Torque

by Shauna Allen

  Her face softened in sympathy. “Ah, well, good luck then.”

  “Thanks. Good day today. Judge Reinhardt saw things our way.”

  “That’s excellent. Let’s hope I have the same luck with Sampson.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward me. “Never can tell with that old coot.”

  I mumbled my agreement as I appraised her anew. She was an attorney?

  I obviously didn’t hide my surprise well. She laughed, deep and loud. “I get that look a lot. I’ve been in practice nearly thirty years, and it’s never changed. Heck, neither have I. Don’t see why I have to pretend to be someone else to do my job, so long as I’m good at it and mind my manners.” She winked. “Most of the time anyway.”

  I sat back, a goofy smile on my face. “I guess you’re right. So, you’re in family law?”

  “Among other things. I run a small firm with another gal and we specialize in child abuse cases and we do a lot of advocacy. It’s not the most glamorous, but I love it. I started out in corporate law and I hated it. Nothing but a bunch of money grubbers.”

  That was no joke.

  Her clients and their caseworker rejoined her so we both stood. “Well, it was very nice meeting you, Ms. Williams. Good luck today.”

  “Same here.” Turning, she rifled through her purse and produced a business card imprinted with a bright rainbow and their simple logo. “Here’s my contact information. You call me anytime if you have any questions about what we do or if you just wanna talk shop.”

  I stared down at her card as they moved away to their hearing. A sharp ache filled my gut, killing my high from just a few moments ago, as I thought of returning to my office now.

  Well, my day went downhill after court. I had another run in with Angelo about our clientele, where I told him, again, that I was interested in more than the damn the bottom line. Why couldn’t he just leave me the hell alone? Then, as I left with the pressure of a headache building between my eyes, I found I had a flat tire. Shitty, right?

  Luckily, I’m not a simpering, useless female, and got out my spare and jack and change that tire just fine all by myself. Though I’m sure I looked a sight, crouched down in my business suit and naked feet, my heels chucked in my front seat.

  I called Delilah to try and cancel girls’ night, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, she insisted that she and Jewel would be over with “emergency supplies,” whatever that meant.

  At home, I flipped on my TV to a biography about Marilyn Monroe and left it running while I jumped in a hot shower. Feeling much better in my cotton, unicorn-covered pajamas, I plopped down to watch my documentary just as it was just getting to the good parts about JFK.

  “Knock, knock,” called Delilah as she let herself in just like I knew she would.

  “Come on in,” I deadpanned as I glanced over my shoulder.

  Delilah headed to the kitchen with her hands full of grocery bags, Jewel following closely behind, her platinum hair piled up in a high ponytail, her green eyes smiling. “Hey.”

  I paused my show and rose to see what constituted my emergency pack. Leaning against the doorframe, I watched Delilah pull out a bottle of tequila, margarita mix, salt, limes, a store-bought cake covered in strawberries, and a frozen pizza. Perfect.

  Once she had the pizza in the oven, Delilah yanked me into a hug. I wilted into her, letting her comfort me. Behind her, Jewel studied me with sympathetic eyes as she started mixing the margaritas.

  Delilah pulled back and looked me in the face. “Bad day, huh?”

  I shrugged. “Yes and no.”

  “Well, we have time. I’m baby-free and Jewel is a great listener, so lay it on us.”

  I waited until Jewel served us all margaritas, extra salt on mine just like I liked it. We ended up back in the living room, sitting on the floor in a small circle, reminiscent of our slumber party days.

  Delilah sipped, her face softening in appreciation. “Yum. I can’t wait until I finish breastfeeding and can have more than one of these puppies.” She took another drink then turned her attention on me. “Okay, what’s up, Rach?”

  Jewel scooted closer and bumped my shoulder with hers, showing her silent support, much like she had when we lived together. She was a quiet one, but I’d found the saying about still waters running deep was totally true with her. Plus, get a drink or two in her and she was a lot of fun.

  I sighed and leaned back against the couch. “Just a rough day at work. Well, a rough . . . year?” I sipped and thought on it.

