The Bars That Hold Us

by Shelly Pratt

  I almost pick it up. A knock at the door startles me to my senses and I withdraw from the note as though bitten by something venomous.

  ‘Mercy? Honey, are you in there?’

  My dad’s comforting voice reaches me through the front door. I’ve completely forgotten we are going to grab a bite to eat. It’s become our Friday night ritual since I started work at the prison. It gives him a chance to talk about his week at work—a way to connect with me about the job without me having to live the day to day torment that the beat would bring with it now that Danny is gone.

  ‘Mercy?’

  ‘I’m coming, Dad!’ I snatch the note up and pocket it for later. When I open the front door, Dad’s breath is streaming out of his mouth, a sign the night is going to be a chilly one.

  ‘What were you doing in there? I’m freezing my ass off out here!’

  ‘Sorry, I was—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, kiddo, I’m starving. Are you ready to go?’ He eyes my work uniform skeptically.

  ‘Uh, sure. Just let me drag some jeans on, will you?’

  ‘Okay, but I’m going to wait in the car – your place is almost as cold as outside.’

  He heads back out, his large frame disappearing into his sedan. I quickly kick off my boots and pants, scurrying around my room to find clothes that are clean and devoid of wrinkles.

  When I emerge to take in my appearance in the bathroom I realize, that for the first time since Daniel died, I don’t look completely and utterly gutted. There’s no happiness or peace, but it’s definitely a step up. I take my long, chestnut hair out of its braid and let it fall in loose waves around my shoulders. Sometimes I don’t recognize the woman who stares back at me anymore. Sometimes I only see who I’ve become without him. The hardest part is I’m not sold on whether I actually want to change that. I sigh heavily. It doesn’t get easier – it just gets easier to live with.

  I lock up the house and slide in next to Dad. I know he’d never say this to any of his kids, but I know I’m his favorite despite being the only girl amongst his brood of four. My brothers are all cops, too. John and Harry work the beat with Dad, while my eldest brother, Mike, works as a detective interstate. He doesn’t say so to me, but I know Daniel’s death has been hard on him as well. Not just because he lost a son-in-law or a fellow officer, but because a piece of his daughter died that night. The more time we spend together, the more our strained relationship starts to feel like it used to.

  Dad drives to our usual haunt—a bar on the eastside called Flannigan’s. It’s a staple for beer and hot meals to most of the metropolitan police force. I should hate it, the memories being enough to dampen my evening, but I don’t. It feels like home. Sometimes, while I’m eating with my dad, I pretend that Daniel isn’t really gone.

  While the chatter and clinking of glasses goes on around me, I lose myself in the booth as the live band plays in the background of the dimly-lit bar. It’s easy to imagine that Daniel has just slipped away to get a fresh round of drinks, or has stopped to say hello to a fellow officer. Much easier than facing the reality of his death, that’s for sure.

  We steal our usual table, the spot furthest from the bar. There’s nothing worse than having people shoving behind your seat while they’re waiting three deep for drinks.

  Neither of us needs to see the menu. We know it by heart. Besides, we always order the same thing: Steaks, chips and salad with hot peppercorn gravy. It’s a tradition as familiar as the outing itself. Only Daniel is missing from the scene. It’s a bitter pill, but Dad is going to make sure I damn well swallow it.

  ‘So, Peterson says you made it through your self-defense training without any hiccups.’

  ‘Jeeze, Dad, can we just let it go already?’

  ‘Hey,’ he says, holding his hands up in his defense, ‘I think it’s a great course. Very empowering for women on the force.’

  ‘Bloody embarrassing is what it was.’

  ‘Well, sweetie, I think most people wouldn’t judge you under the circumstances.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m a grieving widow who deserves sympathy?’ I snap.

  ‘No. Because I don’t know any other female on the force who could have fought off two thugs who overpowered her because they were intent on raping her.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He looks at me half amused.

  ‘So, you’re enjoying the job anyway?’ He sips his beer, the froth clinging to his upper lip.

