Catch Up

Olivia

“Nope. Not doing it,” I tell Lucy, crossing my arms.

The motel room is a mess. Crusty man socks litter the floor, his jeans kicked into a corner. Men, I’m learning, are slobs—especially bachelor ex-cons who just got out of prison. You’d think prison would’ve embedded like a militaristic fastidiousness in him, but it seems like they didn’t do such a great job with him.

Not that I have much room to speak. The bathroom counter is seventy-five percent mine, with makeup palettes and hairspray bottles scattered across the fake marble. It’s not dirty, though. The counter itself is clean. There isn’t even any makeup smeared in the sink—something I can’t say for my roommate back in Connecticut.

Still, Lucy insists that I gather all of Cliff’s clothing and head to a laundromat. I need to wash a few things, too, but that’s beside the point. Family or not, I’m no one’s laundress—especially a man nearly two decades older than me.

Lucy and I eyeball each other across the room, her trying to decide how stubborn I’m being and me just, well, being stubborn. But, I remind myself, our ancestors didn’t fight for us to vote and do other people’s laundry.

“You can do his laundry,” I say, both eyebrows lifted. “I’m not a maid.”

Lucy puts her hands on her hips. She looks more like my mother than my big sister. “Livvie,” she says, exasperated. “You need to do laundry anyway. And this way, I can run to the grocery store.”

She won’t say it, but we’re running out of money. We won’t be able to stay down here much longer. It doesn’t matter how handsome Prince Charming is. Lucy only gets paid monthly, and I’m a student working under the table. If I don’t show up, I don’t make money. Since I haven’t been in Connecticut for the past week, I have zero dollars to my name. Even my cigarette stash is running low—especially with Prince Charming smoking them too.

I’m not trying to be bitter or cranky. Maybe it’s having been cooped up in a motel room for almost a week straight, but my mood is pretty sour. There’s no doubt about it—I would definitely not survive prison.

Lucy gives me her big sister stare, the one that says “You better not tell Mom or I’ll kick your ass.” Now that we’re adults, it just means “Do this thing or I’ll still kick your ass.” Sometimes I don’t think younger siblings have it very fair. Not even adopted ones.

I throw up my hands. “Fine.” Stalking away, I grab my own laundry. “But I’m not picking up all of his dirty socks off the floor.”

My mood is pissy. I’m being completely unreasonable. But I can’t stop. I’m two minutes away from taking out all of my frustration on Lucy, and none of this is her fault. Maybe I’m even a little bit jealous.

I flop down on the bed. I don’t like these ugly, complicated feelings. I just want to have a good time, a couple one-night stands, and finish my degree. It’s not too much for a girl to ask.

Lucy sits down next to me, smoothing my hair the way she always has, from the moment I was dropped off at her house as a tiny, scared foster kid. “It’s okay, Livvie,” she singsongs in a soft, soothing voice.

Guilt pits in my stomach. She shouldn’t be comforting me. I’m the one who should be stroking her hair, apologizing for acting like a whiny little kid. Sitting up on my elbows, I shake my head. “No, it’s not. I’m sorry.” A lopsided smile crosses my face. “I’m just . . .”

“I know.” She grins back. “It means a lot to me that you came here with me. It’s pretty tough of you.”

My shoulders lift and fall. “I guess.”

I really don’t want to be a burden, the poor little sister who freaks out if she’s out of her comfort zone for too long. I want to be adventurous, like the woman I slip on when I go out to bars in New Haven. The woman who flirts with Cliff so easily is only a small part of me. I’m really just ninety-percent rabbit.

Lucy slings an arm around me. “I’ll tell you what. Handle those crusty man socks, and I will buy us drinks tonight.” She tilts her head to the side. “I think Cliff can drink.”

A dark bar and Cliff. The thought sends a thrill through me, this weird fluttering in my stomach. “Huh,” I say. So that’s what butterflies actually feel like. I always thought the saying was just a made-up cliché.

“Deal?” my sister asks.

I don’t want to give in too easily. For one, I don’t want to be so cheap. Booze can’t always win me over. Well, okay, it totally can, but I have to at least appear to put up a fight. Plus I don’t want to seem too eager at the prospect of pumping aphrodisiac into the hot guy who has suddenly strolled into my life. Because no matter how often Lucy insists we’re family, Cliff is not my cousin. I didn’t grow up with him the way she did. He’s just another item on my list to tick off.

“Come on, Liv,” she pleads. “I’ll get us shots and mixers, not just beer on tap.”

I’m not playing her. Lucy would’ve bought Red Headed Sluts anyway because she hates beer. If anyone is rigging this, it’s her. That’s how the two-sister dynamic works. Both of us are equally manipulative, in a totally loving, best friends forever way.

I lift my chin. “Tequila shots.”

Lucy grimaces. “I don’t think I can do those anymore.”

“Oh please. You’re twenty-eight, not eighty-two. And even then . . .” I shake my head at her. “Who else is going to drink with me in the nursing home?”

Groaning, she tilts her head back. “Fine.” She falls back onto the bed, eyes bugged out, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth.

“You have to do at least two shots before you can keel over,” I tell her, prodding her in the ribs with a finger.

She automatically wriggles away, but a tiny giggle also escapes. It’s like we’re kids again, and she’s lunging up from her fake-dead position bellowing “I’m back alive!” It was one of my favorite games, and she’s always been happy to oblige me.

This thought makes me feel a little guilty, but not guilty enough to budge on the tequila. Someone has to get sloppy drunk with me, and since Uber is our designated driver, it might as well be Lucy.

“Fine.” She stands from the bed. “But I’m not at all responsible for my behavior tonight.”

Nodding, I stand too. “Good. Neither am I.” I toss her a wink, then I follow the trail of shed socks around the room and try to figure out how I’m going to collect them without touching them. I decide that Cliff loses ten hot points for leaving them out, another ten for sweating so much, and ten more for not doing his own laundry. This is actually helpful because he’s now hovering at seventy percent hotness, which means I don’t want to bang him so badly anymore.

Nothing like domestic bliss to put things into perspective.

“I’m beginning to understand why married people have such boring sex lives,” I remark to Lucy as I pinch a tiny corner of the sock between my fingernails. Depositing it into the dry cleaning bag provided by the motel, I sigh and steel myself for the next one.

