Questionable Love (A Love Beyond Labels #2)

by Danielle Rocco

  “I wish I could, but I have an early call time. I’m already late.”

  “Thank you for coming,” my parents say in unison.

  Beau answers them by saying, “Of course,” and then leans over and kisses me on my sweaty forehead. He glances over to Jules. “Watch over my sister, please.” She nods as she puts her hand in mine and squeezes. I lay my head against her shoulder and gaze out the window.

  Two years… Are they freakin’ crazy?

  TAKEN AWAY

  “TWO YEARS? ARE THEY fucking crazy?” There is no way I’m surviving two years away from Shay.

  “Once a week. Just like when we were kids,” passes through my mind, as I’m handcuffed and shackled and practically thrown into a van with two other fuck-ups. Shay’s face is all I see, and that voice that I love is all I hear as she begged to hold me.

  Holy shit! I’m not going to hold her freely for two years. We turn the corner, passing the front of the courthouse that my girl walked through this morning in hopes of a different outcome.

  I failed her. I can’t breathe… I really can’t breathe. I turn my head toward the front of the building, and that’s when I see her.

  “Stop the van!” I say loudly. My eyes are frantically trying to watch her as Beau carries her in his arms. My hair falls in my face, and I can’t push it back because my hands are fucking handcuffed. “Please, stop the van,” I say desperately.

  “Excuse me?” the guard says, turning around and looking at me.

  “My girl, there’s something wrong with her…”

  “You better get used to not getting what you want,” he says, turning back around. The driver keeps going, and I twist myself enough in the seat to see Beau place her into her parents’ car. My emotions threaten to fall, but where I’m being taken won’t allow it.

  I tuck my love for my girl deep inside my heart and rely on the love I know her family has for each other to take care of her when I can’t. Everything becomes a blur as we make our way through the crowded streets of Los Angeles. I take in the buildings, the cars, and the noise of the city I grew up in. It will be a long time before I see all of this chaos again.

  I don’t remember anything other than my girl’s face and her sweet voice as I stand with others getting ready for our new life behind bars. But, when we are asked if we have any questions, I find my voice with only one coming to mind.

  “When can we have visitors?”

  AFTER THE COURTHOUSE

  “WHEN CAN I SEE HIM?” I ask my mom as she hands me a cup of calming tea. I sit up in my bed and take a sip.

  “I don’t know, Shay. It’s a process.”

  “What do you mean ‘a process’?”

  “I’m not quite sure. I just know that they put inmates in categories by their crimes and by the severity of what they did. They will be told how and when they will have visitors.”

  “Jace isn’t a criminal. He’s never been in trouble before.”

  “I know that, but he’s at the mercy of the system right now.” I go to put the tea down. “Drink it, Shay. You really need to calm down.”

  “I can’t stomach anything.” I set it down. “I want to see him.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Well, how long do you think it will take?”

  “I have no idea. From what I’ve read, you have to fill out a form that he has to send you.”

  CHECKING INTO HELL

  “WHEN CAN I GET THE FORM?”

  “Once you’ve completed the reception process.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “It depends,” the guard says, looking back down at his clipboard.

  “Can you give me a time frame?” I say impatiently.

  “It can take months,” he answers. I pull at my hair and suck in a breath. He looks up at me. “Listen, it can take months, but it can take weeks, sometimes even days. It just depends on how backed up they are, and how many people are on a waiting list.”

  Nodding, I look away and check out my surroundings. I’m so fucked right now, I think as I’m escorted to my cell.

  Tatted up with not much visible skin stands before me. I’m not a small guy, so I stand, shoulders back, as the guy I’m going to have to keep in my good graces sizes me up. He nods at me, and I nod back. It’s no different than the place I grew up in. I know how to show respect. I’m no stranger to the streets, and this is nothing more than a neighborhood full of fuck-ups.

  “What’s your name, bro?” he asks.

  “Jace,” I say, putting my hand out to slap hands with my cellmate.

