It's a Love Thing

  What kind of God would leave a young boy to the mercy of his heavy fisted father without reprieve? What kind of God would take his mother, the only gentle, loving thing in his life with a harsh disease like AIDS that ate away at her until only her bones stretched tightly with skin were left before her painful death? What God would thwart him at every turn, making sure that everything he touched turned to mud? No, Drake had no doubt that God was a myth perpetrated by people desperate to find a reason for living.

  Drake had only one reason to live, one thing that kept his from turning the handle of his bike just so and sending it plunging off the cliff to his right and into the ocean below. Revenge.

  He pulled up in front of the small bungalow. Its charm nearly made him gag. He’d been warned he’d be meeting his parole officer at his house rather than his office, which he thought odd. Why would someone want to regularly let criminals know where he lived?

  He should have been more careful to conceal his identity when he’d held the gun on the convenience store clerk more than three years ago. But honestly, he hadn’t cared. Not then. Not until they threw him in that hell-hole they called juvenile correction.

  He supposed he should be grateful that he’d been seventeen at the time. A few months later and he would have been considered an adult by the law. They didn’t consider him an adult then in spite of the fact that he’d been living on his own since he was thirteen, moving from place to place and making do in any way he could. He would be twenty-one at the end of the summer. He’d lived twenty-one long, miserable, empty years for no good reason that he could see.

  He swung his leg over his bike, removing his helmet in the same motion. He’d certainly give that one to California—taking a riders’ free will in choosing whether or not to wear the confining things. So much for being a liberal state. He laid the helmet on the seat, and then removed his leather jacket as well. He was aware that he was a stereotype: Harley riding, leather jacket wearing bad boy. He didn’t care. Let others think what they wanted. He’d do what made him happy.

  He strode up the sidewalk, smoothing his shoulder-length dark hair back. The tattoos gracing both his biceps couldn’t be helped. He knew the impression they gave, and usually didn’t care, but today he needed to make a good impression. He should have worn a long sleeved tee rather than his usual short sleeved black one, but it was too hot.

  As long as he was stuck in this town, he couldn’t carry out his plans for revenge.

  He lifted a hand and knocked on the door.

  “Just a sec,” a cheerful, female voice called from somewhere behind the screen door. He glanced toward the beach that led from the bungalow to the ocean. He supposed some people might find it appealing to live on the beach. He found it pretentious. From inside he heard the sound of metal hitting glass. He knew exactly what the sound was: a cookie sheet being dropped onto a glass stovetop. A strong remembrance of his mom washed over him and he pushed it away violently. He heard footsteps coming to the door and pasted a smile on his face, hoping it looked genuine and not threatening.

  The door opened and Drake’s face fell. This could not be his PO. She had to be about his age or even younger. Big blue eyes in a guileless and flawless face gazed at him. Her straight blonde hair was pulled up into a ponytail high on the back of her head. A bright, welcoming smile lit her face.

  “Hi. Can I help you?” she asked with a friendly tone.

  “Uh . . .” Drake mentally shook himself. He was no stranger to girls, and had never had a problem being as smooth and charming as he needed to be to get from them what he wanted. Granted, he’d been gone awhile, but he hadn’t exactly been lonely since getting out. “I’m looking for . . . you’re not Tom Martin, are you?”

  She laughed, the sound pure and clear, grating on his mood. “No,” she said. “I’m his daughter.” She stuck a hand out. “Megan.”

  He stared at her hand. Did she have any clue who he was, why he was here? What was wrong with her father, letting her answer the door like this? He could easily hurt her, quickly, and be gone—either with her or alone—before the man had any clue what had happened. He realized he’d been staring at her hand for an inordinately long time and yet she still held it in place, waiting. Remembering his need for a good impression, he took her hand giving it one fast pump before releasing it again.

  “I have an appointment with him,” he said.

  “Right,” she said. He saw in her eyes that she knew exactly why he was here, but she didn’t look at him with any less friendliness. Drake shook his head. Her father was a careless fool. “Come in,” she said, standing back to make room for him to enter.