“Finally, she comes to the dark side,” Lucy mutters.

I glance over. She’s sitting at the desk, pen in hand, making a grocery list. We have a mini fridge and a microwave, so my expectations are pretty low. “Is that why you never want to get married?”

There’s no answer because the door opens and all six-plus feet of Cliff bursts into the room. His brown eyes are actually smiling, and someone must’ve taken pity on him because his wild beard has been tamed back into a goatee. He instantly earns back twenty hot points.

“I have good news.” His gaze flits from me to Lucy, then back to me.

One of my eyebrows lifts attentively, but I’m so busy wondering why he’s telling me that I miss whatever good news he wants to share.

“That’s awesome!” Lucy flies across the room and flings herself into his arms.

He wraps her in a bear hug, an amused look on his face. “Isn’t it? You don’t need to go grocery shopping now.”

She relaxes into his embrace. “I know,” she says dreamily. “We can take the train back and eat at my place.”

Clearing my throat, I shake my head. “Uh-uh, we have a deal.”

Stepping back from Cliff, Lucy presses her lips together and gives me a little nod. “Yeah, you’re right. We need to celebrate!” She hugs him again. “I’m so glad you’re coming home,” she says into his chest.

A twinge of jealousy runs through me. I want to be hugging him, celebrating his good news. It’s totally absurd. I don’t know him, and I don’t plan on it. One night is enough for me, and then it’s occasional family gatherings. No hugs or lullabies. I’m going to reintegrate him into society by fucking his brains out, then it’s back to class for me.

“And I’m glad I don’t have to do laundry now.” I toss the bag to the side, then reach for my cigarettes.

“Not so fast,” Lucy says. “It’s still gotta get done. I’m not putting his dirty clothes into my suitcase with my clean clothes.”

Cliff glances back and forth between us. He holds up his hands. They’re huge and square, perfect for massaging naked breasts. Twenty more hot points, which puts him at 110. Off the fucking charts, even with the crusty socks. Fuck me. I think I’m actually going to swoon.

“You don’t have to do that.” He smiles at me—really, for real smiles—and nods toward the bag. “Toss that over. I’ve got it.”

Lucy snorts. Both of us turn toward her. “Dude, you don’t even know how to do laundry.”

He scowls at her. “What do you think I am, a fucking rock? I can figure it out.”

My sister’s lips press together, and I can practically see the laugh throwing itself at her closed mouth, trying to break through. “What if Livvie goes with you? She’s gotta do her own anyway. And mine.” She smiles sweetly at me.

“Tequila,” I remind her.

She nods. “Have fun.”

---


The laundromat is empty, thank goodness. It’s going to be embarrassing enough for the guy to have to be taught how to do laundry. I show him how to load the card at the kiosk, then take him over to the machines.

“You just throw everything in,” I explain, reaching for my laundry bag. But I don’t take my own advice. Reaching for everything slowly, I pause every time I get to a lacy little thong, making sure he sees it. “Then,” I bend over slowly, “you swipe your card, set your time . . .” I straighten and pour detergent and fabric softener into their respective compartments, the liquid a slow drizzle.

When I sneak a glance at him, he’s making zero effort to conceal the fact that he’s staring at me. Suddenly it really sinks in that we’re alone. There’s an employee somewhere, probably reading a magazine or watching evening television. Porn-esque thoughts stampede through my head: Cliff shoving me against the machines, his teeth digging into my lower lip as he sucks on it, his knee between my legs.

A whimper escapes my lips.

The heat in his eyes is searing, flames edging toward my skin, threatening to consume me and reduce me to ashes. And I’m not even at all scared. I want it so bad, I’m shaking.

He takes a step toward me.

Swallowing hard, I move in. I’ve never been one to let anyone else make the first move. I reach for his shoulders, my lips already parting. I’m wetter than I’ve ever been in my life. This is going to be it, the sex that rockstars write songs about. The kind of sex I can look back on when I’m married with two-point-five kids and I’m covered in baby goo. It’ll be the lay to close my list.

I step forward. He closes the distance between us. Rising up on the balls of my feet, I take aim. He reaches behind me. My eyes flutter as I realize he’s going to lift me up onto one of the tables and take me right here.

A beep sounds.

I open my eyes. Cliff takes a step back and turns away. The washing machine begins to fill, water and soap sluicing around my clothes.

“Thanks for your help,” he says over his shoulder, already setting up his own machine.

Heart thundering in my chest, I make a beeline for the door, a cigarette already between my lips. Bad girl, bad girl, bad girl, my heartbeat punctuates my thoughts.

---


Two suitcases stand next to the motel room door, our clothing packed and ready to go. The plan is to hit the bar, have a few drinks, then make the overnight train back up to Connecticut. I like this plan a lot, because if I’m drunk enough, I’ll actually be able to sleep on the damn thing. Sometimes Lucy truly is brilliant.

She’s also a pain in my ass.

“We have to make sure we’re like fifteen minutes early before boarding. We can’t miss this train. I’m leaving the room keys right on the desk, so we’re fucked if we miss it. Okay?”

This is the third time she’s given us this spiel.

I just nod and continue averting my gaze from Cliff. I’m still so embarrassed. One week, and I’m forever going to be the dirty little cousin in his eyes. It’d be nice if he was completely oblivious about the whole thing, but since he’s been avoiding me too, it’s not likely.

“Why are you guys so quiet?” Lucy narrows her eyes at us. “I thought we were all excited about this drinking business.” She pins me with the super-concerned big sister look.

I want to tell her that was before I made a complete ass of myself, that I’m now thinking I should’ve waited until we had enough social lubrication to make bad decisions together, but Cliff is already judging me hardcore, and Lucy absolutely can’t know. So I just shrug. “I’m tired.”

“Good,” she says. “That means you won’t drink too much.”

On the contrary. I’m going to wash this entire day away with Jose Cuervo and enjoy every second of my hangover tomorrow. It’ll be like punishment, and it’ll take my mind off my still-present lady boner.

There’s this patronizing notion that only men need regular sexual affection. Maslow had it right, though—everyone needs sexual healing. And between my last semester, this entire bizarre trip, and now my totally disastrous attempt at seduction in the laundromat, I need some major penile therapy.

