Another second.
And I wish for twelve thousand more.
With a trembling hand, I take the photo and I stare at my boy. Dressed in a leather vest that’s way too big for him, he holds a teddy bear and is surrounded by maybe ten or so bikers all with like vests.
“It’s not the best quality. I was nervous when I snapped it on my phone,” Charlotte explains. “I have another one,” she adds, pausing to open an envelope. I continue to stare at my boy’s face, memorizing every feature as she sifts through the envelope searching for the photograph. “Here,” she says, pushing the photograph across the table. “You can cut me out of the photo but he’s smiling in this one.”
I don’t know what it is about that sentence that forces me to lift my head, the fact my boy smiled at anything or that she thinks I’d cut her out of the photo. Holding the photograph of Connor and the bikers in one hand, I reach for the one of him and Charlotte with the other. In this photo he’s traded his vest for a hulk costume and he’s flexing his muscles at Charlotte. I bring the photo closer and study her face. She wears a smile but there’s no denying she was crying. I’ve never seen a prettier crier in my life.
“That was right before we left. It took some time to get there but I think he warmed up to me. I told him the costume was from you and when I asked him to put it on so I could take a picture, he requested we take a selfie.”
Such an odd request and yet completely normal at the same time.
If he had been given a chance at a good life, a decent life, I’m sure there’d be more of those requests. A bunch more selfies that maybe I’d be in too. I stare between the two pictures and my eyes water. They fucking burn with tears.
Tears for him.
For me.
For the broken family we’ve become.
We could’ve had it all.
We could’ve had each other.
We could’ve been the ones taking selfies.
Now we got bikers and a legal team holding us together.
Whatever, I’ll take it.
Lifting my head, I try to focus through the wetness blurring my vision, but the second I blink, the mask falls and so do the tears.
“Thank you,” I rasp as I look at Charlotte. She smiles and takes the photo of her and Connor from my hands. Turning it over, she raises her free hand and plucks the Betty Boop pen from her messy bun and I watch as she scribbles something on the back of the photo.
“Six-Pack is throwing Connor a birthday party,” she reveals. “Schwartz and I snagged an invite. I don’t know if he’ll actually go, yesterday may have broken the brute, but I’ll be there.”
I stay silent as she pushes the photograph back to me and for another second....
Just one.
I wonder if she’s real.
“It’s next Saturday. Parrish put some money in your commissary account. Get yourself a calling card and call me. I’ll try to put Connor on the phone with you so he can hear your voice.”
Dropping the photographs gently on the table, I lift my knuckles to my cheeks and roughly wipe away the tears before shaking my head. I get there are good people in this world, but I’m not deserving of all this good. She’s gotta know that and yet here she is.
This pretty woman.
She was only meant to bridge a gap between Connor and the bikers, now she’s taking the initiative to bridge the fucking ocean between me and my son.
I don’t care how nice a person is.
There’s gotta be a reason.
Hearts are big but they’re also made of glass.
“Why are you doing this?”
“What do you mean?”
“I answered your question, now answer mine. Why are you here, Peaches?”
“Why do you call me that?” she fires back.
“I’ll tell you why when you answer me. You’re not dressed in your lawyer duds, so I’m going to assume Schwartz didn’t send you. In fact, I know he didn’t because he told me to call the office for an update—something I forgot to do because I was….” I let my words trail as my eyes wander back to her tits. “…preoccupied with other thoughts.”
Those cheeks of hers go pink and my dick stirs.
Just one fucking second.
One motherfucking second is all I need to imagine all the ways I can get her to blush.
“You’re right, I came of my own free will,” she whispers.
“Good girl,” I praise as her nipples pebble against the thin cotton t-shirt.
One fucking second.
“Now, tell me why,” I demand, reluctantly tearing my eyes away from her glorious rack. The view is just as fucking daunting up top and sends the blood rushing to my dick just as fucking fast. Her lips part and a breath escapes them. It takes everything in me to refrain from demanding she opens them wider. “Tell me,” I say instead.
She swallows hard.
That neck.
I want to taste it.
Fucking brand it is what I want to do.
“I didn’t come here for this…” she says, clearly flustered and moves to push back her chair. Reaching across the table, I close a hand around her wrist.
Fuck it.
Let them send me to the hole.
I’ll take the punishment for one second of Charlotte.
“My father was in prison,” she blurts and as soon as she does, she presses her free hand over her mouth. I snatch my own hand away from hers and lean back against the chair absorbing the revelation. My mind flashes back to the first visit and the way she spewed those facts about touching visitors to the guard. At the time I figured it was some shit she studied.
“He died there,” she continues, dropping her hand away from her mouth as she lifts her gaze to me. The flush covering her cheeks deepens but it’s anger that puts it there this time. “So, yes, I came here on my day off to see you and I’m very well aware that I’ve probably thrown myself into this case for all the wrong reasons. Helping you won’t bring back my dad, but Connor deserves his even if he’s an incorrigible asshole.”
“Smaller words, Peaches, all I got out of that is you think I’m an asshole.”
“How’s this? Fuck you. Do you need me to translate those two words?”
