by Nicole James
Holly stood and followed her through the door, completely oblivious to the moment Undertaker and her therapist just shared.
He lowered himself slowly back into his chair, still dumbstruck as his mind drifted back in time to the first time he’d ever laid eyes on little Miss Allison Banks.
Fifteen years ago—
Undertaker sat in the small room at the community treatment center he’d been ordered to attend as part of his parole. He’d had his first meeting yesterday with his parole officer, and he’d been given a printout of the list of requirements and specific terms of his parole. Among them was attending counseling.
They called it anger management and mental health counseling. What a bunch of bullshit. But, hey, he’d attend whatever classes or counseling they required of him.
The last thing he wanted was to be sent back to prison to finish the remainder of his sentence; not when he’d worked so hard to get out early, even if it was by only a year. And not when the club was depending on him.
He stretched in the plastic chair, its metal front legs lifting off the tile floor as he rocked back, his arms folded. He’d already been waiting in this room for twenty minutes, and he wondered how much longer he would have to sit there.
The door suddenly swung open, and a harried-looking guy with a beard and glasses walked in. He was dressed in a pair of tan corduroy pants, a short-sleeved dress shirt, and a tie that looked like it had stains from whatever he’d had for lunch.
The term overworked and underpaid came to mind. It had to be the definition of this guy’s sorry life.
He set down a folder and adjusted his glasses as he took a seat across from Undertaker.
“I’m Allen Gaines. I’ll be handling your case and reporting your attendance, participation and completion of the program to your parole officer. Any missed sessions will be reported immediately. I’m sure all that was explained to you yesterday.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, the door opened again and a young girl, perhaps just out of college came in. She dropped an old red leather briefcase on the table. It was an unusual bag for a woman like her to carry. It had two straps that buckled and seemed more like something an old time southern lawyer would carry. He studied the initials on it. JRB.
She took the seat next to Allen Gaines.
“Did you bring the forms?” he asked her.
“Yes, sir.” She passed the guy some paperwork, which he immediately shoved across the table at Undertaker. “We’ll need these filled out, and then we’ll go over your re-entry plan and possible problems. This is Allison Banks. She’s doing an internship with us and will be sitting in on all your sessions, at some point she may even take over your case file.”
Undertaker gazed into her pretty green eyes. She barely would hold eye contact with him. He noticed the smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks and watched as a tinge of pink appeared beneath them. His eyes flicked again to the red leather case. Allison Banks. But the initials were JRB. Why? And then it clicked.
Christ, was her father John Ross Banks, the famous trial lawyer whose name was plastered all over every billboard in South Louisiana? And if she was his daughter, what the hell was she doing working here rather than one of the string of offices the man had all over the state?
There was a tap on the door, and another woman stuck her head in. “Allen, the director’s on the phone for you. Says it’s urgent.”
“Of course it is. It always is with him,” Allen muttered under his breath. “I’ll be right there, Judy.” He looked over at Allison. “You know the spiel. Go over everything with him, all right? I may be awhile.”
Undertaker’s gaze swung back to the young woman sitting across from him. She seemed a little taken aback that the meeting was being dumped on her alone, but she covered it well.
“Of course, Mr. Gaines. I’ll go over everything.”
“Thanks.” He made a quick exit.
With the click of the door shutting, Undertaker found himself alone in a room with a strange woman, not related to the club, for the first time in eleven years. His eyes moved over her. She was a pretty little thing, if not a little unsure of herself. Her long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, exposing her slender neck. Her skin was like porcelain, and he longed to touch it. But the thing that got him the most was the light, delicate floral scent she wore that drifted across the table and found his nose. He took a deep breath, and had to stop himself from letting his eyes slide closed.
Her hand reached up to tuck a wisp of loose hair behind her ear, and his eyes tracked every motion. She wore a sleeveless sweater, revealing her bare arms. Goddamn, he’d been away a long time if just that much skin was getting to him, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from trailing down to the feminine watch she wore on her delicate wrist.
She cleared her throat. “So, Mr. Deschaine—”
“Call me, Derek,” he broke in and watched her eyes flick up to him, the pupils dilating slightly, letting him know she was as aware of him as he was of her. He couldn’t help trying to rattle her as the corner of his mouth turned up. “Here we are, alone together with no witnesses.” When her eyes widened, he clarified. “It was a joke, darlin’. Relax.”
She cleared her throat again, her gaze on the paperwork, the table, anywhere but on him. “Yes, well, I have some things to go over with you. There will be meetings you’ll be required to attend once a week for a total of forty sessions. Tuesdays or Thursdays… whichever works best for you will be fine. I’d also like to go over some… challenges that some find especially… hard to deal with after being released from… incarceration, especially those who’ve served a… substantial amount of time, such as yourself.”
“Substantial? That’s an interesting way of putting it.” That brought her gaze up to him for a moment.
“I don’t mean to be insensitive by my word choice.”
