He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is oddly detached. “It has to be done. I’ll see you in a bit, okay? Love you.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before a recording advises me that the caller has hung up. I stare at my phone for a beat, not sure what to make of his sudden change in attitude, and then I shake it off, bringing up the browser and searching for cat-eye tutorials.
****
“What’s this for?” I ask, staring at the small yellow square of paper with the number forty-two scribbled on it.
“Hand it to the guard when you leave,” he says. “I’ve got something waiting for you to pick up.”
“Okay,” I mutter, glancing up at him. “I’ll do that.”
He looks stunned. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”
Yes, but I don’t want to ask.
We’re two hours into the last visit we’re going to have for who knows how long and things are … tense. We’ve barely talked, spending the whole time playing rummy, until moments ago, when he’d stood up and without saying a word, he’d walked away.
He wasn’t gone long though, only a few minutes talking to the guards and filling out some kind of form, before returning with the scrap of paper.
I think he’s stressed about me leaving.
Shit. I’m stressed about me leaving.
“Sure,” I say, after a moment. “If you feel like telling me.”
He nods, pulling the slip of paper from my hands and setting it on the table, and then takes both of my hands within his. “It’s one of my T-shirts.”
I let out a startled laugh. “You’re giving me one of your T-shirts?”
“I am,” he says, squeezing my hands. “You’re going to miss me. I thought this may help.”
I stare at him with shock. “I can’t believe you’re giving me one of your T-shirts.”
“Why is that so hard to believe, beautiful?” he asks, lifting a questioning eyebrow.
I don’t know what to say, don’t know what to make of his gift. It’s … kind of perfect.
My eyes meet his and I stare at him.
He stares right back at me.
The silence is deafening.
Eventually, he lets out a dry laugh. “Not sure this is the reaction I was expecting.”
“Sorry. I’m just … I guess I just wasn’t expecting it is all.”
“I was watching TV the other day and there’s this dating service where the men wear the T-shirt and it collects your pheromones,” he explains. “Then the next day the women get to smell a whole bunch of shirts and the one that attracts them is the one that they pick.” He stalls for a beat, a small grin appearing on his lips. “So I actually wore that T-shirt for you. You’re going to miss me, so when you do, I thought you could wear it or just smell it to bring us a little bit closer.”
My heart squeezes and my eyes prickle. Joshua watches me curiously, expectantly, waiting for my reaction. I gaze into his eyes, drinking in the emotion I see there.
Jesus, this man … he’s perfect.
“I don’t want to leave.” The words tumble from my lips in a whisper, a shuddering breath forced from my chest. “I’m not ready.”
His eyes slowly close, and then open, eyeing me so hard my chest constricts under the pressure. “Promise me you’re coming back,” he says quietly. “Fucking promise me you’ll come back.”
“I promise.”
“Don’t say it unless you’re going to follow-through.”
“I promise,” I say again. “I prom—”
I’m cut off mid-word. An inmate walks up to our table, stopping beside Joshua. “Time for pictures,” he says.
Standing, Joshua reaches out a hand to me, pulling me from my chair, and twining his fingers with mine. “I love you, baby girl,” he says as he tows me up to the front of the visiting room. “Come back to me soon, okay?”
“I will,” I say, and I mean it. “I promise.”
22
The Big Move
When I promised Joshua I’d be back soon, I hadn’t realized that it would take me a little more than six months before I’d be able to make the move. I should have known. I should have guessed that settling up my affairs at home wouldn’t be simple, but I’d been hopeful and really thought everything would go smoothly. And I might have also completely overlooked the fact that I couldn’t just pick up and move to a new country. I really believed I’d be back with my man in just a few weeks, but as it turns out, applying for a VISA can be a lengthy process.
It’s been the longest six months of my life.
After signing off on everything, Richard disappeared from my life. He hasn’t tried to reach out, hasn’t sent so much as a text. I don’t know what his lawyers said to him to get him to walk away quietly, but whatever it was, I appreciate it.
He hasn’t followed through on any of his threats, although I suspect that’s only because I walked away without asking for anything. I suspect he’s also concerned that if he tries to air my personal business, I might just turn around and do the same to him.
Or perhaps he’s just come to the same conclusion as I have. There’s a very real possibility that the so-called scandal may in fact help my business, rather than hinder it.
Whatever the cause for his silence, I’m thankful for it. Thankful that my life doesn’t have the extra unneeded drama.
Joshua moved to a new institution and secured a job at a local diner. He’s a dishwasher now, and although he hates the job, he’s happy to be doing it. Happy to be out in the world, even if it is supervised.
We haven’t seen each other since I left, my travel restricted while my VISA application was in process, and he stopped asking me when I’d be moving. He began calling less and less as work took over his life, averaging only two calls per day. It’s taken a toll on our relationship. We no longer have time to chat about all the little random things we used to, only focusing on the major things happening in our day-to-day lives.
He reassures me daily, though. Telling me how different it’ll be when I’m finally there with him. I can stop by at the restaurant while he’s working, and visit him four nights a week at the prison. I honestly cannot wait until I can feel his arms around me again.