“Now, you’re speaking my language,” I reply, cocking my head to the side as she rises from her chair. Huffing out a breath, she mutters something as she roughly gathers her belongings from the table. “Why are you leaving?”
Her eyes snap to mine and she stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
I shrug my shoulders in response.
“Schwartz is going to get you out of here,” she says, bracing her hands on the edge of the table as she leans over it. God, she’s fucking adorable when she’s pissed.
Adorable and completely fuckable.
I bet she likes it rough.
I also bet she doesn’t know she likes it rough.
The girl probably hasn’t been properly fucked in her life.
“It’d be wise of you to pull your shit together, Bishop. Everyone is setting the stage for you to reunite with that sweet boy because we believe every child deserves to know they’re loved. You may be a jerk, but you love your kid. I can see that in those cold eyes of yours and he needs to feel that love. He needs to know he counts. Don’t let him down—”
Her sermon sobers me, and I quickly cut her off.
“I won’t,” I interject. “Don’t think for one second I’m not grateful—”
“Well, you sure as hell have a funny way of showing it.”
I shrug again.
“It’s the asshole in me.”
“Yeah, well maybe that’s something you should work on too.”
Nodding, I swipe the photos from the table.
“Thank you for these.”
“You’re welcome,” she mutters, pushing in her chair.
“Can I still call you next Saturday?”
Shoving the envelope under her arm, she rolls
her eyes and sighs.
“Yes, so long as you’re aware I’m doing this for Connor, not you. If Schwartz finds out—”
“He won’t,” I interrupt. “And thank you for putting Connor first.”
“You should try it some time,” she says. I can tell she regrets the harsh reply because she closes her eyes as soon as she says it. “I’m sorry, that was mean.”
“You’re just being honest,” I tell her.
“He’s a great kid,” she continues. “And for what it’s worth, the family who has taken him in seem very nice. They’re trying their best to make him feel at home.”
I don’t know how I feel about that. I’m glad he’s safe and out of Pete’s hands, but home isn’t there. I don’t know where it is, but I know it’s not there.
“I’ve got to go,” Charlotte says as she steps around the table. I probably should apologize, maybe even thank her again. I do neither and instead, I let her walk away, but not without indulging myself with another glance at her ass.
“Peaches,” I call, and she pauses. Turning around, she struts back to the table and props her hand on her hip.
“Unless you’re going to tell me why you call me that, we have nothing else to say to one another.”
“Perfect as a peach.”
“What?”
“Your ass, Charlotte, it reminds me of a peach. Perfectly ripe and oh so fucking round. There ain’t never been a peach I didn’t want to sink my teeth into,” I say pointedly as I lean closer. “The first bite is always a little tough but once you get closer to the core…mmmm so fucking sweet. The juice drips from your lips and you fiend for more.”
She gasps and I grin, rising from my chair. With my photos tucked safely against my chest, I nod for the guard to escort me back to my cell. As he starts for me, I look back at Charlotte.
One more second.
Just one more fucking second.
-Fourteen-
Charlotte
Past
I should’ve listened to Schwartz when he told me to take a mental health day. He was right to assume I’d need a day to decompress after the level-one intervention. I knew my emotions were heightened and still; I went to visit Bishop against my better judgment. In my defense, I needed to know the truth. Call me crazy, but I spent all night wondering if my assumptions were right. I needed to know for certain Bishop robbed that house with every intention to help his boy, that I wasn’t jumping to conclusions my heart wanted to believe.
However, the moment my eyes caught sight of those snowflakes; I knew the answer. I didn’t need to hear the words and yet, I demanded them anyway. I pushed and pushed only to have Bishop turn the tables and back me into a corner. In between demanding he break for me; I broke and revealed my father had gone to prison. I also admitted that I’m too close to this case. Saying those words out loud made me realize I need to take a step back before I get in too deep.
The thing is, I think it’s too late.
I crossed a line today and Bishop, he blurred them even more. I caught him staring at my chest as soon as I lifted my head and I ignored the somersault my belly did in response, reminding me there was nothing attractive about the man.
Okay, so maybe that’s a lie.
Bishop was insanely attractive; I just didn’t like admitting that and it angered me that I even noticed. Especially after inserting myself into his son's life like I did. It was wrong on so many levels but that was at the very top of the list. Connor wasn’t as receptive as I had hoped he’d be at first. However, by the end of the night we were sitting around a table; bikers, foster parents and legal counsel, all eating cupcakes that Mrs. Clemins had baked and rallying around an adorable boy, promising him we had his back. Twelve hours later I was sitting across the table from said boy’s father, with a ridiculously tight t-shirt and hard nipples, wondering where the fuck I went wrong. To be fair, I didn’t realize what I was wearing until Bishop started undressing me with his cold eyes. I simply grabbed the first thing I saw without bothering to check if it was clean.
Plucking the fabric between my fingers, I bend my head and take a whiff.
Yeah, it could use a wash.
My phone rings and I release the shirt. Reaching across the console, I grab my phone from the passenger seat and lift my head to stare at the house in front of me when I notice it’s my mother calling. Sure enough, I spot her face staring out the window. I can’t ignore her when she’s looking at me, so I accept the call and lift the phone to my ear. Yes, I know...ridiculous but it seems to be my theme for the day.
