in a coffeehouse.
“I look forward to the challenge,” Jake mocks from his seat on said couch, and then he has the audacity to wink at me. He winks. Quickly, I turn my back on the hunky, smirky, sexy silver fox and strut across the wooden planks to exit the Busy Bean. Only as I use my backside to push the door open, I glance back at Jake Drummond once more and find him watching me with those cinnamon hot lips quirked up on one side, and I realize he’s going to be difficult to ignore as he recently started to work with me.
2
Jake
That Rita Kaplan is a pain in my ass. Not only would she not sign off on my meeting sheet a week ago, but she is the supervisor where I work, and now she’s staking claim to some antique piece of furniture in a coffee shop. She’s insane. And something about her makes me want to push all her buttons. Push her and her buttons right up against a wall and fuck some sense into her.
Jesus, Jake. I swipe a hand down my face and fall back on the cushions, not realizing how tense I’d been in her presence. The tension is due to my absence on the sex scene and the need to expel some seriously pent-up energy soon. Only problem is not many women are interested in an ex-arson investigator, ex-convict, and ex-husband. The final ex doesn’t really define me, but it fits with all the other things I’ve been ex-ed out of in the last decade.
With a shaky hand, I lift the coffee mug of dark roast to my lips and sip. In my opinion, people do not appreciate good coffee enough. I get it they’ll pay exorbitant amounts for a decent brew, but do they actually savor the flavor, the satisfaction, and the downright joy of drinking a good cup of coffee? I know I didn’t until I had to live with the piss-poor sludge served in the state penitentiary. As far as prisons go, it wasn’t the worst. It wasn’t riddled with gang warfare and boyfriend swapping like I’ve heard of in other places. This was Vermont. We’re all grunge-happy, ice cream royalty, organic farming, and woodland animal safety. Cue the bitterness of being trapped like an animal for seven long fucking years.
Taking a deep breath, I remind myself I’m free. I’m liberated from schedules and constraints, and someone telling me when I can shower, shit, and watch television. I’m able to be me, only I no longer know who that is. I’m also not one-hundred percent unshackled. I still have the mandatory parole period, including enforced work-placement and required AA meetings. It’s a cross I’ll bear to get me to the other side—true freedom and possible escape from Vermont. As soon as I’ve done the remainder of my time, I am outta here, said with all the lackluster gangster in me. I want to be so far gone from this place, this state, and all the haunting memories.
The thought saddens me as I’m finally able to see my brother without a partition between us or a supervisor watching over me as we sit at a folding table in cold chairs. Soon, I will see my nephew, who is no longer a teenager but a grown adult. Rory has come far despite the fumbles and foils of two men trying to raise a reckless boy into a good man. Just this summer, he’ll be graduating from law school. My heart fills with pride while bittersweet over Rory’s accomplishments. So much had been sacrificed to ensure he became more than his father or myself.
Willing away thoughts of things I cannot change, I brush my hand over the velvety worn material on this ugly couch and chuckle. Rita returns to my mind. Who does that woman think she is? Thinking she holds the rights to a piece of furniture in a public coffeehouse?
The first time I met Rita Kaplan was at an AA meeting a week ago. The local church hosts them in their basement, and as part of my parole, I must attend. It’s bullshit if you ask me, and my behavior illuminates my attitude about attendance.
“We have someone new with us tonight. Would you like to introduce yourself and tell us a little bit about your story?” Rita’s cheerful voice was like nails on a chalkboard, but it was her eyes that scratched me. We’d only crossed gazes, but it felt like she