My parents have been nothing but supportive, although I can tell they’re still not one-hundred percent on board with my decision to move to the U.S. Even so, they helped me secure an apartment and helped me through the customs nightmare of importing all my belongings, including my truck. I’d probably still be stuck on the Canadian side of the border if it weren’t for them.
But it was Becca who kept me sane. She’s been my rock, and she’s thought of everything. She rented the U-Haul trailer, ordered furniture, and coordinated the deliveries. She even worked with the Ford dealer, trading in my car for the F-150 I’d always wanted.
In a nutshell, my best friend is a freakin’ rock star.
We’re standing outside my new apartment, my keys in hand, eyeing the overfull U-Haul trailer. I still can’t believe that Becca took time off work to help me with my move, but she did, and I don’t think she’ll ever fully realize how much I appreciate it. I can’t really remember the last time I felt this happy … this giddy.
“You know,” Becca says around a yawn as she looks over all the boxes, “maybe we should run over to a Walmart and get one of those dolly things.”
I can tell by the look on her face she doesn’t really like the idea. It’s early, just barely nine o’clock in the morning. We’d stopped over in Massachusetts last night, leaving before daybreak and only stopping for gas during the six-and-a-half-hour drive. We’re both feeling it. But the sun is out now and the air is starting to warm, the typical May temperature creeping in.
Glancing across the parking lot to my first floor unit, I say, “We could just back up the truck to the patio door and unload it that way.”
“Do you know how to back this thing up?”
I shake my head. “Nope, but it can’t b
e that hard.”
She laughs, casting me an amusing look as I close up the trailer doors and stroll over to the driver’s side of the truck. I hop in, starting it up. Dierks Bentley’s Drunk On a Plane pours out of the speakers. As I slip the truck into gear, my phone rings. Sighing, I pull it out of my pocket, turning down the radio and sliding the truck back into park, glancing at the screen and spotting Joshua’s number popping up there. I answer it, drumming my fingernails on the steering wheel as I wait to accept the call.
“Hey, baby,” he says once the call connects. “Are you at the apartment yet?”
“Yup,” I say. “I just got my keys and we’re about to find out if I have the skills to back the truck and trailer up to the patio door, or if I’m going to have to run out and buy a dolly.”
He laughs. “Just sit tight. Some of my guys are on the way over to give you a hand. They’ll be there any second, okay?”
His words make me stall. “I … uh … I don’t think … I’m not really comfortable with that.”
And I’m really not.
Not only am I not ready to meet his, um, kind of friends, but I seriously don’t want to do it dressed in a tracksuit. Sure, it’s a stylish hot pink Juicy Couture tracksuit, but it’s still a tracksuit. My makeup isn’t done. My hair is tied up in a frizzy ponytail. And I’ve been driving for hours.
“Baby,” he says, drawing out the word. “You’re part of my world now, part of my family. We take care of our own.”
I bite my bottom lip. I don’t know what to say. I want to argue with him, but I know it’ll be a useless effort. He’s using that tone. It’s the one that tells me that this isn’t something that’s up for discussion.
“Look, baby, I’ve got to go,” he says when I don’t respond. “Don’t worry your pretty little heart. It’s going to be fine. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”
“Okay,” I mumble, nodding my head. “See you tonight.”
“Okay, good,” he says, hesitating as though he doesn’t really want to hang up. “Love you, baby girl.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up, stuffing my phone back in my pocket. I can already hear the rumble of Harleys approaching as I pop my door open, and slide back out of the truck. I peek over at Becca. She’s staring at me, one eyebrow arched in question. “Do you want me to give it a shot?”
I shake my head. “Joshua is sending some friends over to help.”
Her eyes widen. “Really? Who?”
I don’t get a chance to answer her before the parking lot is filled with the roar of bikes as two file in, so I shrug helplessly, pointing. “Them.”
Becca’s gaze shifts to the motorcycles, and then she looks at me, horrified. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.” I hesitate, taking in the colors on the back of their vests as they park. “They’re wearing his club colors.”
“No way,” she says. “Babe, this is … this is kind of scary.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, smoothing back some loose frizzy strands of hair. “Maybe, but he wouldn’t send them if it wasn’t safe.”
Becca moves in closer to me, linking her arm through mine as the men park their bikes and come toward us, and I take a moment to control my facial expression, fiddling with my phone in my pocket. I don’t want them to see that their presence is freaking me out a little.
These men are not the kind of men I’d normally speak to.
No. These are the kind of men I’d typically avoid.
They’re big and tattooed and scary.
They stop in front of us, neither of them smiling.
“Victoria?” the really big man on the right asks. At least six-foot-two, his light brown eyes look down at me, making me feel super-small.
“Um, yeah, that’s me,” I say as my stomach becomes one big knot because neither of them look all that impressed or happy to be here. They’re young, I think. Maybe thirty, though no more than thirty-five.
He gives me a slow once over, then nods once. “Swag’s told us a lot about you,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Chow.”
“Hi,” I say, taking his hand and shaking it, blinking. “Um, who’s Swag?”
He gives me a peculiar look, and then laughs—hard. “He’s your man.” Another loud laugh falls from him. “Knew he was trying to shelter you, but shit … He didn’t even tell you his nickname?”
