“My bank account.”
I shove the bag and everything back toward Melissa. “I can’t take money from a woman.”
Melissa flashes me a broad smile. “Ronnie, that’s bullshit. You’ve taken plenty of money from plenty of women.”
I have to laugh. “There you go, calling me out again.”
“Yeah, well. Somebody needs to.” She studies me a moment. Screws up her courage. Leans in and lowers her voice. “Ronnie, I have an idea. I want you to hear me out.” She holds my gaze. “Come stay with me.”
Stay with Melissa? Craziest thing I’ve ever heard.
But it could also work.
My mind immediately starts calculating pros and cons. It would definitely solve my biggest current problem—that without somewhere to go, I’ll be forced to go back to Sheridan. Huge pro. Then I mentally map the location of her apartment—could I get in and out of there without being seen by the wrong people? Yes. Next I have to size up Melissa’s psychology. She’s doing this to meet a need—that’s why everyone does everything. Probably she’s lonely. But is she emotionally stable enough to keep the secret?
In ten seconds I’ve made a decision.
Yes.
But first I have to test her.
“I can’t do that,” I say. She can’t think I’m just going to jump on this opportunity. She won’t trust me. And if this plan is going to work, Melissa has to trust me. Completely. “I’ll figure something out. Something will happen.”
“Something has happened, Ronnie,” Melissa says. She leans in to me even closer. “I fucked you. And I learned your secret.” I wish I had a picture of her face right now. It would be Exhibit A in my theory that criminal justice system employees and criminals are no different—except one group has committed crimes and the other hasn’t. “You can’t undo that, Ronnie.”
Young guys in the pen always used to talk about Basic Bitches and Bad Bitches—it’s one of those rap things—and right now I’m trying to figure out how this timid woman went from Basic to Bad so fast. I knew I was great in bed, but damn. I turned this woman out in a night.
I tap my fingers on the desk, trying to look more worried than I am. “What if someone finds out? You could lose your job.”
“That won’t happen,” she says. Damn she’s confident. “The system here has more holes than Swiss cheese.”
Once I see her arrogance come into play, I know I gotta keep her building that up. Make her sell herself on this plan. Make her trust herself so much that she doesn’t question it. At all. The way to do that is to keep giving her objections that will force her to drill down into her own belief that this plan can work. Because I’m not so sure.
“You’re not doing this for me,” I say. “I don’t need you like that.”
“You’re right. I’m not. I’m doing it for me.”
“Are you sure?” I say. “Because you’d be risking a lot.”
“I’m sitting here rotting away, Ronnie,” she says. She’s getting fired up. “Whatever happened last night—that’s the most alive I’ve felt in years. Maybe ever.” She pauses, thinking it over. “I can’t go back to the way I used to be.”
“Don’t think you’re in love with me. You’re not.”
“I know that,” she says. “Believe me, I’m a realist.”
I’m doubtful about this. Her brain is wired to make her think she’s in love; that’s how the brain’s chemistry works, at least for women. Men are different. I know the moment I meet a woman whether or not I could ever fall in love with her. Though Melissa is interesting, and the more I get to know her, the more I like her, she will never inspire me to fall in love. She just won’t. It’s not her fault. She’s probably not enough like my mother. If I had one piece of advice to give women everywhere, I’d tell them: Don’t ever fall in love with a man who’s not already in love with you.
Someday I want to write a book just breaking it down. I’d call it: Baby, I Got Your Money: A Hustler’s Guide to Love and Relationships. Ha! I’d sell a million copies of that shit.
I’m thinking about my name on top of the best-seller list when I realize Melissa’s waiting for an answer.
“So will you?” I notice she’s looking sweeter than usual. “Will you come live with me?”
* * *
An hour later I’m opening the door to Melissa’s apartment. The condominium complex is big and sprawling: six buildings, each with its own parking lot. There’s no way anyone will know who I am in this place, much less which one of these boxes I’m living in. It’s exactly the kind of apartment I would never choose to live in—because I need my shit to be special. In my career, that was my downfall. I needed to dress sharp, get noticed. That’ll get you laid, but it’ll also get the Feds on your ass. I learned that on my first arrest. Turns out the FBI had me under surveillance for six months before they had enough evidence to make a case against me. I had no idea, because at that point, I was twenty-four years old, I’d only been in the game three years, and I was still immortal. When they finally arrested me—at six thirty in the morning; Nicki was only four and slept through the whole thing—I had to sit through a six-hour interrogation. The very first question the agent asked is where I worked. I told him I had a warehouse job out there on Northeast Halsey. It’s true, I visited there often, because it was a drop spot for my distribution activities. He laughed and said there’s no way I was dressing the way I was, driving the car I was, living in the house I was living in, on a day job. He said he’d been watching me for months now, and he knew every move I made, how much tail I was getting, and how fly I thought I was. He wanted to know, was it worth it now that it was going to cost me the next four years of my life in a prison cell? The truth is, at that moment in my life, I probably thought it was. Goes to show you. Anyway, the point being that I know guys in the game a lot longer than I was who never got caught. They dressed ugly.
You make your trade-offs in life.