  Jewel’s brows furrowed. “Angelo?”

  So perceptive. “Yes, among other things.”

  “What’d the asshole do now?” Delilah demanded.

  After another long drink, I told them everything. How we’d hired the new guy and now I was being hounded about my clients . . . the firm’s clients. Our “vision.”

  “That’s crazy,” Delilah said. “I remember when you guys went into practice together. I’m not sure what ‘vision’ he’s talking about, but that’s not what you started with. You haven’t changed at all. He might’ve, but you haven’t.”

  I loved how she cut right to the chase, saying what I’d been thinking.

  We sat and sipped our drinks in silence a while, Marilyn Monroe’s beautiful face still frozen on my TV screen.

  “So, what’re you gonna do?” Jewel asked, tucking her feet under herself and facing me, her eyes wide and concerned.

  Daisy Williams’ face automatically popped into my head. “I don’t know. It would be a nightmare to untangle myself from the firm. Plus, it’s just as much mine as his.” Uncertainty nagged me. Was it worth staying just to avoid the trouble, even if I was miserable? Was that fair?

  “True—” Delilah was interrupted when the timer for the oven chimed. She jumped up. A few minutes later, she returned with three plates of steaming pizza balanced in her hands.

  My stomach rumbled and I blew on my slice before taking a bite.

  Jewel glanced at my TV and seemed to cue in to what had been there all along. “Not another documentary?” Her smile broadened around her pizza as she bit.

  I grinned. “Of course.”

  We laughed and chatted a bit more about what was going on at work, but thankfully, I was able to change the subject to other things. Jewel seemed to be enjoying her job as a police sketch artist, but was thinking about a part-time job teaching art.

  “I think that’s a fabulous idea,” I encouraged. “You’re such a great artist.” My eyes skimmed the charcoal drawing she’d done of my father for Christmas that meant the world to me.

  She blushed at the compliment. I knew she wasn’t used to getting them and her ex had really beat her down—physically and emotionally—but we’d never delved into the details. I figured she’d talk when she was ready, and she really seemed to be blossoming since her move back to Baybridge. Maybe it was because she felt safe here.

  “And you?” I turned to Delilah. “How’s it going at the clinic? Still part-time?”

  She nodded and savored another sip of her margarita. “Yeah. But sometimes I wish I was a full-time mom.” She paused. “Then again, when Molly’s on a tear, I don’t.”

  We giggled and I realized how glad I was that Delilah hadn’t let me cancel tonight. This was just what I needed.

  “So, what about Jesse?” Delilah asked, her eyes wide and innocent as she licked some salt from the rim of her glass.

  I’d barely thought of him all day, but his name made my body thrum to life and a goofy smile slide across my face. “What about him?”

  Delilah’s grin was even bigger than mine. “Oh. My. God.”

  “What?” Jewel and I asked in unison.

  She laughed, loud and hard. “You have it bad for him, don’t you? I knew it.”

  I rolled my eyes and bounced my toe against her leg in a mock kick, trying to find the words. She was my very best friend and Jewel was now a close second, but something kept me from sharing. What Jesse and I shared was too new, too precious, to let anyone
else in yet. It was sacred, at least to me, and as much as I wanted to deny her words to keep her off my back, I couldn’t do that either.

  Jesse

  Tuesday morning, I waited impatiently in Julio Lopez’s office, feeling as always, like one misstep with my parole officer would get me tossed back in the pen. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call warm and fuzzy, and I found him slightly intimidating. I may have a good three inches on him, but he had me by at least a hundred pounds and his past military experience gave him the personality of an angry bear.

  “Joyner.”

  My head snapped up at his bark. “Sir.”

  “Sorry you had to wait so long. Come in.” He spun away, assuming I’d follow.

  I did.

  Closing the door behind me, I took a seat across from him in his sparse office, decorated only with military certificates, a computer, and piles of files—presumably mine and every other parolee he babysat.

  Lopez eyed me with dark eyes full of scrutiny. “How’s it going?”