Following my sister and Cliff out to the waiting Uber, I pray that there will be one unattached man around my age in the bar who won’t mind getting freaky in the bathroom with me. I need to scratch this itch quick, and masturbation ain’t gonna do it. Sometimes, a girl just needs some cock.

The Uber drops us off at the least promising looking bar ever. Its facade is small, the bricks grimy. Even the OPEN sign in the window is flickering. Dragging my suitcase behind me, I traipse inside, hoping the interior is better.

It isn’t.

The place is so small, there isn’t even a pool table. That kills my ol’ “Hey handsome stranger, let’s play a quick game” routine, and completely eradicates my “Wanna dance?” fallback. Worst of all, there is literally no one here.

A lone woman is tending the bar. She’s old enough to be my great-grandmother and looks worse for the wear. This bar wouldn’t attract anyone, never mind handsome men in their twenties. I hope she at least makes decent drinks, though I suppose she can’t really fuck up tequila shots.

She doesn’t even smile as I lean on the bar. Pale eyes stare placidly back at me, zero fucks given whether I tip or not. It’s unnerving, but I smile anyway.

“We need six shots of tequila,” I tell her, “and open up a tab.”

Cliff makes a noise behind me, something between a throat clearing and a growl. It’s primal and vibrates through me, even if it is dubious. “I’ll just take a beer,” he says, voice rumbling.

Why, I wonder, does he have to be so goddamn sexy? Especially if I can’t have him.

I peer at him over my shoulder. “Beer? You wait twenty years and you just want a beer?”

Brown eyes challenge me to keep making fun of him. A flicker of that heat from earlier returns. “I want a lot of things,” he says in a low voice.

My eyes widen and I grip the bar to remain standing. It occurs to me that he may be fucking with me. I would, if I were him. “I really think you should do shots with me,” I whisper back. I bite my lip, wondering what I’m getting myself into. If he’s purposely toying with me, there may be a good chance I’m getting my bathroom bounce tonight. But his statement shakes me: I want a lot of things. I need to know if he’s one of those guys who get very attached very quickly. For all I know, he’s been planning his wedding for the last two decades.

“Fuck it,” he says, turning to the bartender. “Nine shots of tequila.”

She remains standing there staring at us, as if she’s booting up. Jesus Christ. I might have to climb back there and serve myself.

Suddenly she jerks away and gets to it. Cliff and I exchange glances, and I wonder if anyone else is here with her. Who the hell leaves an old lady to run a bar by herself? I glance around for Lucy, because she so needs to see this.

At first I don’t see her. She’s tucked away, sitting at a high table in a corner. Her legs are draped over her suitcase, her thumbs flying over the screen of her phone. Somehow I’ve got to get her to unwind.

I need to help her get laid when we’re back in Connecticut. I know she isn’t totally devastated over her breakup, but I worry about her, living in that condo all alone. She doesn’t even have a dog.

The sound of a tray sliding over the bar brings my attention back to my mission. I turn to find a tray of nine shots, lime, and salt. Our geriatric bartender winks at me, then shuffles away.

My head whips in Cliff’s direction, but he didn’t see it. His eyes are burning into me. It’s like he already knows how this night is going to end. We’re just following a script, playing our roles. My shoulders relax with relief. He won’t be one of those clingy guys. This will be so easy.

---

Thank you for reading Chapter 4 of A Disturbing Prospect!

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Catch Up

Cliff

It’s been just about twenty-four hours since I got out, and only one thing is very clear: Lucy isn’t happy with me.

Sitting in the coffee shop, I’m very careful to not make eye contact with Olivia or say anything that might be mistaken as flirting. My cousin is full of plans, telling me how she spent the entire train ride researching parole and all that. Since remaining in the state of Pennsylvania isn’t a condition of my release, Lucy thinks we can get me transferred to a P.O. in Connecticut.

All I can think about, though, is how I’ve already disappointed her. I had no idea that Olivia was her sister. My cousin, I guess. They’re seven years apart, which makes her seventeen years younger than me. An entire lifetime, basically. My head is spinning with everything.

“Let’s set up your phone,” Lucy says, scooting closer to me.

I pull the phone out of my pocket. It’s one of her old ones, but completely new to me. Instead of plastic, the screen is glass, and there are almost no buttons. You can send written messages on it or play video games. There are these things called “apps” that allow you to do different things—even video chat. Lucy explains all of this to me again, showing me how to text and FaceTime her.

She also downloads an app called Uber and tells me that I’ll never need to call for a taxi again. Then she downloads Facebook.

“Let’s get you signed up,” she says, her eyes intent on the screen.

Standing up, I leave her to it and amble toward the counter. I need gallons of coffee today. For one, it’s been aeons since I’ve had coffee that didn’t taste like water or mud. No in-between in prison. But really, I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I kept waking up to every little sound, shooting straight up in bed with my fists cocked anytime someone walked past my door.

Old habits die hard.

I order another venti something or other and step to the side while the barista makes it.

“Luce gets kinda batty when she’s nervous,” Olivia says from my elbow.

Literally. I tower over her.

Turning, I glance down at her and nod. “She’s been really helpful. Too helpful.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my brand-new Levis, feeling more than a little guilty. The thermal henley is snug but hugs every muscle in my arms and abs, and the color is right, too.

Black.

Always black.

I’ll never wear orange or tan again.

“Looks good on you,” Olivia says, her eyes roving over me.

Those eyes.

When I was a kid, I had the biggest crush on Christina Ricci in Casper. Olivia’s eyes are just as mesmerizing. A brown so warm, they’re almost liquid. She’s got what they’d call soulful eyes.

Then there are the dimples that pop up every time she smiles. Sweet, yet mischievous. Alluring, like a single beauty mark. Like the dark curls that cascade over her arms. There’s a wildness to her but also a softness, as if she’s straddling heaven and hell.

I’d like for her to straddle me.

I swallow hard. Lucy may not be happy about it, but let’s get real. Olivia is the first woman I’ve been near in the last twenty years. I realize that she was a year old when I went in, and I look away. She’s too young. And she’s basically family. She is off limits. I’ll probably need to tell myself this every five minutes—especially once the three of us are sharing the same motel room. In some ways, this is worse than being in seg.