  He looked around. The bungalow was as sickly sweet as the outside. It was clean and neat though sparsely furnished. Seashells covered almost every available surface. How redundant. There were even hanging plant holders and lamps made from shells.

  The far-too-friendly girl led him into the kitchen. The smell of the freshly baked snicker doodle cookies that sat on top of the stove assaulted him. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the table positioned near a window overlooking the blue sea. “Want a cookie?” she offered.

  He pulled his eyebrows together in annoyance. This wasn’t how this was supposed to work. “No,” he said more sharply than he’d intended. She raised a brow at his tone, but didn’t remark on it. Even more disturbing to him, she didn’t show an ounce of fear. “Is your father here?”

  “Oh, I guess you didn’t get his message,” she said. “He’s running a little late, but he should be here soon.”

  Drake was sure his face reflected his shock. Was she kidding? She had let a felon into her home with her father not even home? Anger charged through him at the stupidity of the girl and her father both.

  “I know you’re not supposed to tell me your name,” she said, picking up the pan of cookies and setting them on the table right in front of him. She sat in the chair opposite him and pulled both legs up onto the chair. His eyes dropped to her legs. She wore denim shorts that stopped just above her knees and a pink tank top. She pulled her ponytail around and began twisting it around her hand. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the motion. “And that’s okay. Privacy and all that.”

  “What?” His eyes came to hers. He’d lost the thread of the conversation in watching her innocently alluring actions.

  “Your name,” she said, reminding him of the topic.

  “Drake,” he heard himself blurt out in response. He clenched his jaw. What was wrong with him?

  Megan’s jaw dropped as he gave his name, but then she smiled conspiratorially. “I won’t tell,” she said. “It’ll be our secret.”

  Drake’s brows came together again in consternation. He wanted to shake her. Did she not understand the danger he represented? Okay, not really, because he would never hurt her. But she didn’t know that.

  “So, Drake,” she said, using his name as casually as if they were old friends. “I heard you ride up. What do you ride?”

  “A motorcycle.”

  Megan rolled her eyes and laughed. “Well, duh. Thanks for that, Mr. Obvious. I mean, what kind of bike?”

  Not sure how it could possibly mean anything to her, he said, “A Fatboy.”

  “Nice,” she said, nodding as if she knew what he was talking about. “I’d like to ride a Harley someday.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said skeptically. There was something wrong with her, he decided.

  “But, no mon, no fun,” she said, grinning. Drake wondered if she knew how incredibly appealing she looked, sitting across from him with her legs tucked up like that, twirling her hair. He found himself imagining what the length would be if she let it down. “I’m stuck riding a Nighthawk—and an old one at that. But it’s better than nothing, right?”

  Drake forcefully pulled his attention away from her hair. “What? You ride?”

  Megan laughed again. “Yes, I ride. Don’t sound so shocked. Lots of girls ride nowadays. When we can get the apron off and get out of the kitchen, that
is.”

  Drake realized she was making fun of him. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. He’d known plenty of women riders. He just hadn’t seen one that looked like a fragile little girl.

  “Whatever,” she said cheerfully, snatching a cookie from the tray. “You should have one,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re missing. They’re my specialty. One of these cookies and you’ll be ruined for every other cookie for the rest of your life.”

  “I doubt that,” he said, but he picked one up anyway and bit into it. It was warm and soft in the middle and just a little crispy on the outside. The tang of the cookie was a perfect counterbalance to the sugar and cinnamon that coated it. He groaned with pleasure before he could stop himself.

  Megan laughed again. “See. What did I tell you?”

  “I’m here, I’m here,” a man’s voice called from outside.

  Megan waggled her brows at him—waggled them!—and said, “He’s here, he’s here.”

