mind if I call you Cash?”
Yes. Because his name on her lips sounded way too good. “That’s my name.”
Dreama. Reminded him of the song “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”
Unusual name for an unusual woman.
He scanned his surroundings, a habit he’d developed in prison. And just like prison, her office space was pretty bleak. Fading whitish walls that probably hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in years. A scratched-up oversized brown desk with a couple wire baskets on it that people used for mail. An old computer monitor that looked as if it had been around since the twentieth century.
Nothing on the walls. No photos or plants or anything that screamed life and individualism. This office could belong to anyone.
It certainly didn’t fit the unusual woman named Dreama.
He didn’t even know her and he could tell that much.
“How did you know all that legal stuff about disabilities?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Took an online Intro to Law class through Edison University while I was in prison.” To fill up his time behind bars, he’d taken more classes than was necessary to earn his bachelor’s degree in zoology. He’d only been two classes away from earning a second bachelor’s degree in sociology when he’d gotten word he would be released this month.
She took the chair across from him and picked up a manila folder that had his name typed on the label. “Oh. Well, thank you for your help out there.”
He caught the underlying embarrassment in her tone, and he didn’t get it. What did she need to be embarrassed about? So, she’d had some kind of panic attack. He’d witnessed men twice her size having them behind bars.
She opened the folder. “I understand you got out of prison two days ago. Any problems with your transition?”
She sounded like a shrink rather than a parole officer. It was none of her business if he was having a hard time adjusting.
So maybe he’d had a difficult time sleeping. The house was just too damned quiet. He’d grown accustomed to the various noises in prison.
But he wasn’t about to tell her that. The last thing he wanted was someone messing around with his head…especially her.
He leaned back and stretched his legs out, uncomfortable from the hard chair that was way too small for his body. “No problem at all.”
Pursing her lips, she didn’t speak as she stared at him with an intensity that put him on edge. He got the feeling she was trying to figure out if he was lying. “I’m glad to hear that, because leaving prison can be overwhelming for some. There’s exposure to temptations such as alcohol and drugs and old friends or family members who may have caused problems in the past. It’s my role as your parole officer to help you readapt to society and to stay informed on your conduct and condition. I just wanted to make sure you were okay with it so far.”
In other words, she was his keeper, his babysitter, and his prison warden all rolled up in one sexy package. His terms of parole included weekly drug and alcohol testing for the next month and then at random for five years. He understood why it had been included. His drunk driving had led to Maddie’s death. Problem was he had no recollection of drinking at all that night, and he’d never had a problem with alcohol or drugs. In fact, he’d pretty much stayed away from both once he’d gotten married.
“I’m fine with the transition so far, ma’am,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed a bit at his referring to her as ma’am again. She obviously didn’t like it, but too bad. She’d just have to get used to it. Here in this office, she had power over him. And calling her ma’am rather than Dreama would help remind him of that fact.
“You’re living with your sister. Is that going to be your temporary or permanent residence?”
“Temporarily permanent,” he said, staring down at his shoes and realizing there was a hole near the toe. He hadn’t worn these particular sneakers in more than eight years, and he was suddenly hit with the memory of Maddie nagging him to buy new ones. “We haven’t really discussed how long I’ll be staying.”
Or rather, they hadn’t agreed on how long he’d be staying. Rebecca had already thrown her neck out for him. The last thing he wanted to do was burden her with his shit.
“At some point, I will be making an unannounced home visit to confirm you’re living where you say,” Dreama said. “I’ll also be checking in with your employer to make sure you’re showing up for work. You’ll be working at the county animal shelter?”
“Yeah.”
Just one more item on a long list of what Rebecca had done for him.
Dreama looked up from the file, her dark brows arched high. “It says here you worked with dogs in prison. Can you tell me about that?”
He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I trained a dog or two.”
“You did more than that.” She beamed as if he’d done something worthy. As if she was proud of him. “Apparently, you started the county’s PAWS program. Can you tell me about it?”
Prison wasn’t much different than the animal shelters. Both lacked an air of hope. Especially for those labeled violent offenders. Hard enough to find qualified people to adopt a dog. But for one with a history of aggression or biting? Most of the time, the animals were written off. That was why Cash had started PAWS.
His previous parole officer hadn’t given a shit what Cash had done behind bars. He’d simply run down some checklist, telling Cash what he needed to coordinate before his release and had reported back to the parole board.
PAWS was none of Dreama’s business. He didn’t need her reading any more into it than it was.
He drummed his fingers on his thigh and looked at the corner of the room. “Every four months, select prisoners were assigned a dog to rehabilitate. They spent hours each day walking the dog, taking it to obedience class, and retraining it. Gave us something to do.”