“Hi Mom,” I say.
“Are you going to sit in your car all day or are you going to come inside?”
“I’m coming, I was just…” Obsessing over a man I shouldn’t be obsessing over. “…thinking.”
“Well think inside the house. Your cousin is here too, and I just made a macaroni pie.”
She should’ve led with macaroni pie, I would’ve already been inside the house, unbuttoning my jeans. Nothing cures a bad day better than my mom’s macaroni pie. I’ll apologize to my hips and my peach of an ass later.
I shove my phone into my purse and exit the car, pushing all thoughts of Bishop to the back of my mind. My mom opens the door before I can even reach the stoop and immediately engulfs me in a hug. I love my mom’s hugs but sometimes I wonder if she’s hugging me so tightly because she’s afraid of losing me rather than she’s happy to see me.
“Why the hell were you sitting in your car?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling back to give her cheek a peck. “I’m here now and I’m starving.”
“How come you’re not working? That son of a bitch didn’t fire you again, did he?” she questions, placing her hands on my shoulders as she assesses me like only a mother can. Stifling a laugh, I lift my hands and remove hers from my shoulders, giving them a squeeze.
“Actually, he’s not that bad,” I say. “He gave me the day off after we met with Connor.”
“That’s the boy in the system, right? The one with the father in the pen?”
To some, it might be funny to hear my mom use prison lingo, but for me it’s a reminder of the years she spent Sundays visiting my dad. Sometimes I went with her, other times she went alone. Back then I resented her for not allowing me to tag along. I wanted to see my dad any chance I could and every other weekend for a couple of hours just didn’t cut it. They say a boy needs a father, well so do girls. They need a man to measure every other to, someone who will teach them all the things their mom can’t, like when to change the oil in her car and how to con her way out of a ticket. But as I got older, I realized those Sunday’s my mom and dad spent alone are the days they grieved together.
Immediately my eyes drift to the photo of my sister that hangs on the main wall of the foyer. I thought our family fell apart after my sister’s diagnosis, but that was premature thinking on my behalf. If I knew all that would happen after we learned she was sick, I’d realize it was impossible to pinpoint what actually broke us. Piece by piece we fell until there was nothing left.
“You’re wearing her Betty Boop shirt,” my mother comments as her eyes drift to the picture of Bethany.
“It barely fits anymore,” I reply quietly, and my mom’s gaze drifts to my attire.
“Honey, you can’t wear that in public. People are going to mistake you for a streetwalker.”
Rolling my eyes, I chuckle.
“Mom, no one says that anymore.”
“What’s the word these days?”
“I hear hooker is still acceptable,” I joke, lacing my arm through hers. “Where’s this macaroni pie you promised me?”
“In the kitchen with Gabriella,” she replies.
At the mention of my cousin, I smile. She’s not really my cousin, there are no blood ties between us. Gabby is my mom’s goddaughter. Our mothers have been friends since they were twelve years old. Neither of them had any siblings but if asked, they’d tell you that’s because God had a bigger plan for them. He
gave them the opportunity to choose one another, and it’s the greatest gift he could’ve given them because they’d be lost without each other. Gabby and I aren’t far behind our mothers. While God may have given me a sister, he also took her from me, and I’ll never understand that.
I’ll never forgive him for it either.
I know that sounds awful…so be it.
After Bethany passed, Gabby, and I became closer. I won’t dare say she took the place of my sister because that is just impossible, but she became my closest confidant. On the days I miss Bethany most, it’s Gabby I turn to. Really, she’s the one I turn to for any kind of advice. Sometimes I feel guilty about it. I’ll sit and wonder if Bethany is looking down on me, feeling as if I’ve betrayed her. I know it sounds crazy. How can someone damn God and believe in life after death all at the same time? I guess death alters our beliefs when it flips our world on its axis.
Forcing a smile, I let my mom lead me into the kitchen and my gaze immediately moves to the table where Gabby sits, cutting into my macaroni pie.
“Well, well, look what the wind dropped in,” she says as she places a chunk of deliciousness onto a paper plate. Stepping away from my mom, I reach for the Pyrex dish and grab the knife, cutting a thick slice for myself.
“Pepperoni or Prosciutto?” I ask my mom.
“Pepperoni,” she replies, looking out the kitchen window. “Excuse me girls. Mr. Sanders just pulled into his driveway and I took a package for him.”
I take a seat as my mother starts for the backsliders. Smoothing down her curls, she glances over her shoulder.
“I’ll be right back,” she calls. I notice there’s a nervous tone to her voice, but I don’t question it. I simply nod and drown my sorrows in baked spaghetti goodness. Savoring the bite, I watch as she steps outside, still toying with her hair. She doesn’t have a package in her hand and once the door closes, I glance around the kitchen trying to find one.
“She’s dating him,” Gabby reveals nonchalantly.
Like she just didn’t drop a bomb on me.
The fork falls from my hand and I start to choke. Pushing her can of soda across the table, Gabby pops another forkful into her mouth. I take a sip of soda and force the food down my throat before attacking her.
Breaking The Chains (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy) Page 10