  ‘As much as I can, I guess.’

  ‘Good! I’m sure it’ll work out in the long run. And don’t worry about that shit assignment watching over the library repairs; I can talk to the warden and have him get you back on—’

  ‘No!’

  He looks confused by my outburst.

  ‘I mean no, thank you. I don’t want to seem like I’m running to daddy every time I need favors. You know? And to be honest, I’m okay with it.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure…’

  ‘Yep, I’m all good.’

  We’re interrupted by a waitress who dumps our plates down in front of us. My dad’s big bear-like hands pick up his knife and fork, our conversation forgotten as the sight of a juicy steak captures his attention instead.

  The comfortable silence that ensues allows the sounds of the bar to filter between us, allowing me to retreat back into my self-imposed exile. I’ve never been big on the overly mushy stuff with my dad, but I guess that’s what happens when you grow up with three brothers kicking your ass day in, day out.

  I don’t let that fool me, though. He knows I still lack the jovial side of my personality that he loves so much. I’ve still abandoned the occasional punch in the arm or slap on the back—the little things that let him know I’m happy and doing okay. These sides of my personality just slipped away as the life out of Danny did the same. Death is never one-sided. There will always be ripples that roll out in waves or even just slight currents, diverting feeling and emotion from those it affects.

  We finish our meal, and I’m happy it’s time to leave the bar. More patrons are starting to fill in and I’m reluctant to have a run-in with any of the guys I used to work with. That just makes for awkward conversation and unnecessary offers of a get-together that neither of us wants to be a part of.

  The drive home is filled with music that Dad still likes to play from his cassette tapes. Stuff like Barry Manilow and Paul Simon. It’s comforting in a way because it takes me back to a time when he’d drive me around in the old family car for ice cream—a time when I didn’t know what pain and heartache were. Being in the car with Dad like this is as easy as breathing. It makes me forget, if only for a while.

  He pulls up out the front of my house and turns to say goodbye. Before he gets chance to utter a word, I plant an impulsive peck on his cheek, grateful that I have someone so solid—so sturdy—in my life.

  ‘What was that for?’ He smiles, his eyes crinkling just a little at the sides.

  ‘Because I may not tell you, but our time together is important to me. And… well, I appreciate you not giving up on me.’

  ‘Never going to happen, kiddo.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  I shut the car door and watch him drive off down the street. Despite all I’ve lost, I know that I should still see all the good that fills my life. Things that I should be thankful for, things that I take for granted, things that other people go without. Today, I’m thankful for my dad.

  Inside the house is cold and still. My dad was right; it’s colder than hell in here. I leave all the lights off, preferring the darkness over the radiance of light. I move about with practiced care, relying on little more than streetlights and slivers of the moon’s luminosity that filters in behind the curtains.

  In my bedroom I stop, quietly listening to the noises of my house. Sometimes the silence is deafening and I welcome the little disturbances the walls and pipes give off. A little creak here, a little creak there—all signs that life is still going on around me.

  A hot showe
r beckons me, so I undress quickly so as not to stand naked in the brisk air for too long. Like all things these days, I go through the motions mechanically, not caring to derive any pleasure.

  After drying off, I brush my teeth before scrambling into an old T-shirt and tracksuit pants. I’m warm, and nicely relaxed from the few beers I had with dinner. I hop into bed, hoping that sleep will bring a welcome reprieve. The mind drifts. It remembers—remembers how I completely blew off supervising Saxon.

  Some random plea to Clarence and I was able to swing my shift to supervision on the outside today. Not something the warden has approved yet, but something I was looking to make more permanent. I couldn’t face him. More to the point, I didn’t want to face him. The kiss was totally inappropriate on so many levels. Wrong for him and certainly wrong for me. The thing that scares me the most is that I don’t want to desire him. I don’t want to have any kind of feelings for him because it seems like too much of a betrayal to Daniel.