“I’d rather you be straight up with what you have to say rather than all this pussy-footing around.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Deschaine, I—”
“Derek.”
“Right. Sorry. Derek. Since you’d like to speak plainly, are you familiar with the term gate fever?”
Finally she met his eyes with her light green orbs, and he lost himself in their expressive depths. He was slow to respond.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
“And did you suffer from its symptoms before your release?”
His eyes dropped to her mouth, watching her lips move. When they stopped, he was so distracted he barely remembered the question.
“You asking did I have any fear of being released into the outside world?”
“Yes. Fear, anxiety, insecurities about what was to come?”
His eyes flashed up to hers. “No. I couldn’t wait.”
“Most prisoners seem to feel or believe, that is to say… they expect that the reintegration process is going to be relatively easy. I’m afraid it rarely is.”
“Most prisoners, huh? How old are you?”
She reached up to play with the pearl stud in her ear. “I’m not sure how that is relevant.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I’m twenty-one.”
“And what would a twenty-one-year-old girl like you know about what men who’ve been locked up in prison for years think or believe or feel?” He watched her swallow, and he knew he’d made her uncomfortable. But, hell, what could she possibly tell him about what it was like to get released from prison? She had nothing she could teach him in that regard, no great piece of advice.
It only took her a moment to recover. “What I’m trying to say is that it takes time to adjust to life in the outside world. I’m sure many things have changed since you’ve been gone. Neighborhoods will look different. Prices will have gone up. Technology will have advanced…”
It was like she was reading from a rehearsed list, and for some reason that pissed him off. He rubbed his hand over his jaw, taking in a deep breath and exhaling loudly.
She paused for a moment, noting his body language, then continued on. “Nothing will be the same as it was when you went in. Perhaps most trying will be the fact that friends and even lovers will have moved on with their lives.”
“Nothing’s the same. I got it.”
“You needn’t be flippant. I’m here to help you.”
“Right.”
She grit her teeth, but kept on, relishing every word, it seemed. “For years decisions were made for you by the Department of Corrections. You were told what to wear, what to eat, where to go, and what to do. Now, you’ll have to make a myriad of decisions about life out here in the free world, a place that may no longer feel like home, but more like a foreign country.”
Undertaker listened, but said nothing.
“There are three things I need to go over briefly today. We’ll dive more deeply into them in future sessions.”
At her words, Undertaker couldn’t stop the thought that the only thing he wanted to dive more deeply into was her.
She scanned down a sheet. “The first thing is resisting negative influences. You need to be aware of them and steer clear.”
The corner of his mouth crept up, and he fought it, even though on the inside he was dying laughing. If she only knew that those negative influences she referred to, he called brothers.
“The second thing is dealing with rejection. Whether it’s from employers, former friends, or girlfriends, there will be some rejections you’ll face due to the stigma of incarceration. You’ll need to learn how to accept that rejection, move on, and focus on working on yourself. Be easy on yourself and remember you’re not a failure. Stay focused, and give yourself some credit for any progress you make toward your goals, whether it be getting a job, a bank account, or just making it through another day. I want to encourage you to focus on your ultimate desired outcome rather than your past failures.”
“Anything else?” He could see on her face, she thought he was being dismissive, and maybe he was.
“Anger management. When you feel angry, I want you to take a step back and focus on slow breathing for ten seconds. Try to isolate the cause of your anger and learn how to deal with that cause in a more effective way.”
“We done?”
Her eyes flared with annoyance. “In a hurry?”
“Been locked up eleven years, so, what do you think?”
There was ice in her words when she snapped back. “Two-thirds of all parolees will return to prison within three years. Not because they committed a crime, Mr. Deschaine, but because they violated the terms of their parole. I’d remember that.”
***
The phone rang on the receptionist desk, breaking Undertaker from his memories. He glanced around the office. It was upscale and high rent. She’d sure come a long way. So, she must be good at what she does. Back then he’d thought little of her advice, but as it turned out, her suggestion about slow breathing and counting to ten had actually saved his life a time or two. Who would have thought little Miss Allie Banks would have been right?
The door to Dr. Carter’s office opened, and Holly came out, followed by the doctor herself.
She looked at him. “I’d like a few minutes with you, if I could.”
Undertaker frowned, and his eyes moved to Holly. She seemed… perhaps happy was not the right word, but content at least. She sat in a chair and picked up a magazine.
He turned back to Allison. “All right.”
He followed her into her office, glancing around. It was modern with a lot of black and chrome.
“Please, have a seat.”
CHAPTER SIX
AJ moved behind her desk and took a seat, watching as the ghost from her past took one of the chairs. Her eyes moved over his face. He was even more attractive now than he’d been fifteen years ago, and AJ thought not for the first time how unfair it was that men often aged so much better than women. There were squint lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. His face was tan except for those lines, which meant he spent a lot of time outside, and he did it happy, smiling, or laughing. He ran a hand down his beard, one that was well shaped along his strong jawline, not too long, but a good length.