I shake my head. “Why do you call him Swag?”
“Because,” the other one says, smiling warmly, “he’s got a lot of swagger.” He sticks out his hand to me, and I accept it, shaking it quickly. “I’m Ali.”
“Good to meet you both.”
Ali cocks an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to Becca. “And who might you be?”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” I glance at her, shaking my arm a little as her grip tightens on me. “This is Becca.”
A look of amusement flashes across his face as he watches her press closer to me. “Right, the best friend.”
Feeling awkward, I look away from them glancing around the parking lot, my gaze settling on my truck. “So, um, I know Joshua sent you guys to help me out, but I’m—”
“Don’t bother,” Chow says, stopping me mid-sentence. “We’re not leaving till you’re all settled in and enough of your neighbors know who you belong to.”
His dead serious tone makes me laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“Shit, your smile’s cute,” he says. “Like a little chipmunk.”
I scrunch up my nose, trying hard not to smile. Becca giggles, catching my expression.
“Oh, come on,” she says, nudging me with her elbow. “He’s kind of right.”
“Is that your truck, Chipmunk?” Chow asks, smirking.
I grit my teeth at the nickname, nodding. “Yeah, that’s my truck.”
“Hand over your keys,” he says. “We’ll finish this up for you.”
“I’m not just giving you my keys,” I say incredulously. “I don’t even know you.”
“Don’t be a bitch and give me your keys,” Chow snaps. “We’re here to help.”
My eyes widen, and I open and then close my mouth when nothing comes out. A ball of nervous energy fires up in my belly as he glares at me. Will you please not call me a bitch, asshole? I want to yell it. Scream it, really.
But I don’t.
I don’t get a chance to.
“They’re in the ignition,” Becca mumbles, and with another hard glare, both bikers turn away from me and go to my truck.
****
The day drags, each minute feeling like an hour, each hour feeling like a whole day. The guys get all my things unloaded and return the U-Haul trailer. They even set up my bed, coffee table, and new bookshelves when the furniture is delivered.
They haven’t left yet, and they haven’t warmed up to me either, but I can hear Becca through the door, laughing and joking around with them.
I guess they can’t be that bad, but the truth is, I don’t really care.
I’m a bundle of nerves.
I’m full of excitement.
I’ve never been this nervous or this excited in my life.
I have ten minutes before I have to leave for the prison. I’ve showered and shaved and brushed my teeth. My hair is done, so is my makeup, the cat-eyes that Joshua likes damn near perfect, but I can’t seem to make myself get dressed.
I’m sitting on my new bed wearing nothing but my bra and panties, knees pulled up to my chest and my arms wrapped around them, staring down at the outfit laid out beside me. It’s perfect, red skintight jeans that hug my new curves, a black low-cut top, and a brand new pair of red heels.
I’m anxious to see him, but I’m nervous about it. Six months is a long time to go without seeing each other. I’m down thirty-four pounds since the last time I saw him. What if I’ve lost too much weight? What if he doesn’t like my smaller, but rounder, ass? What if …
When someone pounds on my door, I glance up, calling out, “Just a minute.”
Jumping up, I grab a towel, wr
apping it around myself, before rushing over to the door, and yanking it open. I expect to find Becca standing at the other side, but instead, I find Ali.
“Fuck, Chipmunk,” he says, eyeing me from head to toe. “You’ve got to get out of here. Swag’s going to be pissed if you’re late.”
I glare at him, feeling myself starting to panic. I open my mouth, then close it, trying to calm myself but it doesn’t work, and I snap, “I don’t care if he gets pissed.”
“Bitch, watch your tone,” he says, his voice dropping low. “Don’t yell at me because you’re running late.”
I cringe. God, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being called bitch.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous,” I tell him, my eyes watering as I force a half smile. “It’s just … what if—”
“Dry those tears up and get dressed,” he says, cutting me short. “You’ve got five minutes to get your ass out of here.”
His tone is sharp and it’s not a request. It’s a demand. My skin prickles as he gives me a hard look, before he turns away, shutting the door behind him.
I get dressed in record time.
Dropping the towel, I throw on my jeans and top, and slip on my heels, in under sixty seconds.
When I emerge from the bedroom, Chow is gone, I notice, and Becca is sitting on the couch, drinking a beer with Ali. My gut instinct is to ask him to leave, because Becca is seriously not capable of handling his kind of trouble, but I manage to swallow it down. I’ve already snapped at him once today, and I’m not sure I want to try my luck for the second time.
I get to the prison with three minutes to spare, and as I pull up and park, I don’t think I can possibly get any more nervous, but my anxiety builds as I go through security, the guards putting me on edge as they scrutinize my identification and my outfit. I’m suddenly worried that I missed some rule about skinny jeans and they’re going to turn me away. By the time I’m through the metal detector, my heart is racing and I’m having a hard time catching my breath.
The work release institution is set up differently. Instead of walking back outside and through some gates, I’m directed to a door off to my left. I walk into a small corridor and step up to the next door, waiting for the buzzing of the locks as the sign directs, and then I step up to the guard’s desk.