  Thinking of Saxon sparks the memory of the note. I know I shouldn’t read it—just throw it in the bin and forget all about it and ask to be moved to a different cell block. Somehow, I know that’s not going to happen. He’s already sparked something within me that refuses to be snuffed out.

  I scramble out of bed and grope for my jacket in the dark, hands feeling their way into the pockets. My fingers touch the sharp paper edges of the note—still untouched and waiting to be read.

  If I open it, there’s no going back.

  With a little regret, I know I’ve already made up my mind. It’s like one chapter is closing while another opens. I take my penlight from the drawer and switch it on. Honestly, the way I peel the tape off the note you’d think I didn’t have any say in the matter.

  I’m careful not to rip the paper. As I unfold it I can see the writing of Saxon Miles. Even before I read it his name scrawled on the bottom of the paper screams out at me. The writing is not neat, or careful. It’s hurried and… desperate.

  My eyes scan back to the top, needing to know what was so important that he was willing to risk severe discipline, his and my own, in order to get this message to me. Words filter into my mind, seducing me into his realm. It kind of makes me giddy to think that he could feel in such a way about me. My heart quickens at the thought. All his thoughts and words are a revelation into the man who demanded I ask him to kiss me.

  I fold the note up carefully and place it in my top bedside drawer along with the penlight.

  Saxon Miles may come across as the tough guy, but he’s just like me in so many ways: damaged, broken and in desperate need of someone to give him purpose and meaning.

  I lie down to go to sleep and I wonder why he thinks that person should be me.

  #14

  Time is a thief, stealing snippets of my life right out from underneath me. If I thought the last three years were tough, it was nothing compared to the weekend. Each passing second seemed like torture, but one I was willing to endure just to see it through ‘til Monday.

  I’m hoping that my kite reached her—told her that I’m nothing if but a desperate man who needs her. After flying solo for so long, I feel like I’ve suddenly opened the floodgate, desperate for intimacy and with only one person who can give it to me.

  The morning din in the house makes me feel tense. I feel this way because I know it won’t be long before we’re let out for breakfast—something I’m hoping I can do with Mercy instead of the crims that permeate the cells around me. With each passing moment I become more like a caged animal than ever before, pacing my cage with edgy optimism. At this rate I may just wear a path in the solid concrete floor.

  She comes without warning or preemption. I’m startled, but instantly gratified. My anxiousness flips like a switch, enabling my cool, calm and collected persona to claw its way back to the surface.

  ‘Miles.’

  Okay, so we’re back to formalities. I can handle that.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  She inserts her key into the door, releasing me into her authority. I go happily, trying with every ounce of strength I have to keep a smile off my face. I don’t want her to feel like I’ve won, or I’ve manipulated her into this. I want her to feel in control—in control of us. It’s important for both of us that she feels like all the decisions that are being made are her own.

  Mercy follows me to the mess hall where I pick up two trays of food for us. She says nothing, allowing me to carry them towards the library.

  There is no idle chit-chat, or conversation laced with flirty pretext. For the most part she ignores me, although she still makes coffee for the both of us. As much as I get the feeling she would like to snub me completely, her ingrained sense of etiquette won’t permit her from excluding me from simple niceties that we have already established.

  I thankfully down the coffee she places next to me and try hard not to drink in her scent as she moves past me. It makes me long for days when I used to be able to wear aftershave and smell nice myself—not like the cheap soap scent I now wear. She retreats to a table near the window while I eat my breakfast in silence.

  She doesn’t touch much, instead staring thoughtfully out of the window at the miserable weather. There is no view to speak of—just more concrete that acts as a functional pathway between one building to another. It’s like the architect didn’t quite know what to do with the remaining space, so they just left it bare. I would imagine when the jail first opened they made some effort at making a flowerbed underneath the windows in an attempt to make the place somewhat welcoming. Over time, though, the flowerbeds have become nothing more than a place where weeds grow and random bits of grass have taken over, leaving the flowers to die a little more each day, just like the inmates inside.