  I cleared my throat and forced myself to relax back in my seat. “Good.”

  “Keeping out of trouble?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.” I’d made it abundantly clear I had no desire to return to prison. Five years was enough.

  He flopped open one of those manila folders and scanned the contents. “Still living in the Willow Ridge apartments?” he asked without looking up. I’d always wondered what the hell was in there that was so interesting.

  “Yes.”

  “Working at the garage?”

  “Yes.”

  We both knew I couldn’t change much in my life without notifying him, but he asked anyway.

  He glanced up. “Anything new? Anything to report?”

  I shook my head then thought better of it. “I’ve taken a side job. Restoring a classic motorcycle. But I do it in my free time and I’m always back by curfew.”

  His head tilted as he studied me closely. “In town?”

  “Yeah, absolutely.”

  He waited, silent, as if he knew I had something more to add. Friday night at the Funky Monkey rushed through my mind. I should probably say something. “Well . . . there is one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  I spilled about my run in with Joel Mackie and how I’d walked away. Reluctantly. His eyes never wavered from my face and when I was done, I realized my fists were clenched in my lap, anger still simmering under my skin. I hated this feeling of powerlessness. Fucking hated it.

  Lopez digested this calmly, thoughtfully. Eventually, he slapped my file shut. “Good.”

  Good? That was it? No threats to keep my shit together, no telling me to sequester myself at home, no . . . nothing?

  I stood, confused as hell.

  He ignored my confusion and opened his office door, indicating the meeting was over. “See you in two weeks.” He caught my gaze. “Unless I call you sooner.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Shaking my head, I headed out. I froze when he spoke to my back.

  “Keep your nose clean, Joyner.”

  Without looking back, I nodded and moved on. That was the idea.

  By that afternoon, I was sweaty and filthy, knee-deep in yanking the engine out of old Kenneth Ginn’s Ford 350. It was a greasy-ass work truck that hadn’t seen a bottle of degreaser in . . . well, it looked like ever.

  “Man, what a POS,” Micah murmured, looking over my shoulder.

  “I know it. Ginn doesn’t take care of his trucks for shit. But it makes good business for us.”

  We grinned at each other as he helped me hook up the engine hoist. We worked in tandem for the rest of the day until we pretty much had the grease boat ready to start working on the next day. As the engine was literally in the air on the hoist, my cell vibrated in my back pocket. Unable to do a thing about it, I let it go to voicemail.

  Next thing I knew, the sun was sinking low in the horizon and Blake called out he was leaving. Trace wasn’t far behind. Micah and I stowed away our work and washed up at the sink. Man, I was tired.

  As we locked up to head home, I pulled out my cell. Damn, I’d forgotten about that missed call.

  I lifted the phone to my ear, my smile automatic at the sound of Rachel’s voice.

  “Hey. I was . . . I was wondering if you had some time tonight? I’ve had the crappiest of incredibly crappy days, and as well-meaning as my friends are, I, uh, I’d rather be with you.” She paused and I heard her soft intake of breath. “Is that stupid? God, that probably sounds stupid.” She seemed to be talking to herself and my smile grew. Then she seemed to shore up her resolve, her voice strengthening. “I can come to you if you want . . . I mean you don’t always have to come here. I’ll bring dessert. Let me know.”

  The call disconnected as I reached my bike.

  Micah hopped up into his Jeep and glanced at me, his brow lifted in question at my goofy grin.

  “Uh, Rachel wants to come by the apartment?” I said, not sure how this would go down. Neither one of us had women over. Ever.

  He stared at me a moment, then a half-smile tilted his lips. “Sure, dude. I’ll make myself scarce, no big deal.”

  I watched him drive away, not sure why this felt an awful lot like bringing a girl home to my parents’ house.