  “Reno.”

  “What’s up, Reno?”

  “Same shit, different day,” he answers.

  “Well, looks like I’ll be doing the same for a while,” I say in return.

  “How long?”

  “I got two years.”

  “What are you in for?”

  “I beat someone up pretty badly.” Unfazed, he smiles, and I just stare at him.

  “That’s not too bad. If you’re lucky, you’ll get an early release.”

  I nod, hoping like hell he’s right. “What about you?” I ask him.

  “Robbery.”

  “How long are you in?”

  “I got five years,” he says. I don’t really know what to say, so I just nod again. “Just keep to yourself, don’t start trouble, and you should do okay.”

  “That’s my plan.”

  Tight jaw and running sweaty fingers through my hair, I stare at the concrete walls and tight space. Thick, dust-filled blinds and popcorn ceilings invade my mind, and I never thought I would long to be in the apartment I grew up in, but right now, I’d do anything to be in that shitty space. I run my hand that longs to hold my girl’s down the cold concrete wall, and I already feel this empty space closing in on me.

  Our apartment was dark. I had one small window in my bedroom that old metal blinds hid any natural light that could possibly make its way inside.

  Cold. Dark. Gloomy. I’m used to that. The only light I’ve ever had in my life is beyond these walls, and she feels a million miles away. I look around the small space, watching little particles fall through the stale air. One hundred four weeks I will sit in this cell, breathe this stale air, and be without the light of my life.

  My eyes close from the burn of staring in one space too long. I place my hands to my temples, rubbing out the impending pain. I can’t take back the fight with Cole. I have to pay for my mistake, but at what cost? Hurting Shay is something I never wanted to do, something I would have never done intentionally, and unfortunately, the one thing I will have to live with for the rest of my life. I can’t fix this.

  I’m here, and she is out there, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. My love for her is extreme, unexplainable, and to try to say what she means to me in mere words would not do it justice. Maybe I’m not normal. The way I feel about her is beyond what I see around me. Maybe her dad comes close—the way he loves Shay’s mom and his kids is inspiring, and I can only hope I will have that life with his daughter, the fancy house, the cars, and all that money. Probably not. I might only ever work on motorcycles, if the music thing doesn’t work out that she’s so excited about. But, I will always strive to give her everything I can. If we live off those heart-shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she makes me for the rest of my life, I’d be happy. It’s just her. It’s the way she looks at me, the way she says my name, the way she holds on to me like I’m the only person that could ever take care of her. It’s everything about her that lives deep in my heart. She keeps me beating, she keeps me wanting, and she makes me feel so fucking loved, no matter what. I can’t go one hundred four weeks without Shay’s love around me. I will go fucking crazy without my girl.

  I lie down, stare at nothing, and wish for everything. I wish for long, dark, wavy hair, dark-blue expressive eyes, plump, pouty, pink lips, and the softest sun-kissed skin. I smile as she whispers my name. It echoes through the prison walls and cold, dead space, but
I’m warm. I’m completely warm on the inside. I close my eyes, and she’s there, all sweet, sassy, and so damn pretty as she softly tells me we will never fall apart. I whisper into nothing, “I know, baby. We could never fall apart.” But, I’m going to go crazy without her touch.

  Now that I’ve checked into hell, I know I’m not going to be with the girl I love like we’ve grown accustomed to. Two years is a long time to not love your girl like you want.

  With no space between us, I glance at Reno. He’s reading the Bible while I pray silently to myself that Shay is doing better than I saw her outside of the courthouse. With a thin mattress and a scratchy sheet underneath me, all I want is for my girl to find some sort of comfort in this mess I’ve created.

  TWO WEEKS SINCE SENTENCING

  QUIET FOOTSTEPS MAKE THEIR way through my purposely-darkened room. I can’t tell you how many times within a twenty-four period I’ve heard Mom’s steps and that quiet sigh enough to know worry and tension have set in. I lie unmoving, clutching my other half, hoping she will turn away and leave me alone.