“So,” Olivia says, and I swear she’s inching closer to me.

I lift my eyebrows at her in what I hope is a “go away, kid, you bother me” look. Seventeen years between us. Twenty-one years old. Too young. Family.

She smirks back at me as if she can read my thoughts. Or she’s fucking with me. “Luce didn’t really say much about you.”

I stiffen, because I know what’s coming: the big question. Olivia doesn’t know yet, and I’d rather keep it that way. I’m going to need all the friends I can muster. That was in the brochure: a solid support system. At the time, it made me roll my eyes, but now it’s my only mission.

Friends. Job. Head down.

I eye Olivia suspiciously, but she doesn’t look away.

“Got any tattoos?” she asks, eyes dancing. Those eyes could kill a man. They’re round and innocent at first glance, but the more I look at her, the more expressive her eyes are. Paired with the dark curls that cascade down her back, and she is man’s ruin.

And I should not be looking at her.

“Nope.”

The barista hands me my coffee and I give her a grateful nod. I glance over at the table we were sitting at, but Lucy still has her face in my phone.

I look quickly at Olivia, then back at my coffee. “You?”

“You’d think someone who, you know, would have a lot of tattoos.” An eyebrow arches. She’s definitely fucking with me.

“I was eighteen when I went in,” I say quietly.

She motions to the door and wiggles her pack of cigarettes in my face. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to beg one of these women to buy me my own pack. I nod and follow her out. We both light up and she steps back, regarding me with too much curiosity.

“How old are you now?” she asks, voice soft. Compassionate, even. She’s not being judgmental. Those eyes are wider than usual, and her lips are pressed together. Like she’s wondering how much she needs to tell me about the world. She’s put two and two together fast, since Lucy had to tell me what Uber is.

I smoke my cigarette and take a swig of coffee to buy myself some time. Because the second I tell her how long it’s been, she’ll know that what I did was bad. And then we probably won’t be friends. I won’t tell her, I decide. If Lucy didn’t want to tell her, I shouldn’t, either. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “We’re cousins, remember?”

“Yes,” she says slowly, as if she’s speaking to someone who is either being obtuse or hasn’t had enough coffee yet. And maybe I haven’t. “So dontcha think we should share things with each other?” She looks pointedly at the cigarette in my hand.

This woman.

“Look,” she says, “Lucy might tell you otherwise, but I’m not a baby. I’ve been drinking and fucking for years now. I think I can handle a little honesty.”

I drop my cigarette and stub it out with my boot. “It’s not my story to tell.” I stride toward the door, suddenly eager to get back to my iPhone lesson. But as I pull the door open, I hear a little snort of doubtful laughter from behind me, and now I know two things.

Lucy isn’t happy with me, and Olivia has got my number.

---


”You have so much catching up to do,” Lucy tells me. We’re camped out in our shared motel room with two doubles: one for the ladies, and the other for the ex-con. We’re supposed to be going out to dinner, but my cousin can’t decide where to take me. “I mean, you don’t even know what a Crunchwrap is. Did you ever have sushi before you went in?”

I glance at the bathroom door. Olivia is getting ready, but I have no idea how much she can hear. “Luce,” I whisper, “how much does she know?” I nod toward the bathroom.

Her face pales, and I instantly regret asking.

I hold up my hands. “I haven’t told her anything. It’s not my place.”

Eyebrows knitting together, she shakes her head. “It’s totally up to you.”

We haven’t really had a chance to talk about this. I’m not even sure she remembers what went down. For all I know, she just remembers taking turns playing Crash Bandicoot in my parents’ living room. Maybe she just remembers how much she loved her big cousin Cliff, and none of the bad things. This only makes me feel guiltier.

“Luce, we really need to—”

The bathroom door opens and Olivia steps out. Everything I was going to say evaporates.

Despite the low temperatures outside, she’s wearing a sweater dress that falls only to her knees. No tights or pantyhose. Bare thigh disappears into knee-high boots. Lucy clears her throat and I realize I’m staring.

“Boom, baby,” Olivia says, turning around in a circle. She points to the makeup around her eyes. It’s smoky and understated, but so fucking sexy. With a wink to Lucy, she says, “Thank you for the palette, by the way.”

My cousin sighs and gestures to the jeans and sweater she’s wearing. “Livvie, we’re just going to Taco Bell.” She looks at me. “I mean, unless there’s something you’re really jonesing for.”

In the twenty years I was inside, I rarely thought about the food I missed. My mom wasn’t much of a cook, and whenever I thought of the delicious things my grandmother used to make, I felt nauseous. So I learned to stop thinking about it, and to appreciate the gray-colored slop on my tray. Because, all things considered, it wasn’t that bad—unless you were in seg. There was no way to pretend those loaves were food.

I shrug and give Lucy a smile. “I’m actually kind of pumped for the Demmel Fast Food Reunion Tour.

Her smile is so big, her eyes go all squinty. For a second, she’s eight again and I’ve let her win at Pokémon cards. “I’ve missed you, Cliff.”

There’s no hint of fear in her eyes. Just admiration. I don’t know what to think. Maybe she really doesn’t remember. “Yeah, you too, kid.” I stand from my bed and spread my arms. “All right, ladies. Lead the way.

Lucy calls another Uber and I make a mental note to ask her how this is less expensive than renting a car. Someday, I promise myself, I’m going to pay her back for all of this. I don’t know how yet, but I will.

The driver takes us through several drive-thrus: Taco Bell, McDonald’s, and a Papa John’s. I’m really suspicious about fast food pizza—which I managed to avoid before I went in—but Olivia gives me eyes that plead with me not to burst Lucy’s bubble.

I would do anything, with those eyes asking.

We take all of our food back to the motel room, and suddenly Olivia’s dress makes a lot of sense. She puts away more food than I could ever eat in one sitting and, as she reminds us, she doesn’t have to unbutton her jeans because she’s not wearing any. Lucy only eats half a cheeseburger, though.

When Olivia and I go onto the balcony for our after dinner smoke, I forget that I’m kind of nervous to be alone with her—for multiple reasons.

“What’s up with Lucy?” I ask.

She hugs herself against the cold. I was all for breaking the non-smoking room rule, but she insisted that we go out. “I’ve been wondering the same thing,” she says.