“You wanted to see me, Doc?” His brow rose, his words breaking her from her scrutiny.
“Holly tells me you’ve become her savior. She’s developed quite an attachment to you.”
He nodded. “I’m aware.”
“Do you think that’s healthy for her?”
“I know it’s hard to believe—the rabbit and the wolf. But I’ve been good to her.”
“May I be frank with you?”
“Sure.”
“Have you slept with her?”
He obviously hadn’t been expecting that question. Good, she liked seeing him off balance, like he’d done to her all those years ago. It was nice that the tables had turned.
He shifted in his chair. “Nope.”
“Do you plan to?”
“And how is that relevant again?”
“What the hell are you doing with this girl?” she asked him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that girl is half in love with you.”
He blew out a slow breath. “I know.”
“She’s vulnerable, and I won’t have you taking advantage of that fact.”
“I’m not taking advantage of a damn thing.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Perhaps we should address the elephant in the room. I remember you, you know.”
His eyes bore into hers. “I remember you, too, Allison.”
She lifted her chin. “I go by AJ now.” Her eyes dropped to his MC vest. “I’m surprised to see how you ended up.”
He huffed out a breath with a smirk. “Are you, really?”
She gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I suppose not. I suppose it should be no surprise at all. Maybe the surprise is that you’re not back in prison.”
His eyes narrowed, and there was a steely edge to his voice. “I don’t plan to ever go back.”
“That’s good to know.”
“We done with the snarky attitude yet?” he snapped, irritation plain on his face.
She chuckled. If he thought he could bully her, he had another thing coming. “I’m not the same person I was back then.”
“I doubt either of us is.”
“Don’t think you can manipulate me. I’m not so easily played by men like you any longer.”
“Played? When did I play you?” He actually had the nerve to draw his brows together, like he honestly didn’t remember.
“You know exactly what I’m referring to.” She hadn’t forgotten. She hadn’t forgotten a second of their time together, especially the last meeting, the last time she’d ever laid eyes on him. Fifteen years ago, and it felt like yesterday. He sat before her now with no clue to the impact he’d had on her. He was one of the two biggest influences who had shaped her life, her character, even her very substance right down to her core.
Fourteen years ago—
“Allison, please. I’m begging you, for the sake of my baby,” he growled in that low sexy voice that always got to her.
She sat across a table from him, like she’d done so many times over the past year, trying to get through to him, to make some type of difference in his life, as small as her part could be. She cared about all the men and women who came through the community center trying to get their lives back. But perhaps none had touched her like he had.
She was required to sign off on his paperwork, to make sure he’d fulfilled the counseling requirements of his parole. She had to be truthful no matter what hardship tales the parolees told her. And she’d been doing well, until this man had come through. He used every tactic and advantage he had against her. He had years of experience, and he used it. He cajoled her, flirted with her, and said anything he needed to in order to get what he wanted—her to sign off on the sessions. He needed a total of forty. He had only thirty-two, which meant another
eight weeks of sessions were required of him, which meant his parole would continue on past the twelve months for another two months until he completed every requirement.
Of course he had excuses why he’d missed the sessions. They all did. They couldn’t get off work, they couldn’t get a ride, they didn’t have bus fare; hell, she’d heard them all.
Somehow, over the last twelve months, this man had gotten past what little defenses she had.
He’d begun with just mere brushes of his fingers against hers as she passed him paperwork. Then there was that soft, low voice of his that caressed her with its seductive quality. The smiles, the winks, the subtle looks that all sent a message…
Before she knew it, she was infatuated with him.
And now he needed her to lie for him.
“All right,” she’d finally whispered, giving in to his pleading. She’d signed off with the promise that he would come back for more sessions even when he got released from parole. She trusted him. He wouldn’t look at her like that and lie to her, would he?
Not that she ever expected anything to come of it. She knew there were a child and a baby momma he’d been trying to locate since he’d been released. She felt for him. She knew how much it tore at him that he couldn’t find them. As long as he was on parole, he wasn’t free to leave the state to search for them.
So she gave him what he needed, believing that somehow she was doing the right thing, perhaps helping along the reunion of his little family.
He’d stood, taking the paper she’d held out to him, and gave her a big smile and a hug. “I owe you one, Allison. I won’t let you down. Thank you.”
***
She stared at the man sitting in her office now. Every word back then had been a lie. She’d never seen him again, and as far as she knew, there probably never was a woman or baby. He’d just played her, used her tender heart against her for his own purposes.
Back then she’d been unguarded and unaware of the way men would manipulate her. That changed the moment he’d walked out of that room. She swore she’d never fall for another sob story again, and she hadn’t. She’d toughened her skin and hardened her heart, and it had served her purposes well. She’d eventually gotten out of counseling on the non-profit level and built her own practice, often testifying before the bench on court-ordered mental evaluations of defendants and also on behalf of traumatized victims of spousal abuse.