Come Home Bad Boy (12 page)

“Mr. Jenkins, I'm Charlie Laroche...” The words had hardly left my lips when he interrupted.

“I know who you are,” he said.

The deep, ominous tone of his voice hit my body, sending chills over my spine.

Shake it off. Control, get control of yourself.

Immediately, I knew I had to be assertive with him. “Then you know why you're here. That saves me some trouble.”  I was
not
going to let him think he could intimidate me. I leaned back in my chair, trying to appear relaxed and unnerved.

He may be the first male prisoner I've ever worked with, but this wasn't my first rodeo.

Owen sat with closed fists, his breathing slightly heavy. Our eyes were locked on each other, and yet I felt as though he was looking through me, his mind wandering, avoiding any real connection.

Then he turned his head up and inhaled deeply, his lip curled slightly up on one side.

My pulse jumped.

Am I the first the woman he's laid eyes on in years? Can he smell my perfume?
The thought gave me goosebumps. I shifted uncomfortably, my muscles twinging from the thrills.

The energy emitted from him was enough to fill the silence. The light from above gleamed across his brow and I could see small beads of sweat forming.

He's nervous too. Why? Is it me? Do I make him uneasy?
I needed to get back to why we were here. I released a slow, subtle breath to try and ground myself. Finally, I said, “I'm sure you know that I read your file. Pretty soon you'll be walking free, that must make you excited. So, let's make our time here worth while. You're part of the new rehabilitation program here for young adults. How do you feel things have gone for you?”

I wanted to know what he felt and thought. I searched his blank expression for something, anything, to guide our conversation towards. You can't hit the tough questions first, always start off light. Too much too soon can close a patient off completely.

Owen sat so utterly still. I looked for a twitch, a double blink,
anything.

Years of incarceration will either break  you or numb you.
A prisoner from my old workplace once told me that. Owen was going to be either damaged or shut off. Maintaining some sort of sanity in this environment took strength.

Had Owen been strong enough?

“Well,” I asked again, prodding him. “How do you feel?”

His voice was tight. “It's been a long time coming, I deserve my freedom. How do you
think
I feel?”

He wanted control, to ask and not be asked. His answer, though short, gave me a little insight. He was ready to leave and expected to be set free.

A caged animal released into the public can be a dangerous thing.

That's why I'm here.

“If I were you,” I said, “I'd be excited and antsy. You must have more to say about it than that. I'm listening, so, talk to me.”

Owen jerked his hands slightly. On reflex, my insides jumped. His head tilted to the right and his words muffled out. “Yes, I'm ready for this. I need this. I
deserve
this. I did my time and completed all their programs and shit, this is the end to a long nightmare.” His fingers opened as he spoke, the lines across his forehead lifting. I could see his shoulders slump, a mere trickle of exhaustion setting in.

Finally,
I thought with relief,
Some answers. Talking to this guy is like pulling teeth.

If my report was going to help with his freedom, I needed to get him to trust me and open up. This was a start. “You say you're ready for this, what makes you feel that way?” I asked.

“I don't know, I just feel ready.” He broke the bond between our eyes, glancing around rapidly.

Oddly, now that I wasn't the target of his gaze, I wanted it back. A piece of me wanted to tell him this. Luckily, I'm not crazy. But why the hell was I thinking like this?

He's a convict, a killer!
Was that it? The allure of danger? I'd never meet a man like Owen just anywhere. I tried to picture him doing normal things, like grocery shopping, and had to smother a smile.

Shaking off my distraction, I said, “The prison helped you learn a trade skill, tell me what you picked. What grasped your interest?”

“Automotive.” His stare flashed back to me, turning my blood warm. His voice was clear and distinct.

Mechanics, a smart decision. There are always places willing to hire a convict for the extra tax break that comes with it.
“Good choice. What caught your eye about that one?” I was trying to form an actual conversation with him. That was part of my job, it helped me understand the man.

But... my desire to learn more about him went even deeper. It was starting to make me nervous. How was this guy pulling me in so fast?

“Why are you asking me this? Isn't all that in my file you have sitting there?” he asked, gesturing with his fingers. I watched his massive hands as they moved, wondering if they would feel rough against my skin.

Focus, you need to focus
. I brushed the hair from my face and adjusted my folders, trying to settle the electricity inside. “It does, but it only tells me what you chose, not why. I want you to tell me why.”

“I just like cars, always have. It was an easy pick for me.” A light crinkle set across his forehead.

I knew he wouldn't be prepared for this, for me. They never are. No one expects to be asked 'why' to things that seem so minor.

It was a little trick I'd picked up over time. Most people won't open up to someone they don't know, but if you appear to care, they will.

Something that puts me a level up from others in my profession is that I really
do
care.

“Did you spend time when you were younger working with cars? With your dad, or maybe your older brother?” I'd looked into his history, so I knew about what little family he had. Brice was older than Owen, but beyond that, I didn't know anything about the man.

“I had a lot of older friends who had cars. I liked watching them work on their shit boxes, trying to make them faster or just plain start up at all,” he chuckled.

I sat quietly, not breaking the lock I had on his eyes. I wanted him to continue, to give me more detail. People can only sit in uncomfortable silence for so long before needing to say something.

But, Owen didn't look uneasy at all. I felt like
I
was the awkward one. He was so still, his body language unreadable. Before I was able to utter my next sentence he said, “I passed the class with flying colors, so if you ever need a good mechanic, I'll work on your engine.” He smirked a bit and gave me a wink.

A hot blush crept up my neck.
I know what he's trying to do. It won't work, I won't let it. He isn't going to get in my head.
I felt out of my element. I didn't expect him to throw an awful pick up line my way, it took all my might to cool the apples in my cheeks.