The last thing he needed was for his parole officer to think he was some kind of hero, because he wasn’t. That’s why he left out the part that the idea of the program was that the inmate and the animal would learn to trust each other and bond. Once the dog graduated, it was usually adoptable, giving prisoners a sense of accomplishment.
Bad enough that he was attracted to the woman sitting across the desk from him. If she actually liked him, it would make it that much harder for him to remember that within these walls, he wasn’t anything more than an ex-con.
Serving eight years in prison for manslaughter had flushed his dreams of ever becoming a veterinarian down the drain. He liked animals. Always had. But starting PAWS wasn’t anything he should be commended for. Didn’t make up for all the lives he’d ruined.
He waited for a follow-up question that never came. Instead, the room remained quiet. Against his better judgment, he pulled his gaze from the wall and looked at Dreama.
Shit.
Her lips were tugged up into a wistful smile and her eyes shone with something that resembled admiration.
He had a flash of her on her knees for his pleasure, that same look on her face. Pupils dilated and fixed on him. Crimson lipstick smeared around her mouth and evidence of tears in the form of black mascara running down her cheeks. Naked except for the leather collar around her neck.
Fuck, he hated the way that smile lit up her eyes, making her even more beaut
iful. He hated it even more because he wanted to be worthy of it. But he wasn’t. And the sooner she realized it, the better.
He didn’t deserve her admiration.
For two days, he’d had no problems with his transition from prison to the outside world. Not a single thing had tempted him.
Not until Dreama.
Suddenly, the walls of the room seemed to shift inward, swallowing the space in the room. It was as if he were back in his prison cell, trapped and restless. “You think I’m a good guy because I played with a few dogs in prison? You don’t know me. Don’t fool yourself into thinking otherwise.” She certainly wouldn’t think he was a good guy if she knew the kinds of things he wanted to do to her.
“Contrary to what you might think, I’m not the enemy,” she said softly, speaking to him as if he were one of the dogs in the PAWS program. “I’m here to help you.”
How many times had he heard that line? From the firefighter at the scene of the accident who’d cut his seat belt to pull him from the wreckage to the defense attorney who’d convinced him to take a plea deal, everyone allegedly wanted to help him. But no one other than his sister had believed him when he’d sworn he hadn’t been drinking the night of the accident, especially since the evidence stated otherwise.
And this slip of a woman with a limp and a panic disorder wanted him to believe she was on his side. What could she do for him other than remind him of who he could no longer be and what he could no longer have?
“Help me,” he parroted. “Lady, I might be new to this parole thing but I’m not stupid. You may think you’re not the enemy, but you have the power to put me back behind bars. That certainly doesn’t make you my friend.”
“Listen, we’re going to see a lot of each other over the next few months. I’m not here to judge you. I don’t care whether you were guilty or innocent of the charges that sent you to prison. As far as I’m concerned, you paid for your crimes. You’re entitled to a fresh start.”
How he wished that was true. He might not have been intoxicated the night of the accident, but it was still his fault. If only he could remember what had happened that night after he’d asked Maddie for a divorce.
“Ninety-six months behind bars for killing my wife and son,” he ground out. “You think I’ve paid? Who are you to decide that? You know nothing about me or my crimes.”
She tilted her head as if she was considering his words. “You’re right. All I know is what’s in your file and the kindness you showed me out in the lobby.”
“Just did what anyone would do.”
“Bullshit,” she said, shocking him with her coarse language. “You got involved. Most people run from conflict. Not to. That told me more than any damned file could.” She gave him another one of her smiles and he was done for.
He gripped the arms of his chair as if they were glued to his palms. He needed to get out of there before he did something stupid…like kiss her. “We finished here?” he asked gruffly.
Her smile melted from her face. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or pissed to see it go. She snatched a paper off her desk and slid it across to him. “This is your lab order for drug and alcohol testing. The address is on the top of the order. It’s just a mile from here. Make sure you go today so that I have the results before we meet again next week.” She winced as she jumped to her feet. Her fingers dug into her thigh as if she were in pain. “I’d like to remind you one of your conditions for parole is to avoid any establishments that serve alcohol and that includes your sister’s home.”
He picked up the order and stood. “Won’t be a problem. I haven’t gotten drunk or high since my sophomore year at college.” Despite what everyone thought. She frowned and rested her back against the wall with one leg outstretched as if she was trying to keep her weight off it. He wasn’t sure if the frown was due to her leg or his comment about not drinking. A part of him hoped it was the latter, but he was a realist. No one had believed him before. He doubted now would be any different.
“If Monday mornings work for you,” she said, “I’ll put you on the schedule for the next three months. After that time, we’ll probably move to bimonthly appointments. If you ever need to reschedule, you can call me at the office or if I’m not here, you can call my cell. But remember, you have to make up your appointment within forty-eight hours or it’s considered a parole violation.”