The moment I walk in the front door, last night comes flooding back to me: that sofa, the bad carpeting, the smell of cheap air freshener. After all those years of living with men only, you forget how sweet women like things to smell.
I set my bag down and wonder what to do next. The first thing I notice is that I feel disappointed. Lonely. I’ve been surrounded by people every minute of every day for almost two decades! And now I’m finally in a room by myself with a lock on the inside of the door. This should feel like the first real freedom I’ve had in seventeen years. But it doesn’t. True freedom would be having the ability to do whatever you want. And what I want is to be with my family.
I wonder how Nicki’s doing today. I wonder how Cody is.
Funny, because if you asked me three months ago if living rent free in a nice place with a woman who’s going to let me have sex with her every day would be enough for me, I’d say hell yes.
It isn’t.
One thing I could do is head down to my old stomping ground, the Hi-Lite, just to see who’s still around. I know Mal’s down there. And maybe I could hook up with Beamer and Two-Shots. Just talking to any of them could get me arrested, but I’m not trying to get involved in some business deal. I only want to catch up, see my old friends, maybe not feel so isolated. I’ve been out of Sheridan for eighteen days now and believe it or not, I’m bored. I was busier in prison! At least there I had a job.
I wander into the tiny kitchen. The spotless stove confirms what I would have guessed: Melissa doesn’t take care of herself—oh, I bet she can cook, she just doesn’t, because she doesn’t think she’s worth it. She’s probably waiting for some man to love her before she’ll make love to herself with a good meal. I open the fridge and, yep, it’s empty. An expired container of yogurt, a couple of to-go boxes and a half-empty jar of pickles. Sad.
That’s when I decide that for my first official act of freedom, I’m going to do what any self-respecting kitchen man would d
o. Go shopping.
* * *
I grab a shopping cart and push it down the aisle. I walked almost a mile to get here and it was worth it. I’ve heard of Whole Foods (don’t people call it “Whole Paycheck”?), but nothing could’ve prepared me for this. First off, these customers! When did supermarkets become sexy? Every woman here looks like a homecoming queen. Second of all: where did all this food come from? The last time I went food shopping, $8.99 organic red muscato grapes out of season hadn’t been invented yet. Neither had pizza stations, sushi stations, or massive steam tables serving everything from Mexican to Indian by the pound. I thought the three hundred dollars Melissa gave me was a lot of money, but I could blow all that before I get to meats.
I’m about to snag a yellow cherry (yellow!) and sample it, when I notice a security guard tracking me. Damn, that didn’t take long. People in the world of law enforcement—even rent-a-cops—automatically know when you’re an ex-con. They notice the cagey look in our eyes, the tense way we move, the shallow breathing that begins the moment you get locked up and ends, well, never. You carry it with you the rest of your life.
“Afternoon!” I say to him. “Nice day out there.”
“It’s okay to have a sample,” he says. “But you can’t just stand there.”
“Sure thing,” I say. I pop the cherry into my mouth and oh Lord. That is heaven right there. I grab one of the small brown paper lunch bags and scoop a hundred cherries inside. They’re probably going to cost twenty dollars, but I don’t care.
I go through the store, having the time of my fucking life. You’d think Whole Foods was a vacation to the South of France for all the fun I’m having. I say hi to every person I see. I look into their eyes, notice their bodies, feel their energy. I’ve lived in a dead world for so long that I’m thrilled to be here. I want to kiss every baby, tell every woman she’s beautiful, tell every man to be grateful for his wife and his job and his mortgage.
I want to preach.
People think they want to be free of all their responsibilities and dream of a life where they sit and do nothing. Well, I’ve sat and done nothing. It’s the worst thing you can imagine. Now I dream of a life where I have people who need me and I’m so busy doing things for them I have no time to think of myself.
* * *
By the time Melissa gets home, I have dinner all ready. A nice Asian stir-fry with real ginger! Talk about luxurious. I didn’t even mind cooking on that tiny electric stove. I hear the key in the lock and my heart actually jumps. That’s an old sound with a new meaning. She opens the door with a really bright smile on her face.
“Hey there!” she says. “Smells good in here!”
The minute I see her face I know I’m in trouble. Big trouble.
She’s light and happy. There’s no hint of this being the first day of an illegal arrangement, no sign of wondering how to act. She just gives me a kiss on the lips like I’m her husband, then dumps her computer and bag on the side chair.
“Someone’s had a busy day,” she says.
Like this is her life now. Shit.
I can tell from her body language (relaxed) and the tone of her voice (breezy) that there is absolutely no way this woman is going to be able to keep this relationship in a compartment. No way. No how. Not only is she eventually going to think she’s in love with me, she probably already does.
What was I thinking?
In the old days I would just cross out what’s going through my mind right now and keep going. After all, Melissa allowed me to get out of the halfway house early, and without a job. Which means I’m going to be living on easy street. I can post up here, watch her TV, get regular blow jobs, for as long as I want.
