“Ellen.”
“Ellen fucking who?’
“Ellen. Short blond hair, wears sneakers, has a television show? Ellen DeGeneres.”
“What’d they want?”
“They want you on the show. They’re doing a from rags to riches week in two weeks, and they think you’ll be the perfect draw for their ratings slump. A good-looking tattooed bad-boy who writes romance novels.”
I let out a sigh. “Not interested.”
“Seriously? This could be the turning point in your career. Whoever hasn’t heard of that book already will sure know about it after the show. You backlist will explode.”
“I’m good on the explosions for now, thanks.”
“Your serious? You won’t do it? You might even be able to take your prison guard with you and explain how she inspired you. They’ll love the connection.”
“Sorry.”
“Think about that, would you?”
There was no way I would make it through an interview on a television show without losing my composure. One off-hand comment, rude bystander, or snide remark, and I’d be in a fist fight.
“I already have,” I said. “The answer’s no.”
She sighed. “I’ll call Freedman. Expect a counter.”
“Expect a no answer.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Is that all? I need to take a shower. It’s early on the West Coast.”
“I always forget,” she said. ‘Sorry, I was excited.”
“So, that’s it?”
“There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“Write me that manuscript,” she said.
“I will.”
“Promises, promises.”
“Talk to you soon, Michelle.”
“Bye.”
I closed the phone, tossed it on the bed, and smiled. I’d somehow managed to achieve a long-standing goal in my writing.
Now I needed to accomplish one of my long-standing goals in life.
Chapter Two Hundred Thirty
Bobbi
With his hand held at his side, Perry swung his keys by the chain that connected them to his belt. As I alternated glances between my Kindle and the blur of spinning metal, I wondered what the chances were of the key ring coming off the chain and slamming into the glass.
“Whatcha reading?” he asked.
I wondered why he spent so much time staring into the cellblock. The inmates were locked in their cells, and there was never anything to look at but closed cell doors, and a polished concrete floor.
I wondered if he was mentally preparing for one of the men to pull an Andy Dufresne, dig his way out of the cell, and make a break for the fence.
“A book,” I responded without looking up.
“One of his?”
“Depends on who he is, I suppose.”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
He glanced at me. “Him.”
Even though I’d been working with Perry only a short time, I’d grown tired of his attitude, his sense of superiority, and his unwarranted arrogance. I met his gaze and gave him a deadpan response. “Oh. Him. No, this is one of the other guy’s books.”
“Who?”
“The other guy.”
“What other guy?”
I glanced at my Kindle. “The guy that’s none of your business.”
He released the keys and spun around. “Excuse me?”
I didn’t bother responding.
He pressed his hands to his hips. “I asked you a question,” he seethed.
“It was rhetorical.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
He sounded like a five-year-old who was trying to settle an argument. I looked up and rolled my eyes. “You said, ‘excuse me’, indicating that you either didn’t hear me, or that you couldn’t believe my gall. Did you hear me? When I said, ‘the guy that’s none of your business’?”
He stared at me blankly for a moment while he processed what I asked. Upon understanding my explanation, he huffed out his response. “Yes.”
I sighed. “Then it was rhetoric.”
“You realize if you fraternize with him that you’re going to be fired? Lose your pension?”
I chuckled. “All thirty-five bucks that I’ve got in there?”
“So, you are seeing him?” He coughed out an ‘I told you so’ laugh. “I knew you would. I could tell. I’ve got a sixth sense.”
A sixth sense, six strands of hair, and six chins.
His attitude was grinding on my last nerve. I’d only had one official ‘date’ with Tate, but losing him due to a regulation at work wasn’t something I wanted to think about.
Or listen to.
“Who I see and what I’m reading is none of your business.”
He did the hands on the hips thing again. “It is if you’re not complying with rules and reg’s.”
“I’m reading on my lunch break. You’re not paying me for this hour, so you can’t control what I do. In fact, you’ve taken fifteen minutes of my time and made it yours. Is stealing mentioned in the rules and reg’s?” I asked, my tone sarcastic.
He nodded toward my Kindle. “Is that pornography? Pornography is prohibited in all forms.”
“It’s a romance novel. And, you didn’t answer my question regarding theft.”
“It’s smut,” he barked.
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“Maybe we should get the warden to decide.”
For the last four months, I’d given him all the respect I could manage. I was done. Done listening to him, done dealing with him, and done having him tell me what I could and couldn’t do.
“Maybe we should,” I snapped back.
He stomped to his desk, picked up the phone, and pounded his finger against the buttons. He pressed the receiver to his ear, cocked his head to the side, and shot me a glare.
“Warden, this is Perry. No. Everything’s fine. Yes, Sir. No. they’re scheduled for this afternoon. Well, Madden and I have a few questions for you. Is there any chance you can stop by the observation station? No, Sir. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
He hung up the phone and shot me a look. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“I can’t wait.”