I’m taken aback by her honesty. Most women would just shrug and pretend not to know. “So this really isn’t her.”

Leaning against the railing, Olivia shakes her head. “Ever since she told me she was coming to see you.”

So Lucy does remember. She must. “Did she say why she wanted to come?” I need to know whether she pities me or is afraid of me.

“Lucy doesn’t usually explain her choices to us peons.” Olivia sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on with her. We usually tell each other everything.” She pins me with one of her looks. “I was hoping you might give me some insight.”

If I don’t tell her, the brain behind those eyes is going to be on overdrive trying to figure it out. I can already sense that Olivia isn’t the kind of person who is satisfied with the status quo. And it’s been clear that she sees straight through anyone’s bullshit. Even mine. Our eyes meet, and I hold her gaze. Trying to decide. To tell, or not.

Her eyes narrow. A dimple appears in her cheek. “I bet you got put away because Lucy jacked a car and you took the fall.”

At least, I hope so. “Nothing like that,” I tell her.

“So no car-jacking?” She leans close, and I can smell her perfume. It’s a warm mix of vanilla and sandalwood, maybe even some jasmine. Her lips are only inches from mine. All I have to do is duck down, sweep her into my arms, and—
The sliding glass door rolls open and Lucy steps out onto the balcony with us. We separate like smoke, and I return my attention to locking lips with my cigarette.

Lucy waves her phone in the air. “I just got an email from your probation officer. He said he’ll submit the form for your request.” She grins, bouncing on the balls of her feet a little. “You can come home. Maybe even in a couple days!”

“That’s great, Luce. Thank you.” I wrap an arm around her. “For everything.” I press a kiss to the side of her head and she nuzzles in. I would do anything for this woman, and it’s still not enough. It never will be.

“So now we need to talk about where you’re going to stay,” she says, ducking out of my embrace. She bounces back toward the door. “Inside, where it’s warm.” She waves for us to hurry, then slips back into the warmth of the room.

Olivia snubs out her cigarette and tilts her head back to look up at me. “I’d say you can stay with me,” she says with a smirk, “but I have to share my apartment with another girl. We even get undressed in front of each other.”

When she sweeps past me, she presses her ass into my thigh. Then she disappears inside. When I glance down at my cigarette, I realize it went out minutes ago.

---


I thought leaving Lewisburg was going to be the hardest part, but Lucy seized that little problem by the reins. It took almost a week, but our request was approved. My new P.O. insisted we meet the second I set foot back in Connecticut—a relatively simple condition, considering I thought I’d never go home again.

Home.

I’m not even sure Naugatuck is home anymore. I have no family left, other than Lucy. I guess Olivia, too, though we have different last names. Her name is Reynolds, and it suits her. It’s a German surname, meaning “to rule.” If that isn’t Olivia, I don’t know what is.

If Lucy took over my case, Olivia has consumed my thoughts. Though I no longer jump at every single sound during the night, I’m wide awake thinking about her. I replay bits of conversation we shared during the day. I trace her face onto the velvety underside of my eyes. And sometimes I even dream about her.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but this week I’ve already had three dirty dreams starring Olivia Reynolds. Living in a motel room with two women has made it really hard to be a man. The only alone time I get is when I’m shitting or showering. I’ve jerked off more times than I can count, and I’m pretty sure both of them think I have an odd fixation on cleanliness. So far, neither of them have noticed my extracurricular activities. But if I don’t get back in the game soon, it’s going to get a lot harder.

In more than one way.

Obviously it can’t be Olivia. I’ve already resolved to stay away from her, and she’s too close to me anyway. It has to be a one-night stand, with a woman I’ll never see again. Lewisburg is a good choice, considering Pennsylvania is several states away from home and, in a few more days, I’ll be gone forever. But I can’t figure out how to meet any women around here.

Though drinking isn’t against the terms of my parole, there’s no way I’ll be able to go to a bar alone. Neither of them mean to be helicopters, but these two are almost worse than the C.O.s in prison. Plus, I don’t have a dollar to my name. It seems kind of wrong to ask to borrow money and then tell Lucy she can’t come with me. And since they’ve been feeding me and attending to every single one of my needs, there’s really no excuse for me to go anywhere on my own.

At least not until it’s time to meet with my Lewisburg probation officer.

It’s more of a formality, since I’m transferring, but it gives me the out I need. I tell Lucy and Olivia that I don’t know how long it’ll take, then walk to the office. It’s cold as fuck, but walking keeps me warm and gives me time to think. One of the conditions of my parole is finding a full-time job within thirty days or at least enrolling in a full-time continuing education program. I’d already graduated high school when I went in—with a pretty sweet GPA—so I could go to college if I wanted to.

But I’m already so much older than the kids taking English 101. If I matriculated now, I’d be almost forty-three by the time I graduate. And I don’t even know what I’d study. All of my pre-penitentiary hopes and dreams seem silly now. No one is going to hire a felon like me, even with an undergraduate degree.

The Department of Social Services office looks like every other government building: squat, yellow-gray, and brick. I stroll through the doors and give my name to the security guard. I’m waved through and led to a small windowless office with a grubby gray carpet. Bright florescent lights press down on me. A mustached P.O. with a bald head and deep brown skin sits across from me behind a desk and holds out his hand for me to shake. His hair is as gray as the floor, and the bags under his eyes suggest he’s probably not very alert.

The name sewn on his uniform is Ntshiza.

“How you doing, man?” I greet him.

He nods, long and slow. “How are you?” His voice is deep and gravelly, as tired as he looks.

I wonder if he’s tired because he dedicates himself to his clients. I decide to try and find out. “Lousy,” I tell him. “I can’t sleep and I’m freaked out. My cousin is picking out my clothes and I need to get laid.”

Ntshiza laughs. “Aren’t you a breath of fresh air.” He settles back in his seat. “Okay, son. You’re only here for a little longer, so there’s not much I can do for you.”

I sit forward. “Yeah. I got the email that my request was approved.”

He gives me another slow series of nods. Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He lights up and then slides them to me, touching a finger to his nose and lips like Santa Claus. “You have to see your new probation officer in three days, understand?” The smoke curls from his mouth, drifting into the air.

I nod. “I won’t fuck this up.”