  Drake turned toward the kitchen door to see a man entering, dripping water from his sand-covered wetsuit. He was late because he’d been surfing? His sun-bleached hair hung in waves to just above his ears. His blue eyes were the same as his daughters. His skin was tan and lined from the sun, unlike the clear, alabaster skin Megan had. He scuttled across the kitchen and thrust a hand at Drake.

  “Tom Martin,” he said by way of introduction. “I know who you are.” He glanced toward Megan as if to indicate that Drake shouldn’t reveal his name in front of his daughter. Megan rolled her eyes again.

  “He already told me his name, Dad.” Tom looked surprised by this development. “Well,” Megan said, heading toward the kitchens entrance. “I’ll leave you two boys to it.”

  Drake stared at the empty space she had occupied, feeling like he was living in some kind of alternate reality where nothing made sense. Nothing was as it should be. He looked at Officer Martin. Least of all his new parole officer.

  “Let’s go into my office,” Officer Martin said.

  Drake stood and followed him through a door into a small room which had a tiny desk with one chair behind the desk, and one in front. Officer Martin waved him into the chair in front. He moved behind the desk and turned his computer on, typing.

  “Okay, here we go. Drake Barnes. Charged with armed robbery, reduced to first-degree robbery. Sentenced to five years, released after three for good behavior, two years of parole.”

  Drake almost opened his mouth and sarcastically thanked the man for a rundown of the details that he knew all too well. Instead, he clenched his teeth to keep the words in and waited.

  “Do you have somewhere to live?” Officer Martin asked, looking away from the screen and right at Drake.

  “No, sir,” he answered.

  “Part of the condition of your parole is that you find both a place to live and meaningful employment.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m aware,” Drake said.

  “Planning to live here?”

  “Yes, sir. I can’t afford to drive back and forth. So I’ll stay here until my parole is up.”

  Officer Martin nodded. “Do you have any money?”

  “No, sir. Only what they gave me as I left juvie.”

  “You don’t have to keep calling me sir,” Officer Martin said. “You are also required to remain drug and alcohol free, submitting to periodical urine tests to prove you’re doing so, and to stay out of trouble. Think you can do all that?”

  Yes, si—” Drake cut himself off.

  “There’s a bungalow a few doors down that’s available for rent. It’s reasonable and since I know the landlord, I can get you in without a deposit.”

  Drake was startled at the offer. Why would his PO want to help him like that? That wasn’t his job . . . was it?

  “Thank you, but I don’t think I can afford a place on the beach.”

  “You’re in Seaside, son, there aren’t many places that aren’t either on the beach, or awful close to it. Besides, I can guarantee you can afford this one. Come on,” he said, standing. “I’ll show it to you. Then you can decide.”

  Drake stood and followed the man in his half-peeled down, sand covered wet suit and bare feet from the house. They began walking down the beach in the sand, the granules sucking at Drakes boots, making it difficult to walk. He’d been mocking Officer Martin’s lack of footwear; now he envied it.

  “Excuse me, Officer Martin. I was wondering why you have your office at your house?” Drake asked.

  “Call me Tom, please. We’re going to spend a lot of time together, so might as well be informal. To answer your question: where else would I have my office?” Officer Martin—Tom—laughed. “Even the Sheriff doesn’t have an office. We have one jail cell, with a desk in front of it and barely enough room for that. Seaside isn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity. On the rare occasion the cell is used, it’s usually a drunken tourist who just needs to sleep it off.”

  “Oh.” Drake didn’t know how to respond to that. He wasn’t happy about being stuck in Seaside, but because it was in the same county he’d committed his crime, he was required to see whatever PO they assigned him to. And since he had no home, no job, and no family, he guessed it was as good a place as any to stay for the duration. He winced at the sanding his feet were getting inside the boots. He’d have to find a cheap pair of flip flops somewhere.

  “Here it is,” Tom said. He reached up and snatched the key from top of the door frame. Drake rolled his eyes again. Didn’t the landlord know that was the first place someone would look if they wanted to break in? Tom unlocked the door and led the way in.