  I leave Mercy to her musings and get started on the bookshelves. I’m careful to varnish each one slowly and methodically, wanting to maximize my time in the library away from the mundane prison life that Silverwater offers.

  By the time lunch break rocks around, I’m barely aware that Mercy is still in the room with me. Well, at least until she comes up behind me and makes my heart start doing some crazy shit. It’s dancing to the warm and welcome timbre of her voice, emphatically aware that she’s female—and hot-blooded.

  I turn to face her, not expecting her to be so close. The warm, black pupils of her eyes melt me. There is so much written there I can hardly decide what to decode first. Sadness for sure, but tenderness lurks there, too. What intrigues me most about her is that despite the fear and restraint, she can’t hide the fact that want is screaming at me whether she likes it or not.

  She watches carefully as I drop my paintbrush into the opened tin of varnish. This makes me exultant because I feel like every labored movement is directed to gain her attention. My hands fall to my hips, she notices. My tongue swipes over my lips, she notices. She doesn’t want to, but boy does she notice. My eyes fall from hers, down towards the top button of her shirt. It’s open slightly, allowing me to see the rise and fall of her chest. As much as she’d like to act like she’s not affected by me, her body’s betraying her in all kinds of ways.

  ‘Miles.’ It’s as stern a warning as she can muster.

  ‘Yeah?’ I can barely make my voice box work. My tongue feels thick, my throat constricted by desire.

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m hungry alright.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The innuendo.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What do you mean, really?’

  ‘Do you really want me to stop, or do you just think that’s what you should be saying?’

  ‘Look, I came back because I get it, okay? I do. But this—you and me—cannot happen. You said that you’d go back to you being the prisoner and me being the guard but, right now, you’re not even remotely trying to reign in any of your… your… hotness!’

  Damn. She thinks I’m hot. She looks pouty—upset—as though
I’ve unwittingly coerced her into all thoughts and actions. She’s cute as hell when she’s like that. I take a small step towards her, but it’s far from insignificant. My lips are just a hair’s breadth away from hers. She doesn’t move or pull away. She just swallows deeply, struggling with indecision. My lips part and hers mimic my action. I tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear before removing my hand. Her eyes close, seduced by the caress.

  ‘Cole?’ Her eyes snap open, the formality of her surname like a hard slap. See? I too can play that game if that’s the way she wants it. But I instantly regret it. I don’t want to be formal with her. I want to be intimate and discover every inch of her mind and body.

  ‘Sweetheart…’ There, that’s better. ‘If you want me to stop any of… this,’ I say, motioning between the two of us, ‘then you better stop looking at me like that.’ I nod my head at her, pointing out the look on her face.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Don’t deny it.’

  ‘We can’t do this. It’s not right. I’m not ready!’ She’s flustered and has the right mind to blush crimson while she struggles to maintain a professional distance. Her personal reasons for keeping well away from me don’t seem to be holding up too well.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right about that, especially since what you had to go through with… him.’ I dare not say his name. I don’t want him in this conversation between us. I don’t want her thinking of him while she’s so close to me. I want her fully vested in what’s happening right here, right now. ‘But your body’s saying something else entirely.’

  My brows furrow, trying desperately to figure her out. Figure out what she wants or needs from me. Her expression remains the same, yet a single, solitary tear slides slowly out of the corner of her eye. I watch as it trails down her cheek and under her jaw, leaving a wet streak in its wake. Fuck. I know I should abandon this right now, but apparently I’m a sucker for punishment. Or pleasure. I haven’t decided yet.

  My hands reach for her hips and I push her back against the wall, her body not resisting me in the slightest. With only a minor nudge of my nose, her head lulls back, allowing me full access to her throat. My tongue finds the end of her tear trail and I lick it, all the way back up her cheek. Her skin is soft and so supple – not at all like my rough, stubbly face. Her scent invades my senses, intoxicating me even more. My hands care for her hips no more. They need to feel it all.