“For your sake, I hope not.” He regards me with solemn brown eyes. There’s warmth in them, too, though. “Demmel, you’re not a bad guy.”

I exhale smoke toward the ceiling. “Do you tell all of your guys that?”

Ntshiza shakes his head. “Just the ones I believe in. Listen, your new P.O. is a friend of mine. We go way back. He’ll go easy on you and he’ll help you, if you let him. Got it?”

I nod again, feeling like a little kid in the principal’s office. Ntshiza is the first person in a position of power in the last twenty years to really give a shit about me. I probably should take what he’s saying with a grain of salt, but it feels so fucking good to have someone on my side, even if he’s an old and tired P.O.

“He’s got a job lined up for you.”

I sit up straighter. “Really?” I wonder what it is. Maybe the job is really terrible. Still, I want to hope.

“Your file mentioned that you got into quite a few fights during your sentence—usually in defense of other inmates.” Ntshiza fixes me with this owlish, knowing stare.

I almost feel bad that he thinks so highly of me. “Yes sir.”

“As I’m sure you probably don’t know, the economy is shit, especially in your hometown area. But Govender—he’s your P.O. up north—was able to find you something. It’s full-time, night hours. And it doesn’t violate your parole, because it’s part of the job.”

Now I’m more than curious. I lean forward. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll be a bouncer at a . . . night club.” Ntshiza sort of coughs and clears his throat.

I stroke my goatee, an eyebrow cocked. “A night club, huh?”

He sighs and gives in. “It’s a strip club.”

“It sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of this,” I say. There’s no way I’d turn this down, even if I wasn’t sex deprived. I need a job, plain and simple. I’d take just about anything.

After taking a drag off his cigarette, he flicks ash into the pot of a spider plant. Surprisingly, the thing is thriving, its spindly leaves taking over the desk. He points the cigarette at me. “Don’t get any ideas while you’re in there.”

I lean forward, grabbing my jaw with one hand. “What are you getting at?” I’d never go after any of the women. The only way I’d get into any trouble would be if one of the scumbags there attacked any of the dancers. But like Ntshiza said, it’d be part of the job. There’s no way I can fuck this up. I should be thanking him, but I can only stare at him in bewilderment. Not for the first time this week, I’m deeply confused.

Ntshiza closes his eyes for a moment. When he reopens them, he actually looks concerned, as if he’s my father trying to teach me something. But those days are long past. I’m old enough to have my own sons. This realization makes me a little sad. So much time has passed, and I’ve missed out on so much. There’s a very real chance that I won’t be able to regain any of the things I’ve lost.

“Son,” my P.O. says, “this particular strip club is owned by a motorcycle club. Ever heard of the River Reapers?”

Figures. Pushing my chair back, I stand. “You’ve had your fun. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find a real job.” Sooner rather than later. I’ve only got four weeks left.

“Wait,” Ntshiza says. “I just wanted you to have all the details. The River Reapers are in the ninety-nine percent. You have nothing to worry about.”

I don’t know what any of this means. When I went in, I was just a kid. Now I’m basically just an overgrown version of that same teenage boy. I lean on the back of the chair, draping my arms over it. “Sure,” I say, stuffing my exasperation down. “So when do I start?”

“Just go to the club as soon as you get into town. They’ll give you your schedule.” He slides a folder across his desk to me and crosses his arms.

I guess I’m dismissed.

---

Thank you for reading Chapter 3 of A Disturbing Prospect, Book 1 in the River Reapers MC series.

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Cliff

The second the sun touches my skin on the other side of the barbed wire chain link fence, I am truly free. It doesn’t matter that I have to meet with my probation officer, or that I don’t exactly have any place to go. All that’s important is I’m not rotting within those cement walls anymore.

My twenty years are finally up.

The taxi idles, puffs of exhaust eddying into the cold February air. The dead of winter is a shitty time to be homeless, but even that thought doesn’t dampen my spirits. Prison wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t like being outside. Inside, I was just a caged animal throwing myself at the bars, bruising and bloodying myself in defiance. I was in segregation more times than I can count, and I’m lucky I got out five years early.

I’d kiss the fucking ground if the guy behind the wheel wasn’t already eyeing me warily.

I slide into the backseat, warmth from the heater enveloping me. A sigh nearly escapes my lips. It’s been so long since I was really, truly warm.

Through the rearview mirror, the taxi driver continues to question my sanity. He isn’t prejudiced. “Where to, sir?” he asks, his voice void of any accent. He could be from Anywhere, America. Actually, the United States could’ve sunk into the bowels of hell while I was inside, for all I know. Maybe this accent is the new norm.

I squint at him, trying to decide whether I’ve lost my fucking mind or if this is really the way things are now. He even looks racially ambiguous, with a broad hooked nose, green eyes, and olive skin.

The newspapers I managed to get my hands on were always old, and the old men hogged the lone fucking TV all day. I have no clue what’s going on in the world. Or where I’m going.

Maybe he takes pity on me, because his eyes soften and he clears his throat. “How long have you been in, sir?”

I really wish he’d stop with the sir, but it’s better than what I’ve been called. What I am. Who. “Twenty years,” I tell him.

He nods real slow, then he rubs his chin, the stubble not quite poking through yet. It’s too early in the day. It’s another difference between us. My goatee is scratchy. I didn’t have time to shave this morning.

“Well,” he says finally. “We have a woman president.”

This I knew. I start to tell him that I haven’t been living in a fucking hole, but that would not be true. “Isn’t that something,” I reply.

He shoves the taxi into drive and pulls away from the only home I’ve ever known. I’ve been inside longer than I’d been alive when I went in.

A sliver of panic creeps in. I don’t know how to cook or how to drive a car. It seems ridiculous, pathetic. And I still don’t know where I’m going. I have no one on the outside. At least, I don’t think so.

During the first year, I had visitors. Then they trickled into phone calls, faded into letters, until finally, nothing. I don’t blame them. Twenty years is a long time, and Pennsylvania isn’t exactly close to home.

The taxi driver takes me to a Days Inn. I don’t even bother looking through the glass as we drive through the small town. There’s not a damn thing here.

I use most of the only cash I have left to buy a room for the night, and when I leave the lobby to find my room, the taxi is already gone. Blinking into the winter gloom, it starts to sink in that I don’t have any friends, inside or out.