  I wasn’t nervous exactly, but . . . ah, hell. Maybe I was. Fixing her bike was one thing. Being public, even if it was only with Micah, was another. Dancing at the Funky Monkey didn’t count. That didn’t say anything other than we liked to dance. No. We were breaching new territory in our relationship, if you could call it that, and I hadn’t fully sorted it out yet. I wasn’t sure I wanted a relationship. I didn’t do relationships. But Rachel and I had undeniably bonded last weekend. I’d told her things I’d never told anyone else, and strangely, it felt . . . right. She was turning out to be a great friend. Funny, intelligent, easy-going, she called it like it was, and it didn’t hurt that she was sexy as hell. Yeah, she was a dangerously perfect combo that I was having a harder and harder time talking myself out of.

  Before I started my bike, I scrolled through my contacts list and hit her number.

  “Hello?” She sounded rushed as she answered on the second ring.

  “Dessert, huh?”

  She laughed. “And dinner, too, if you want.”

  “You sure do know the way to a man’s heart.”

  The pause was palpable. “Well,” she finally said. “I do try.”

  “And you do it well.”

  “I . . .” Her words died off in a breathy whisper. It wasn’t often that Rachel Chaseman was rendered speechless and it made me smile. Again.

  “I’ll be home and showered in an hour,” I said to let her off the hook. “Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll whip us up something. But I’ll be counting on that dessert, I’ve worked hard today.”

  “Okay. Any special requests?”

  “Just make it sweet, baby.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Sweet. Right. See you soon.”

  “See you soon,” I promised, letting my words flirt for me. God, if she could see me now, greasy and smelly and utterly disgusting, she’d probably run screaming.

  I rode home, letting the wind rush through my hair and cool me; reveling in the freedom that always came on the back of my Harley.

  At the apartment, I parked next to Micah’s Jeep and loped inside. True to his word, Micah was out of sight, locked in his room, the remnants of some vegetable shit he’d fixed for his dinner in the sink. Yuck.

  Down the hall, I heard his television murmuring quietly behind his closed door as I made my way to my room to grab clean clothes. I glanced around my bedroom. Shit. Should I clean up? Make my bed?

  Was it stupid to even be thinking about that?

  Rachel was my friend. We’d shared some off-the-chart kisses, but nothing had been said about a relationship or anything as intimate as sex. It was foolish to be presumptuous.

  “Oh, what the hell?” I quickly yanked up my sheets and gra
bbed my handfuls of dirty laundry, shoving them in the closet and closing the door. Glancing around my sparse bedroom, I tried to see it through a woman’s eyes.

  “Hell.”

  I grabbed a rag and dusted off my nightstand then threw it on top of the dirty laundry. I made quick work of straightening the few items on my dresser, including my stack of legal documents lining out my parole conditions, my birth certificate, and some mail. I tucked it together neatly and set it next to the only other personal item I had besides my books, a framed photo of my family that my mom had sent to me in prison.

  Good enough.

  I pulled some clean jeans and a T-shirt out of my dresser and rushed through a shower, taking extra time on the grease under my fingernails.

  My heart jerked in my chest at her knock. Loping down the hall, I gave Micah’s door a quick glance. All quiet.

  I swung open the door, the smile sliding off my face when I saw her haggard expression.

  “Come in.” I grabbed the plastic bag from her hand. “You okay?”

  Her dark eyes met mine. “Better now.”

  I took her hand and led her to the kitchen, my heart expanding in my chest when she linked our fingers. Gently nudging her into a chair, I opened the bag as she slung her purse over the seat behind her.

  “Butter pecan ice cream?”

  She shrugged and rested her chin on her hands. “Best I could do tonight. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s my favorite.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I smiled and put it in the freezer. “It’s perfect.”

  Opening the fridge, I pulled out a water bottle and lifted it with the tilt of my brow.

  “No. Thanks.”

  I put it back. “How about a soda? Or I think Micah has some juice around here.”

  “A Coke is great.”

  I got us both a cold soda then slid into the chair across from her. “So, what’s up? Bad day?”

  She nodded and took a big sip. Covering her mouth, she belched quietly behind her hand then smiled at me apologetically. “Sorry.”

  I grinned. “Don’t be. We can have a contest sometime.”