My frustration with Perry soon changed to worry. I wondered, if threatened by the warden, just how I might react. Perry’s claim of my book being pornography was ludicrous at best, but the issue of me seeing Tate was real.
I didn’t do well with ultimatums, and I hoped the warden didn’t give me one.
After exchanging a few meaningful stares with Perry, the warden walked into the office. Perry straightened his stance as if her were in the presence of a superior military officer.
I stood. “Good afternoon, Sir.”
“Perry. Madden. What can I do to assist?”
“Sir, I believe CO Madden is reviewing pornography on her lunch break.”
The Warden looked at Perry. “Pornography?”
Perry nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
He shifted his eyes to me. “Well?”
“I’m reading a romance novel.”
He looked at Perry. “Is this why you called me here?”
“I also believe she’s intimate with an inmate.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” the warden said. He turned toward me. “Are you?”
“Not with an inmate in incarceration, no. I have spent some time with a former inmate, yes.”
“Who?’
“I don’t believe that’s relevant, Sir,” I said.
“I believe it is,” he said.
“I don’t see how it could be.”
“Reynolds,” Perry said. “She’s seeing Reynolds.”
The warden gave Perry a look. “Reynolds?”
“Tate Reynolds. 18 USC 922 (g). Felon in possession. He was released a few weeks ago, and then returned on a dope charge. Both charges were dropped.
”
“But he’s a felon?”
Perry nodded. “He sure is. Penal Code 404.6 (a). Inciting a riot. He’s a biker.”
The warden looked at me. “The employment manual clearly states that no corrections officer ‘will willfully participate in forming a personal relationship with an inmate, parolee, probationer, or ex-offender.’ If you’re involved with whoever this ‘Reynolds’ is, you’re clearly in the wrong. If the relationship started while he was incarcerated, your actions were far more than contrary to policy, they were criminal.”
Tate Reynolds happened upon a group of people who were rioting, and was railroaded through the system for doing so. For anyone to tell me that I couldn’t see him because of his actions was to say that Reynolds was a substandard being.
I shot him a sideways look. “I’ll turn in my resignation at the end of this shift.”
His brow wrinkled. “I don’t know that your resignation is necessary. All we need to do is--”
“I’ll turn in my resignation at the end of this shift.”
He looked at Perry and then at me. “If that’s the way you want to resolve this, I can’t keep you from it.”
“It’s the only way to resolve this,” I said. “My decision’s final.”
I had no idea what my next career move would be, but I knew one thing: wherever I went, they weren’t going to be able to tell me who I could allow into my life.
Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-One
Tate
The scent of fresh flowers hit me as soon as I opened the door. I closed my mouth tight, inhaled a long breath through my nose, and peered through the glass doors of the case on my right. Bobbi and I had been seeing each other for two weeks, and I needed to give her some flowers to mark the occasion.
“Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”
“Something that lasts forever, and smells wonderful,” I said over my shoulder.
“Nothing lasts forever,” she said. “But we can make a lasting impression.”
I chuckled and turned around. “I like that.”
She was somewhere close to sixty, had short gray hair, and was wearing an outdated yellow pants suit that didn’t seem to fit her personality. A chunky gold necklace hung from her neck like an oversized nuisance.
“What’s the occasion?” she asked.
“It’s Wednesday.”
“It sure is.” She grinned a denture-revealing smile. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s Wednesday.”
“Wednesday’s the occasion?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Well, let’s see if we can find something special for this Wednesday. Do you have a preference?”
“Lasts long, smells good.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, the Stargazer Lilies smell wonderful, and they last as long as anything else.”
“Which one is that?’
She pointed to a vase filled with pink flowers. Darker pink spots on the edges of the petals merged into a deep wine color at the center.
I looked at the arrangement and nodded. “They’re gorgeous.”
“They smell even better.”
“How durable are they?” I asked.
“In what respect?”
“In the durability respect. Are they durable?”
“I’m not sure I follow what you’re asking.”
“Do they travel well?”
“They’ll need to stay cool, out if the sun, and away from anything that might tip over on them. Is that what you mean?”
“That answers my question, yes.”
She glanced through the storefront glass and then looked at me. “You weren’t thinking about--”
“I was.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. “In the little things on the back?”
“Saddlebags. They’re called saddlebags.”
“In the saddlebags?”
“That’s what I was thinking, yes.”
“Oh. No. They’d wilt in five minutes and be dead in ten.”
“What if I pack it with ice?”
“I don’t think it would matter.”
I sighed. “Damn the luck. What other options do I have?”
“Nothing will live in that little container. Maybe roses. If you did the thing with the ice. And, if you drove really carefully.”
“Rode.”
“Excuse me?”
“Rode. You said drove. It’s rode. You don’t drive a motorcycle, you ride it.”