I’m a goddamn statistic.

But the room has a shower that doesn’t run cold after two minutes, and I take a half hour to revel in my first real taste of freedom. The hot water sluices over hard muscle I’ve been careful to build and maintain. My own mother probably wouldn’t recognize me.

After I step out, I clear the mirror with a hand and take a good look. It’s been a while since I looked at my reflection in something other than a mirror that more closely resembled a dented paper towel dispenser. In the pen, everything is constructed with safety in mind, carefully evaluated to ensure that even the simplest of tools can’t be converted into deadly weapons.

But anything can be a weapon.

Anything.

Even my bare hands.

The goatee doesn’t surprise me. It’s familiar and has kept my face warm for two decades. It’s the crow’s feet at the corners of my brown eyes that make me pause. I’m only thirty-eight, but even though I don’t feel it, I look it. Maybe even five years older.

A frown creases my forehead.

It really shouldn’t matter. I’m not entering any beauty pageants anytime soon. And any woman who might be interested would be quick to run in the opposite direction the second she heard about my record.

She’d be careless not to.

I drape the towel over the hook on the back of the door and stalk out bare as the day I was born. There’s no one here to see me, and I’m not too keen on the idea of changing back into those clothes. They were donated to the prison. Never were mine. The clothes I wore the day I was cuffed are long gone, tucked into some forgotten evidence bin or maybe even burned, since the case was pretty quickly closed.

There was no point in pleading innocence.

I sit on the bed and eye the phone. I might have one friend out there. It’s a long shot, really. But maybe not that long.

Snatching the phone from its cradle, I pause. Try to remember how to call someone whose number you don’t have. I have no fucking idea. I slam the receiver down, wishing I had a pack of cigarettes. Or even one cigarette would do.

I’m about to throw back on those moldy old clothes when I remember. I can call the front desk, ask them. For a second, I feel even more pathetic. I’m like an old man with dementia. I’m lucky I don’t need help wiping my ass.

The outside is so much different than I pictured.

The closer I got to my parole hearing, the more convinced I was that there would be some kind of process. A sort of easing into things for the post-release inmate. When I mentioned it to my C.O., motherfucker laughed at me and handed me a booklet. The morning of my release, he handed me some cash—my total earnings. Twenty years of pennies on the hour, and I can’t even afford a second night at a shithole motel.

I need to make that call, because it’s the only chance I have.

Otherwise, I’ll be right back in within hours of walking out.

Sucking in a breath between my teeth, I pick up the phone again and call the front desk.

A chipper female voice answers—a young voice. “Days Inn front desk. How can I help you?”

“Hey there, sweetheart,” I drawl. My voice is smoked whiskey, smooth but with a bite. “I need to look someone up in Connecticut.”

She draws in a breath, then hesitates. “You’re serious?” Her voice lilts, amused.

I lay it on thick, dropping my voice several octaves—still sweet, but low enough to drop panties. “Yeah, baby. I really need your help.”

A giggle caresses my ear before she can collect herself. She’s definitely young.

I close my eyes for a moment, the memory of another small laugh pricking at me. The anger rises up quickly, fire shooting through my veins. I struggle to stuff it down, to shove the lid on it before it can backdraft, blowing me straight out of the room and right back into Lewisburg Pen.

“What’s the name?” she asks, completely oblivious to the man burning on the other end.

Sucking in a deep breath, I manage to slow it for a moment. “Lucy Demmel.” Saying her name only makes it worse. The panic shoves its way in. I wonder if she’s even alive. If she’s healthy. Safe. Or if she’s just another statistic, too. I jump up from the bed. Pace the room. Wait.

The receptionist spells out our last name, and the sound of tapping reaches my ears. It’s a weird tapping, though—a computer keyboard.

I frown. “Aren’t you going to patch me through?”

She laughs. “I’m looking her up on Facebook. Hold on.”

My eyebrows furrow. Facebook? Before I can ask what the fuck that is, my angel lets out a triumphant “Ah-ha!” and rattles off a number to me. I fumble for the pen and notepad in the drawer, ask her to repeat it, and jot it down.

“Are you sure that’s really her?” I need to know, because I can’t take the disappointment.

“Lucy Demmel,” she says, as if she’s reading. “Twenty-eight, lives in Naugatuck, Connecticut. Went to Naugatuck High School. She’s in a relationship—”

“Wait.” I take another deep breath. “How do you know all this?” The age is right. The town, too. “Never mind,” I say, even as my angel laughs at me. Flat out laughs. Not just amused. She’s almost hysterical. “How does she look?”

The laughter dies. “You’re not, like, a stalker . . . are you?”

I sigh. “She’s my cousin. Same last name. Come on. What does she look like?”

She makes a skeptical sound, like a hmph. “Maybe I shouldn’t have given you her number. Oh shit. Am I going to get fired? Please don’t get me fired. I can’t keep a job—”

Christ. I’ve always been a magnet for headcases. “Shh, baby. I’m not a stalker. She really is my cousin. Check my room records. My last name is Demmel. But don’t call me Clifford, or I’ll . . .” The threat dies on my lips, because it’s not an idle one. I blink, and wonder how long it’ll take for the prison effect to wear off. How long before I’m normal again. I don’t even know who I am anymore, or what normal is.

“She has long red hair. Kinda wavy, like. Real sad green eyes. And . . .” Her pause stretches, almost endless. “A beauty mark or mole thing right near her eyebrow.”

I almost cry with relief. That’s my Lucy.

“Her last post: ‘Strength isn’t keeping your tears locked up when you’re sad, it’s saying no to a marriage proposal from the sexiest, sweetest man alive, even when everyone expects you to say yes. Fuck that shit.'” She snorts. “What?” She whisper-reads it again.

That fucked up sense of humor is Lucy, all the way. I rattle off the phone number back at my angel to make sure I got it right, then hang up.

I pick up the phone again and dial the number. It rings, the connection crackly but real. I almost lose my shit. I don’t know what I’m going to say. Or if she even remembers me. She was so little. Maybe she blocked the whole thing out.

A loud male voice booms into my ear. “PLEASE DIAL THE NUMERAL ONE BEFORE THE AREA CODE. This is a recording.”

