Lifers (34 page)

“Cover that lumber before you pump her…”

“Ugh!”

“And my personal favorite, ‘Wrap your bait before you mate’.”

“Gross! Just as long as they do the job.”

“Sweetheart, I’m cleaner than an ice cube in Alaska, but I wouldn’t want to knock you up unless you wanted to be.”

I choked, turning it into a cough while my eyes watered.

He rubbed my back gently.

“If you wanted kids, I’d be honored to be your baby-daddy,” he said, planting a soft kiss in my hair.

“Not a good conversation to have right now,” I insisted.

He gave a small smile and lay back on the pillows.

“I’m all yours, sweetheart. Do your worst.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Not really. I trust you.”

For the second time in less than a minute, his words shocked me.
He
trusted me
. After everything he’d been through, with all the challenges he faced, he trusted
me
.

“I won’t hurt you,” I said, quietly.

He smiled up at me. “I know.”

I leaned down, and he tilted his face to capture my lips with his. Then he licked up my throat to behind my jaw and nipped at my earlobe, making me squirm.

He moved again, his tongue circling my nipple, and I pushed my chest into his face, begging him to take more. He ran his calloused hands over my breasts, the rough skin delicious on my overheated flesh.

Between my thighs, his dick twitched again and I ground down on him, eliciting a rough growl of desire.

I rubbed his tip over my clit and a shiver went through me.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered. “Can I do some of that other stuff on your list? Because it was a real fuckin’ turn on, you talkin’ ‘bout it.”

“Which parts?”

“Hmm, I’d like to taste that sweet lil’ pussy of yours—preferably before the lube from the condom makes it taste like ass. Uh, sorry, that came out wrong. Aw, hell! You know what I mean!”

“Luckily for you I do!” I said, halfway between a laugh and a porn-star moan of longing.

He rolled me over then knelt on the floor, dragging me to the edge of the bed. Then he grabbed my feet and rested them on his shoulders.

“Open wide!” he grinned devilishly, dipping his head toward me.

God! His stubbly chin over my clit set off a tidal wave of lust. Sparks of electricity started shooting down my legs, making me curl my toes.

“Oh, freakin’ yes!” I yelled, forgetting his father was sleeping down the hall.

He unfurled his tongue winding it around the nub in slow, sensuous flicks. Then he pushed two of those skilled mechanic’s fingers inside me, massaging my inner edge. I couldn’t work out if it was all that flirty talking, or 36 hours without having him inside me, who knows, but I came harder than a freight train.

Poor guy! He had to put his palm over my mouth to try and stifle the piercing shrieks I was making. A pillow might have worked better.

My legs trembled and one foot slipped from his shoulder. He caught it before I could kick him in the nuts.

“Good so far?” he chuckled.

I grunted something monosyllabic and didn’t object when he hauled me back up the bed and flipped me over.

“Ready for more?” he asked, his voice suddenly strained.

“Uh huh,” I said, eloquently.

A finger up my butt brought me around quickly, and I gasped.

“Just my finger, sweetheart, I swear. I’d never hurt you.”

Then he dragged my hips back so I was on all fours, and he pushed inside gently, filling me, stretching me. Yeah, no way that dick was ever fitting up my ass.
Ever.

He pulled out deliciously slowly and pushed back inside in a long, sensual stroke.

“Oh, fuck, this is going to be too quick,” he bit out.

“Then make it hard!” I gasped.

He obliged immediately, hammering into me, the finger in my butt still dipping in and out with a different rhythm.

He shuddered suddenly, and I heard a strangled cry from the hot breath on my back. He pinched my clit, silently begging me to follow quickly. Overwhelmed by sensations, I clenched around him as frenzied waves took control of my body.

We collapsed together, dual breaths panting across the sheets.

Two doors down, I heard the toilet flush.

“I think we woke your dad,” I mumbled.

“Looks like,” he said, his silent laugh shaking the bed.

I fell asleep instantly. The next time I woke up, the bed beside me was cold and empty.

Instead, there was a small flower plucked from the backyard, resting on a note.

I unfolded the paper and saw an amazingly detailed pencil sketch of me sleeping. Jordan must have sat at the bottom of the bed drawing me while I slept.

And then I read the words he’d written.

‘A life without love is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.’

I love you.

Jordan x

Jordan 

Life started getting good once Momma left. We all knew it was true, and that kind of sucked. She was still my momma, even though she didn’t want to be. But the tension in the house left with her, and everything was calmer.

Hulk was giving me three days most weeks, and I’d had four clients ask for personal designs painted on their cars and trucks. Two more were lined up. I had a freakin’ waiting list! Torrey said I should put together a portfolio. I didn’t know about that, but it was a good feeling. Scratch that—it was a
great
feeling, like people saying I was good at something for a change.

Dad and Momma were talking, I think, but she still refused to come home while I was there. It hurt, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Dad was learning to accept me again and on the rare evenings when Torrey wasn’t around, we had some real conversations. We had to get to know each other again with eight years to catch up on. I’d been a boy when I was sent away; I’d grown up fast, and he didn’t quite know what to make of the man who’d come home.

When I told him about the first couple of months in juvie and how I’d tried to kill myself, he broke down in tears. I think it made it real for him, how close he’d come to losing both his sons. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that the first time I tried to end my own life wasn’t the last. Some things were best kept hidden even now.

From what he told me about that time, he and Momma had pretty much just shut down. He also admitted that it had been their decision to block me from coming to Mikey’s funeral. That hurt a lot.

Most everyone in the high school had gone, by the sound of it, including the teachers. Even some of the football players from other high schools had turned up in their team colors as a mark of respect. Mikey’s best friend Ryan Dupont gave the eulogy, and the gym had been used to host the wake after the funeral. My name wasn’t mentioned.