She smiled. “You’re cute.”
“I like your necklace,” I said, although it was a blatant lie.
She reached for it. “Thank you.”
“Well, crap.” I let out a sigh. “I don’t ride carefully. Not in this traffic, anyway.”
“How far were you intending on taking them?”
“Costa Mesa.”
“Los Angeles?” she gasped.
“No. Costa Mesa.”
“Isn’t that Los Angeles?”
“No. It’s Costa Mesa. It’s south of Los Angeles. Maybe an hour from here.”
“Los Angeles is two hours in traffic.”
“It’s not Los Angeles, it’s Costa Mesa.”
“They’ll never make it.”
I looked at the flowers and then at her. “How’d they get here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you grow them here? In the back?”
“Oh.” She chuckled. “Heavens no. We purchase them, and have them delivered, fresh.”
“How do they get them here?”
“On an airplane, and then in a van. An air-conditioned van.”
“Where do they come from?”
“Well, the roses come from Columbia and Ecuador. Tulips come from Holland. We get several varieties from Canada, including the--”
“Doesn’t sound like Costa Mesa is a stretch.”
She gave my bike a glare. “Driving that?”
“Riding. And, no. I asked what other options we had. I was wondering about having them delivered.”
“Oh,” she said with a long laugh. “We can deliver them just fine.”
“Any of them?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hell, there for a minute, I was scared. You’ve got to excuse me, I’m a flower virgin.”
“You’ve never purchased flowers?”
“No ma’am.”
“Not for prom, or Mother’s Day?”
I shook my head.
“Valentine’s Day?”
“No, ma’am. A complete virgin.”
“That’s sad. Well, hopefully this will change your mind about the future.”
I laughed. “So far, it’s been pretty exhausting to tell you the truth.”
“You’re rather witty.”
“You’re not bad yourself.”
Her pale skin blushed. “Thank you.”
I looked over the various flowers in the display case. “Are these for sale? The display arrangements?”
“They are, but we can make you a fresh one. Cindy isn’t busy right now, and she can cut them fresh.”
“They came from Ecuador and Holland, right?”
She nodded. “And various other places.”
“They’re not fresh.”
“We call them fresh.”
“It’s a little misleading, isn’t it?”
Her eyebrows raised. “Maybe a little. Have you decided what you’d like?”
“Give me a dozen of those pink ones, a dozen red roses, and something bright yellow. And blue. Or purple. One or the other. Then, we’ll have red, yellow, and blue.”
“Oh my. It might take a little longer than fifteen minutes.”
“That’s fine. As long as it’s before noon. Is that possible?”
She looked at the clock. “A quarter of ten now.” She nodded. “Absolutely.”
“If I give you the address you’ll deliver them?”
“We sure will.”
“Can you call me immediately prior to doing
so?”
“How immediate?”
“The immediate kind of immediate. Right before you ring the doorbell.”
“Sure.”
“I’d like to be there right after she gets them.”
“That’s a lot of flowers for a Wednesday,” she said with a smile.
“Is there a limit?” I asked. “On Wednesdays?”
“There is not. I simply meant. Oh, never mind.”
“I know what you meant. I was being facetious.”
“You don’t talk like a--”
I coughed a laugh. “Like a tattooed biker?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” She turned as red as her roses. “It’s just…”
“I know what you meant.” I turned away from the case. “If you’d like to ring them up, I’ll pay for them.”
She walked behind the counter, donned her reading glasses, and looked at a price list. After a moment, she pecked at the register with her index finger.
“Two hundred eighty-three fifty, and fifty-six cents.”
I handed her my debit card. She looked at it, and then at me. “Do you have ID?”
“I do.”
She studied my ID, and then handed it back to me. “That’s funny.”
“My picture? I was tired. I’d just ridden from Phoenix, and was close to heat exhaustion.”
“No. Your name. It’s Tate Desmond Reynolds. Your initials are TD. You could be TD Reynolds.”
I was shocked that she knew who I was. “Who?”
“TD Reynolds. He’s an author. He wrote this book called The Jeweler. It made me cry like a baby.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I’d tell you to read it, but…”
“I can read,” I said. “Road signs and stuff.”
“I didn’t mean...”
“I was joking,” I said.
She handed me my card and smiled. “The Jeweler is better than wonderful. I’m on my third read of it now.”
“You know, they say that’s the sign of a great book. If people read it more than once.”
“This one is remarkable.” She looked to her left, the right, and then at me. “You want to hear something funny?”
“Funnier than me reading a book?” I asked, my tone flat.
She sighed, and then gave me a cross look. “His book is number one on the New York Times and everywhere else. It has been for a month. And guess what?”
“What?”
“There’s nothing about him on the internet. Nothing at all. I think it’s a ruse. I think he’s Nora Roberts.”
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