I sat up straight and crossed my right leg over. I wanted to maintain my professionalism. Quickly, I moved to the next question I could think of. “Do you have plans for when you're free? Any job placement in line for you? Several of my other patients have friends or family ready to help when they get out.”

I had been so wrapped up in his talking, I jolted in my chair as the buzzer went off. It signaled the end to our session, it seemed to be over so quick.

Owen chuckled under his breath. I was taken back by his laughter.

He knows I'm thrown off by him.

I was angry with myself for getting taken in by the man. The way he looked at me, the deep grit in his tone... how he made my thighs squeeze under the table.

This was not how I ran my appointments.

The door opened and the guard came in to remove Owen back to his cell. I stood quickly, hitting my knee on the corner of the table. The sound echoed through the room loudly, as did my gasp.

I caught Owen's smile from the corner of my eye as I leaned over to gently rub the injury. My heart, already at its limit, began to throb faster.

Then he was gone, his broad back facing me as he was guided out into the hall. The muscles flexed under his orange uniform, rippling in spite of the baggy material.

I rested against the door frame and watched him stroll away.
He turned me into a nervous klutz,
I thought with frustration.
How did he do that?

I shook my head and retreated back into my office. The solid gray of the walls surrounding me felt cold. I didn't like this place. It had no windows, no warmth.

I missed my old office, it was a much better environment for my work; inviting, full of color, a place of refuge for my patients. I'd had windows for light and pictures to observe. They all found the change of scenery relaxing.

It's amazing what a little sun can do for someone's mood.

But here I was, in a new prison that was over a hundred years old. It felt like it hadn't changed since it opened. Every wall showed how impenetrable it was.

Even
I
felt like a trapped animal.

I  need a plant in here, or something. One single spot of color would make a huge difference.

As I sat at the partially broken desk supplied to me, I gazed at the table that had just held Owen. I imagined him still there, his large, strong hands fixed in front of me. I was revisiting his presence as if I could still feel him.

Our meeting had been only half an hour, a brief meet and greet. I had also wanted to know what he thought of the program that had basically been started around him.

It was proposed that with the right support, counseling, and education, a young adult on the wrong path could blossom into a functioning member of society.

Owen was the program's guinea pig.

Gathering up my purse to head home, I hesitated. Owen haunted me, his image too easy to call up in my head. He'd looked strong, forearms that were hard as steel.
Would
they feel that solid? I imagined my hand running over the inked surface.

I need to stop this. What am I doing?

I shook my head, trying to push him out of my thoughts. But after my first encounter with the notorious Owen Jenkins, I wanted more. I
needed
more.

There was something I had to remind myself of, though.

The handsome face that had graced me today encased the mind of a murderer.

Even if he'd been found guilty on a lesser charge of manslaughter, the fact remained: he'd taken the life of another man.

He's lucky that he even has the chance to see the light of day again. Why the hell does he seem so... selfish about it? He acts like the world owes him his freedom.

I didn't like his arrogance, how could he not show gratefulness for a second chance?

He was dangerous, he was cocky...

And even so, I felt consumed by him.

It wasn't professional to be entranced in this way, but butterflies flew around my stomach over the thought of seeing him again.

I had to contain this, get focused and keep it. I exhaled heavily as I closed the office door behind me. Walking down the cold cement hall, echoes of my heels filled the space between my ears and my mind.

The main prison gate opened and my face was hit with a rush of cold, December wind. It broke me out of my daze. I wasn't used to this weather or the snow.

I could hear my feet crunch across the frozen ground as I made my way to the protection of my vehicle.
I miss the sun,
I thought, pulling out of the parking lot, trying to avoid the black ice. Down south, we never had to worry about blizzards.

I concentrated on the road, but that damn encounter floated into my thoughts. It was too strong to dismiss.
Why did he seem so ungrateful? Why do his eyes intrigue me? What was he really thinking?

My mind was a whirlwind of questions. Where were his feeling and emotions? Most inmates I had seen were always so excited.

He was so closed off. But when he smiled at me...
I felt my stomach warming over the memory, the light laugh he'd exhaled before he left. All of him fascinated me in ways I couldn't understand and couldn't brush off.

The headlights I passed on my journey home were a blur in my mind, I didn't even remember most of the ride. It was as if my brain had shut off and autopilot took over.

I pulled into the condo development I was staying at. A broad, green wall of shrubbery lined the entrance. The bright yellow of its siding still shined against the white of the snow, even in the darkness.

Greene had been trying to rebuild their community. The town had started new developments to bring in more people, more revenue.

Lucky for me, this is the first one they'd finished. Otherwise, I'd be stuck renting some crappy apartment in a run down building, or staying at the only motel in town.

Dropping my stuff on my couch, I hurried through my end of the evening routine in a haze. Shower, food, then bedtime. It amazed me that the time had flown by without me noticing.

Under my blankets, I found myself thinking about him again. His eyes, though dark and scary, felt deep.

Unable to rest, I threw off the covers with an aggravated groan. Digging into my files, I dropped onto my couch, the papers spread on my lap. If Owen was glued in my skull, then I might as well learn more about him.

Turning the papers in my fingers, I scanned the crisp words. The harsh reality of Owen's crime rested in front of me.

He'd been involved in a breaking and entering at a jewelry store. There, it was reported he'd pushed the security guard down a fight of stairs, killing him. The town had wanted him to be charged with murder. They'd been furious that he'd managed to get it dropped to involuntary manslaughter.

There was also a suspicion that he was involved in a rash of other burglaries, but there was no real evidence. The trial had set this small town on the map; not so much for what he'd done, but for the program that stemmed from it.

In the file, there was a black and white photo of Owen. I brushed it with my fingers, tracing the hard edge of his jaw. I didn't want to be engulfed by him. I definitely didn't want my stomach to tingle as I recalled the intensity of being so near him.