  I’m not twelve years old anymore, needing a daily reminder. I don’t need to get up and start my day at the crack of dawn. I haven’t been that girl in a while. Carefree and happy-go-lucky went down the road with blue and red flashing lights in the distance, taking my entire world away, and leaving loneliness and despair staring into darkness. This is what it feels like to have your life spiraling out of control.

  With each step, my annoyance deepens. My tired and lifeless eyes flutter open long enough to make out the pattern on her Desigual sundress. No matter what my mother does throughout her day, she always looks put together and pretty.

  “Shay? Are you awake, honey?” she asks. I open my eyes again and look up into her nurturing ones. I thought if I kept my eyes closed she would quietly leave, but that wish was unfulfilled. “Shay?”

  “I’m just really tired,” I mumble.

  She bites back a hundred questions as her eyes look down into mine. It’s the same every morning; she’s aching for me to open up to her. I can see it all over her face and hear it in the tone of her voice.

  We’ve all experienced that look or felt the urge. I remember wanting to ask Jace several times about his mother or his home life while we were growing up. He could always see the questions surface, and I could always see the unanswered look that would quickly shut down the conversation. My mom’s look mimics my years of wonder, and mine matches Jace’s.

  Since my breakdown on the courthouse steps two weeks ago, the simple act of getting out of bed has become a chore. Everyone calls it depression. I call it sadness, and they say the two go hand-in-hand. What do I know? I’ve never experienced this before. I’m not a depressed person; I’ve always been happy. Now, I’m just sad.

  Bright orange and green splattered flowers sway past my bedside, leaving the lingering scent of early morning orchard picking behind. I breathe in orange blossoms and Tom Ford perfume.

  Gripping all my happiness nestled against my shrinking side, bright light and cheerfulness threaten to wake up a body that hasn’t slept through the night since that terrible night changed our lives.

  “Close my curtain,” I tell Mom. Happy-go-lucky ignores me, and with a few steps and a tug of her hand, she throws back the other side of bright blue skies. “Please close my curtains.”

  “It’s a beautiful day outside. I’ve already picked two baskets full of oranges this morning. Your dad sat and drank his coffee overlooking the property, and when he saw me making my way up the steps, he set his coffee down and walked over to carry them for me. I don’t think he realized when he planted all those trees how many oranges they would produce. I told him if he ever stops producing records he could always produce our orange grove for distribution.” She giggles. I run my fingers over my sleepless eyes. “You need to get up, Shay,” she says, making her way to my side again.

  “Your dad wants to go out for breakfast.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “You haven’t eaten well in so long.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Maybe you’re not, but that adorable body probably is, and you’ve been denying it,” she says, making me sigh.

  The head of the house makes an appearance inside my room with matching eyes landing on mine. “Get up. We’re going to breakfast as a family.”

  “Dad, I’m not—”

  “It’s not an option, Shay,” he cuts me off. So much for wallowing in my sorrow, the man has spoken.

  Mom’s eyes soften. “You need to get out of your room, sassy girl. Your body needs to get some vitamin D. I know you don’t want to hear this, but Jace would not be happy if he knew this was how you spent your days.”

  “Do you really think Jace is ever happy behind metal bars, Mom?”

  “You know what I mean, Shay,” she says.

  Sitting up, holding on to a day at the beach with my boy, Mom takes the framed picture out of my hand so I can get out of bed.

  “How old were you here?”

  “It was my sixteenth birthday.”

  She smiles. “You two are so cute.”

  I get up, and my pink chipped toes sink into my plush rug. “He’s still the cutest boy ever,” I tell her, taking the frame out of her hand and placing it under my fluffy pillow. “Give me a minute.” I run my fingers through my knotty hair.

  “Do you want me to pick out something for you to throw on while you’re in the bathroom?”

  I turn around and raise my hand to stop her from continuing her coddling. “Mom, I’m not a little girl anymore. I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”

  “Okay, honey,” she says, leaving me to fix myself from train wreck status.