But I can see right now that it won’t be free of charge. There will be a heavy price to pay. Every day that passes Melissa will sink deeper into her fantasy that I’m going to be her man, that I already am her man, a fantasy she doesn’t even know she’s having. And if I try to explain it to her, she won’t believe me, because women never do. I’m not saying every woman is like this, I’m saying the women who are willing to deal with me, the women who fall for me, the women who let me into their lives, are like this. It has to do with that door I knocked on, the one she opened for me, and if I walk through it right now, the lie will take hold of her and in a month, or two, or three, I’ll never be able to leave. Not until my parole is over, or she says I can—whichever comes first.
Which means if I stay here, even for one night, I am putting myself back in prison.
I’ve got to get out of here.
But I only have one place to go.
PART THREE
* * *
Contingencies
9
* * *
NICKI
I can tell something’s off the moment I open the front door. I don’t know what it is—is it a feeling, an intuition, or did I notice that the drawers in the dining room hutch are halfway open? I don’t know, but it’s something.
“Cody?”
No answer.
I move slowly through the living room. Nothing seems noticeably out of place. Pale late-afternoon sun filters through the west-facing windows.
I go into the bathroom. I sit down to pee, and something hits me.
Where’s Jake?
I haven’t heard from Jake since this morning, when he texted me a short Morning. Meetings this a.m. but call u later. I thought he was still mad about last night, and that’s why he was terse. I texted him back Heart U and then I got busy with work, and now I am realizing he never texted me back. I pull my phone out of my purse to check it.
Nope. Nothing.
That’s weird.
I tap out another text. Where are you?
I go into the bedroom and I can see that several of the drawers aren’t quite closed. Also strange. I have a thing for making sure they’re flush with the frame—I don’t like accidentally running into them. Also, the drawers are off-white and it looks messy when they’re even slightly open. I begin shutting the drawers but when I get to Jake’s something makes me open it.
It’s empty.
I look at my phone. Nothing yet. I text again. Are you okay? Then, Jake?
Jake has had his own drawer at my house since our fourth or fifth month of dating. Even though he keeps his own apartment, he spends so much time here he has clothes for every occasion—a couple of dress shirts, T-shirts, sweaters, jackets, jeans, socks, and underwear. The stuff migrated over here gradually, and there’s never been any reason to take it home.
My phone rings.
“What’s up?” he says. All casual, but also like he’s in the middle of something and I’m interrupting him.
“What’s happening?” I say, trying to match his casualness. But what I’m thinking is, What’s up? Really? That’s what you’re asking me right now? What’s up is that I haven’t heard from you. That’s what. I haven’t seen Jake or heard his voice since he left last night while I was in the middle of my dad crisis, which I’ve now recovered from (sort of), but his weirdly offhand tone is bringing it all back. Something very strange is going on here. “How’s your day?”
“Nothing,” he says. “I mean, not much. Where are you?”
Oh, I see. He’s not going to level with me. Because if he were going to, he’d be telling me why he came here when I was gone and emptied his drawer, instead of pretending he’s busy and can’t talk.
“Out and about,” I say. Why should I give him any more information than I have to? “On my way to an appraisal.”
“Cool,” he says. “Listen, babe. I’m in the middle of something, can I call you in a bit?”
I hate it when he says “a bit.”
“Jake, what’s going on?” I can’t help it, I just sounded like I’m accusing him of something. But I’ve got him on the phone and I want to keep him on the phone until I figure out what�
�s going on. Because something’s going on.
“Nothing, why?”
Because I’m looking at an empty dresser drawer, that’s why.
I give him another chance. “Is something wrong, honey?” I soften my voice. Maybe he’s scared of Big Mommy Girlfriend getting mad at him and needs to know it’s okay to tell the truth. “Are you mad at me?”
“Nicki, I gotta go.”
“Jake.” Level with me. “Come on now.”
“What?” Ain’t nobody here but us chickens. “I’m parking, Nicki.”
Okay, fine. I’ll show my hand. “I’m at home,” I say. “In the bedroom. For some reason I opened your drawer, and I see that your stuff is gone. What is going on?”
“Nicki, I gotta go,” he says, rapid fire. Now he sounds guilty. Almost apologetic. “I’ll call you later, I promise.”
“Jake, wait, stop—”
I don’t even have a complete sentence out of my mouth when my phone makes the little electronic sound that means the call has ended.
He hung up on me.
I look into the empty drawer. A feeling of confused frenzy takes over my body.
What in the fuck is going on with Jake?
* * *
Here is why I love Peaches. Because Peaches will bang on your door at three o’clock in the morning if you’re a mess and you’ve called her. Just tell her your lame-ass boyfriend took all his shit and lied to you about it, then didn’t answer any of your calls the rest of the day, then texted you two minutes ago to say he’s sorry, he just can’t explain right now, but he’s okay and he will as soon as the time is right, and the next thing you know she will be sitting on your bed rubbing your feet in solidarity.
“The fuck?” She’s scowling at the disappeared Jake in absentia, on my behalf. “He sucks.”
I totally appreciate Peaches’s ability to just side with me no matter what. She doesn’t ask a bunch of questions like, I mean, didn’t he warn you that he was going to do something like this? Or: But you sort of knew this all along, didn’t you? In other words, she’s not like me at all. All she says is: “You’re supposed to be opening a restaurant with him!”
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