She swiped a business card off her desk and held it out to him with her arm fully extended as if trying to keep as much distance between them as possible. That he understood. She was thinking about her safety. But what confused him was the unnatural way in which she held the card, pinching a corner of it between her thumb and pointer finger. And her hand was shaking. It reminded him of one of the prisoners in the PAWS program, a guy who’d signed up to help himself get over his fear of dogs, and the way he’d given a treat to his dog for the first time.
He took a step closer to her and slid his own fingers down the card until his thumb and hers practically touched. On a gasp, she quickly released her grip and shrank back, flattening herself against the wall.
He looked up to see her slim throat working over a swallow and noticed that her pupils were dilated. What the hell had happened?
“You scared of me, Dreama?” he asked her, concerned. No ma’am this time. He couldn’t help rolling her name on his tongue again. It was the closest his tongue would ever get to the woman.
She shook her head and let out a breath, her body relaxing. She gave him a smile, but it was nothing like the one before. This one was a mask. “No. I’m not scared of you, Cash.”
If he hadn’t scared her, then what had? Because he recognized fear when he saw it. She hadn’t gone into a full-blown panic attack as she’d done in the lobby earlier, but she’d panicked just the same.
As if the last few seconds hadn’t happened, she limped across the room and opened the door. “I’ll walk you to the front.”
He wanted to order her to sit down. Tell her he could walk himself out. Her leg was obviously bothering her. She needed to take better care of herself. That much was clear.
But he didn’t have the right to tell her what to do.
And he never would.
FOUR
By 6:00 p.m., Dreama had met with ten parolees. Convicted sex offenders. Drug dealers. Murderers. She’d made seven phone calls. Completed all her reports. Read through the files of her next couple of days’ clients during lunch. But as busy as she’d been, she couldn’t stop thinking about Cash.
With those soulful eyes and beautiful hands, he’d shaken her to the core and knocked her entire world off-kilter.
He’d accused her of being scared of him.
Still at her desk, she laughed quietly as she snatched his file from the bottom of the pile.
She’d lied to him. He had scared her. Not because he was a convicted felon or because she worried he’d intentionally hurt her. It was such a simple act. Handing him her card. And yet, her throat had seized up and she could barely breathe. Her heart had felt as if it were going to jump out of her chest. All because of the possibility that their fingers might connect.
It was ridiculous.
The attack had left her fearful of a man’s touch.
She wasn’t scared to sit in a room with a murderer, but she was deadly afraid to shake his hand. It was such an ordinary thing to do, a standard procedure of hers whenever she met a new client. She knew before she returned to work that she’d no longer be able to shake hands, but she hadn’t considered all the little things she did that had the potential to put her in direct contact, things like giving someone her business card.
That wasn’t the only thing she feared now.
Shadows and creaking noises played havoc on her imagination. Unfortunately for her, she had an awesome one.
Bogeymen hid under her car and would slice her ankles to incapacitate her. Monsters waited in her closet with sharp knives and jagged teeth. Men’s fingers were laced with poison that would burn her flesh a
nd snap her bones.
All of it was irrational.
She knew that.
But she couldn’t change it. Not since some freak had used Dreama’s own baseball bat to beat her within an inch of her life. That wasn’t even an exaggeration. Her heart had literally stopped beating for two minutes on the operating table.
Now she made sure to check under her car and inside it before getting in. Searched her apartment whenever she arrived home. She even moved to a more secure apartment building complete with an armed guard at the front. These were things that kept her safe.
But she missed a man’s touch. A gentle caress down her arm. Naked flesh sliding against hers. Large hands that pinched and slapped and squeezed.
It was all a huge part of who she was as a woman.
A submissive.
A masochist.
A sexual creature.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
It had been a year since she’d hugged her own fucking father.
Cash reminded her of everything she’d lost, and how fucked in the head she’d become.
More than that, Cash had scared her because she’d never been attracted to a client before. He inspired thoughts of whips and ropes and gags and large hands spread wide on her inner thighs.
The visualization of it had been so clear in her mind, she could almost feel the imprint of his fingertips digging into her skin like a brand. But even if she didn’t have her phobia, she would never have a sexual relationship with one of her clients.
She frowned, dropping his file in front of her and flipping it open to read again. Before she’d freaked out, he’d said something that had confused her. Something about not getting drunk or high since his sophomore year of college. But according to his file, he had just turned thirty. If he’d started college at eighteen, it had been about eleven years since he’d been drunk. Eight of those years had been spent behind bars…which meant that he couldn’t have been drunk the night of the accident, at least according to what he’d said.
It wasn’t unusual. Most of her parolees continued to maintain their innocence no matter how much evidence there had been against them or how much time had passed. But it wasn’t what he’d said, so much as how he’d said it. He’d just thrown it out there, as if it wasn’t significant. Maybe he’d lied so many times, it had become second nature to him, but she got the sense he’d been telling the truth.