  Drake followed and saw that, though similar to the Martin’s, this one was more sparsely decorated, with only a few bland landscapes hanging on the walls that couldn’t compare to the view out the back window. Nothing personal, neutral furnishings, and a decided lack of seashells, for which Drake was grateful.

  Tom led him through the kitchen, into the living area, and single bedroom. There was a small bathroom that had only a shower, tub, and sink. He did notice it lacked the office of the Martin’s home, and decided it must be smaller as theirs surely had two bedrooms.

  “Do you know how much the landlord would want for rent?” Drake asked after the brief tour.

  “I do happen to know,” Tom said, smiling. Drake wondered why that was something to smile about.

  “And?” he prompted when the other man didn’t answer.

  “You can stay free—as long as you get a job, stay clean, stay out of trouble, and keep the place clean and in good repair. You mess up on any of that and you’ll have to find somewhere else to stay.”

  Drake stared at him. There had to be some kind of catch—there always was. If he’d learned nothing else in his life, that lesson had been pounded into him. “So who is this landlord who wants to let me, a convicted criminal, stay rent free in his—or her—home without having even met me.”

  “I have met you,” Tom said. “I own the place. I know how hard it’s going to be for you to get back on your feet. If you’re willing to do the work, I’m willing to help.”

  “Why?” Drake was suspicious of this surfer dude/parole officer who shows up late for interviews because he’s been playing in the water, and then conducts them in a wetsuit.

  Tom spread his arms wide, and matched it with a smile spread across his face. “Life has been good to me, and so I choose to share my good fortune.”

  Drake decided the man was a lunatic. That’s probably why he was allowed to be a PO in this spec of a town. The man had clearly spent too much time in the sun. He shrugged. If the fool wanted to let him stay here free, who was he to refuse?

  “Alright!” Tom cheered, as if Drake had consented aloud. He walked to the back door and turned back toward Drake. His face was deadly serious, and for the first time Drake could see the officer in him. “Don’t screw this up, Drake. You’ve been given a second chance here. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d throw you out for doing anything as simple as jaywalki
ng.” Drake gave a terse nod, and Tom’s face brightened again. “And get yourself some decent shoes.”

  Tom watched the man walk back toward the ocean. Apparently Drake’s appointment was nothing more than a slight interruption in his play. He shook his head and turned back toward his new home—for the next two years, anyway.

  *****

  “Drake!”

  Drake turned at the female voice calling his name. He saw the PO’s daughter, Megan, waving at him. She jogged over, her blond ponytail swaying behind her. She stopped in front of him, smiling as if he were the very thing she’d been searching for and just found. The smile disconcerted him.

  “Whatcha doing?” she asked.

  He glanced down at the curb he stood by in the center of town. He debated telling her the truth: he’d been seriously considering jaywalking, just to see if he could get away with it, but found himself unable to take the risk.

  “Thought I better find me a pair of shorts if I’m going to survive the heat,” he said.

  She nodded thoughtfully. “That will look hot.”

  He raised his brows in surprise at her comment. Then she looked at his boots.

  “And flip-flops,” he added.

  “Good call,” she laughed. “But if you’re going to get those things, you don’t want to go to Benny’s.” She indicated the store across the street, which is exactly where he was headed. “Benny’s is for the tourists, which means you’ll pay tourist prices. C’mon, I’ll take you to Wally’s World.” She turned and started down the sidewalk. When he didn’t follow, she turned back, a questioning look on her face.

  “Do you think this . . .” he swung his hand back and forth between the two of them, “is appropriate? I mean, isn’t it a conflict of interest?”

  Megan laughed. “My father’s business has nothing to do with me. Besides, in a town this size, it would take a lot of work to actually avoid one another. It’s no biggie, Drake. C’mon.”

  Drake wasn’t comfortable with the situation, but didn’t want to argue it in the middle of the street. He wasn’t sure who might know his situation already, but he didn’t want to bring attention to himself if he could avoid it. So he followed her.