  With a quick brush through my hair and a low ponytail in place, I brush my teeth, dab concealer under my puffy eyes, run coconut chapstick over my dry lips, and grab the first pair of shorts and tank top I see. With flip-flops on my toes in need of a manicure, I walk out of my safe zone.

  “Shay, let’s go. I’m starving!”

  With an eye roll and a pit growing in my stomach, I make my way to prying eyes.

  My heavy feet hit the last step, and my younger brother Tristan’s loud voice echoes through the room.

  “You know, some people actually need to eat food to survive, Shay.”

  I breathe in slowly through my nose and let out an exhausted breath. “Is there a reason you have to scream in my face? You do realize I’m right in front of you, don’t you, Tristan?” I whisper into his adorable face.

  Tatum, my little sister, giggles, and with a pouty mouth that matches mine says, “I don’t think you’re going to die from malnutrition anytime soon, Tristan.” His head slowly slides to hers, and he gives her a hard look.

  “Maybe not, but I’m freaking hungry in the mornings,” he answers. “I’ll be in the car.” He pushes past everyone, but not before he pulls on Tatum’s hair.

  “Ouch! You’re such a jerk, Tristan.”

  I flinch from her screeching voice. Sleep depravation makes you sensitive to everything, and God knows I’m sensitive to anything and everything around me.

  “Dad, I hope you’re going to punish him for that! What happened to respecting girls?” She huffs dramatically, earning an eye roll from our dad. He chuckles, and Mom just keeps staring at me with her sad eyes, already knowing my annoyance is tipping over the edge.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Dad says.

  Tall, tan legs practically skip out to the car as Tatum singsongs past us, completely oblivious to my inner heartache. This is just breakfast with the family to my siblings, but to me, this is a struggle to participate in. Dad reaches for Mom’s embrace, and I can’t help but watch how lovingly he holds her hand in his. I long for the only hand I’ve ever placed in mine.

  Sighing with my arms crossed over my chest, I wait for Tatum to get into the car. But, like usual, Tristan is giving her a hard time and prolonging the process.

  “Would you just get in the car?” I say,
annoyed.

  “Stop putting your hand on the seat, Tristan. It’s not me, Shay,” she says, pushing at his hand. She slides in.

  “You look nice, Shay,” Mom tells me.

  “Really, Mom? I haven’t even showered,” I answer, looking over at her.

  “I’m just trying to be positive.”

  “Thanks for the positivity,” I say sarcastically, sliding in next to Tatum. My dad looks at me intently in the rearview mirror. I look away and lean my head against the window. The hum of the car moving lulls my tired body into a car coma. The next thing I know, Tatum nudges me to open the door so we can get out.

  “You’re drooling,” she says, laughing. I open my eyes, peel my face off the window, and wipe my mouth.

  “I’m not drooling,” I mumble.

  “I know, I was just kidding. But, seriously, you look dead to the world,” she says, leaning over me and opening the car door. “Wake up and get out.” I push the door open and get out. My favorite breakfast spot on Melrose Avenue greets us. I know that’s my Mom’s doing. What she doesn’t understand is some things in life can’t be cured by eating wild blueberry pancakes. They can’t. They won’t. The chances of me even stomaching them are slim.

  A tattooed arm full of someone else’s quotes waves us in to open seating.

  “I’m definitely getting tattoos when I’m older,” Tristan says.

  “You would,” Tatum mouths back, flipping her long hair.

  “We’re in a restaurant, Tatum. Don’t flip your hair,” Mom scolds from behind. We find a table in the corner of the café. Dad scoots Mom in, and we all find our place.

  “Do you think Jace will get tattoos in prison? Isn’t that like what they do in there?” Tatum says to me, grabbing a menu.

  “I have no idea if people can get tattoos in there.”

  “Probably not. They have to use needles, and I don’t think inmates can be around any sharp objects in case someone tries to use them to kill someone.”