Gradually, I began to really talk to my dad. I had a lot of trust issues and hadn’t forgotten that he and Momma had basically thrown me to the wolves eight years ago, but Torrey had taught me that keeping it all inside was poison to us. Momma was the living proof of that.

So I told him about some of the crazy stunts Mikey and I had gotten up to, and I think it opened his eyes to a few things. I felt okay about telling him Mikey’s secrets after all of these years. It kind of put things in perspective for both of us. I wasn’t no saint, but I wasn’t all sinner either. It had been a bit of a shock for him to find out how heavily into weed Mikey had been. I’d always been more of a drinker. He wanted me to promise that once my parole was over that I wouldn’t go back to the booze. I couldn’t do that—I was looking forward to having a beer now and again. I’d probably stay away from hard liquor, but I was done making promises I couldn’t keep.

Our relationship was a work in progress but we were getting there.

As for Momma … it wasn’t looking good.

Things with Torrey and me were fan-fucking-tastic. I didn’t change my mind about her being the best thing that had ever happened to me. We’d been dating nearly three months and she never ceased to amaze me with her strength and beauty and love of life. And, slowly at first, we started making plans together for the future, our future. God, I loved saying that!
Our future.

After that first night when Momma left, Torrey never really went home again—to the Rectory. The Reverend wanted her to stay there, but had refused to allow Torrey to have me in their home. That was a deal breaker as far as she was concerned. Torrey’s view was that if the Rectory was truly her home, too, then her momma would allow me inside. The Rev’s view was she wouldn’t condone us having a physical relationship out of wedlock. Yeah right, like half her parishioners weren’t shacked up together. She wasn’t saying it, but the real reason was my ex-con badge. Torrey said she was a freakin’ hypocrite, and didn’t want anything to do with her.

I wasn’t happy that they’d fallen out because of me, but Torrey insisted that she wasn’t going to compromise on this. Woman was stubborn.

Despite Torrey putting her money where her mouth was, so to speak, she also admitted that she was shit scared of commitment. We talked about that a lot. In different ways, it was important to both of us. For her, it came down to having watched her parents’ marriage disintegrate. It had left a mark on her, and I don’t think it helped that Dad and Momma had severe problems, too. But we were working things out, kind of making it up as we went along.

Things in town were pretty much the same, maybe even a little better. Most times I visited, Torrey was with me, and folk were less likely to start something when she was around. I felt bad that she was my human shield, and frankly it sucked being such a freakin’ pussy that I had to hide behind my woman.

But the day when the asshats had tried to get me to fight them had really made Torrey understand why I reacted the way I did; it had made her see that even the slightest breath of trouble, and my parole would be revoked. No way was I going back to prison.
Ever
. No fucking way. I’d rather die.

Officer Carson turned out to be pretty nice. I saw her every couple of weeks or so.

The house searches continued every five or six weeks, but we worked around them. Sometimes it was a guy called Martins. We all hated him. He threw his weight around and made it pretty damn clear that he thought I was no better than a shit stain on his shorts, and that he expected me to fuck up any moment.

Torrey hated them the most. Her shit was all over the house. I swear, she was the untidiest person I’d ever met. She only had to be home a few minutes and her shoes were in one room, her purse in another, her sweater somewhere else. She lost her cell phone ten times a day; I was tempted to put her car keys on a leash and tie them to her. The bathroom was littered with lipstick and face stuff and God-knows-what. I pretended it drove me crazy, but really, I loved it. I think she knew that.

Waking up with her in my arms every morning was officially the best part of my day. That and falling asleep with her after we’d made love. Even though I didn’t think it was possible, I fell for her a little more deeply every day. I loved everything about her: the way she’d scrunch up her nose before she sneezed; the way she couldn’t sit on the sofa without lying all over it so I was shoved up into the corner; the way she danced to the radio when she was cooking.

She was a God-awful cook, too, but for some reason she seemed to think she was like a freakin’ chef or something. I should have been warned from that very first meal she made me when I just about melted my tongue trying her chili somethin’ or other. On the days she wasn’t working, she insisted on cooking ‘for the menfolk’ as she put it. I know Dad felt the same fear of her being in the kitchen as I did, because he’d try to insist on bringing home pizza those times so she could ‘have a night off’. Sometimes it worked.

I found I enjoyed messing with food. After years of eating overcooked gloop, tasting new things and trying out recipes was a little slice of freedom. I wasn’t bad at it either—certainly better than Torrey, although she wouldn’t admit it. Dad joked that I could probably get a job as a short order cook. I knew he wasn’t really serious, but it felt like I had other options to earn money and that was a big thing for me.

Prison institutionalizes you. You’re told when to wake up, when to go to sleep, when to eat, when to wash, and when to shit. Every second of every day is worked out for you. The only decision you get to make is whether to eat with a spoon or your fingers. Seriously.

Officer Carson said that a lot of guys didn’t make it on the outside because freedom actually scares them—too many big choices to make every day; too many chances to fuck it up by picking the wrong one. Yeah, I knew what that felt like. I’d been so fucking scared when I’d first gotten released. Everything seemed like a huge, impossible challenge. Even now, meeting a stranger for the first time could have my anxiety levels shooting off of the chart, but it was getting better. Sometimes I even felt normal.

Dad and Torrey got along really well, and I was thankful for that. It had taken some adjustment all around having her living with us, but it was good. She called him ‘Paul’, and he called her ‘Missy D’ or ‘Miss Take’ which made her laugh. I think he would have been pretty happy for us to make it official and to have her as a daughter-in-law. I was working on that, but no way I was going to ask her to marry me while I was still on parole. That shit was just wrong.