I hang up, muttering a “No shit.” Clearing my throat, I try again—this time dialing one. I vaguely remember needing to do that before I went in.

This time, the call goes through. It rings five times, and then my heart stops.
“Hey, you’ve reached Lucy. You know what to do, dontcha?”

The disappointment shoots into me. My shoulders slump and I almost drop the phone onto the floor.

“Please leave a message after the tone. When you are finished recording, hang up, or press one for more options.”

A shrill beep pierces my ears, and I nearly drop the phone again.

“Shit. No, wait. Sorry, Luce.” I pause. Suddenly I really have no idea what to say. “Uh, yeah. Luce, this is Cliff. I don’t know if you remember me. It’s been ages since I got a letter from you. I assumed your parents shut that shit down real fast. Sorry. Well, I guess you’re not eight anymore, so it’s okay to swear around you.”

I’m babbling. Taking a deep breath, I try to make words that won’t freak her out.

“Luce, I know this is asking a lot. And do you even go by Luce anymore? Or do you prefer Lucy?” I rake my free hand through my hair. I’m fucking this up. Majorly. I let out a low, frustrated sound. “Okay, look, I’m at the Days Inn in Lewisburg. Fucking Pennsylvania, Luce. I’m just gonna lay it all out here: I have no money, nowhere to go, and I have to stick around at least long enough to see my parole officer. So maybe . . .”

Suddenly I realize how desperate I sound. But I am.

“Sorry to bother you, Luce—Lucy. Just forget it.”

I hang up.

Dressing, I decide I’m better off spending my time finding a job. If I’m going to get out of this ass crack of a town, I’m gonna need cash—fast. There’s got to be a diner or something looking for suckers who don’t mind bussing tables for minimum wage. And maybe they’ll even overlook my record.

The odds of me finding a job are even lower than finding Lucy. I figure my angel at the front desk can’t possibly save me twice, but maybe she can. Maybe she’s from around here and knows of a place that will hire without asking questions. Or she can at least point me to the closest drug dealer so I can start selling too.

I really will be a statistic if I don’t get my shit together.

My hand is on the door knob when the phone rings. I freeze, then turn in slow motion toward the nightstand where the phone rests. But it keeps ringing, and I have to accept that I’m not imagining it.

I dart across the room and grab it, pressing it to my ear. “Yeah. Lucy?”

“Cliff,” she sobs. “Is it really you?”

A relieved sigh escapes my lips. “It’s me,” I say with a smile. She sounds so different, yet I’d know that voice anywhere.

“You’re really out? I can’t believe it. I thought you had another five years.”
“Yeah, I got lucky. Overcrowding and good behavior.” Mostly. Plus I had a lawyer that was really good at talking judges into dreamland.

“Cliff, holy shit. Where are you? I mean, I know where, but when are you coming home?” She’s talking so fast, I can barely understand her. I love every second of it.

I hate to disappoint her. Even after all these years. “Luce . . .”

I can almost hear her shoulders slump. “You’re not coming home?”

“Not likely. At least, not anytime soon. I’m broke, kid. And I—”

“I’ll PayPal you some money,” she says, and now she’s really talking fast. I strain to understand her, the words like a foreign language. At least her accent is Connecticut.

I let her finish, again wishing I had a cigarette. Something to calm my nerves.

“Cliff? You there?”

Swallowing past the dry lump in my throat, I tell her I am. “I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about, Luce.”

“Okay, just give me your email address.”

She’s going to think I’m an alien, that the games we played when she was a kid were real. “I don’t have one.”

She barks out a laugh. “What? Oh. No Wi-Fi in prison.”

“Wi-Fi?” My head starts to throb.

“Um . . . Like AOL, but wireless.” She laughs again. “Wow, this is so funny. You’re like a newborn.”

It’s good that she can be so positive about this—about anything.

“All right, let me think.” She hums a little. “No email address, and I’m guessing you don’t have a bank account either. Jesus, prison is inhumane. Well, there’s only one solution.”

I shrug, because seeing as how I can barely grasp this Wi-Fi stuff, I’m probably going to be blown away by whatever she comes up with.

“Cliff, text me your address.”

The throbbing between my eyes intensifies. “Luce, I don’t—”

“Fuck,” she yells. “You probably don’t even know what a cell phone is.”

“I know what a cell phone is,” I shoot back.

“Yeah, the clunky TV-remote-looking ones from the early 2000s,” she jokes.

Both of my eyebrows lift. “Everything is different now, huh?” My voice is low, but not that flirtatious purr I used on the girl at the front desk. I sound sad. I need to man the fuck up.

“It is,” she agrees. “But don’t worry. I’m gonna take care of you, reintroduce you to the wild. And teach you how to play Pokémon GO.”

“I know how to play Pokémon,” I grumble.

She laughs again. “This is way different, trust me. It uses GPS and—”

“Okay, mercy. My head hurts.”

Her giggle, however, is a soothing mother’s stroke across my forehead. It reminds me of better times. “I’m gonna come down there, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. I’m supposed to be a man. It should be me taking care of her, not the other way around.

She snorts. “Dude,” she says, “trust me. You need a guide. And I’m currently on vacation, licking my wounds.”

I suddenly remember what the receptionist read to me. “You got married?”

“No,” she says, almost sadly. “It’s against my rules.”

“What are you, a nun?” For a second, it feels like I’ve gone back twenty years in time, like we’re just kids busting each other’s balls.

“Nuns,” she says, “don’t have one-night stands.”

I nearly choke. “I don’t ever want to know about your sex life.”

“You sure? You don’t want to live vicariously? Must’ve been awfully lonely in prison.” I can practically hear her smirking.

“No,” I tell her firmly. A few seconds pass. My voice softens. “Hey, Luce? Thanks.”

Her voice is so small when she finally responds. “No, Cliff, thank you.”

I shake my head, wondering if other people have these kinds of conversations. Sighing, I let her direct the conversation for a few. She rattles off times and schedules, then promises to be at my room before checkout time.

“Please set a wakeup call,” she begs.

“Yeah, yeah.” I smile, though. “Hey, Luce? What’s Facebook?”

---

Thank you for reading Chapter 1 of A Disturbing Prospect, Book 1 in the River Reapers MC series.

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You can also like, comment on, and share this post. Every little bit helps.

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