Off Limits: A Bad Boy Romance (8 page)

An apartment that wasn't his
, I reminded the little voice.
An apartment that he was only crashing in because he was a convicted killer who didn't have a job, and probably didn't even have two dimes to rub together.

You mean like Daddy didn't have when he was growing up?
the voice asked again.
And just how did he turn out?

"That's different," I muttered to myself.

"What'd you say?"

I started, looking up, and realized that Shawnie had spoken to me. We were sitting outside a pizza joint near the GT campus, where she'd invited me to grab some lunch with her before her afternoon lab class. "Sorry, Shawnie. Just talking to myself."

"You've been doing that a lot lately,” she said, taking a sip from her Coke. "People are going to think you've gone crazy."

I shook my head, wondering just how close to the truth she was. I took a deep breath to force my mind off the subject and looked over at my friend. "They already know I'm crazy, Shawnie. About the only sane thing I do is hang out with you."

"My case in point," Shawnie said with a laugh. She was wearing her typical campus clothing, a pair of jeans and a Georgia Tech t-shirt, the G and the H poking out a lot farther than the center of the shirt. If I was to be accused of being curvy, Shawnie was nearly a cartoon caricature come to life. She took it all in stride though, and more than once had shut down a horn dog that tried to ease up on her with a lame 'hey, shawtie' come on. She liked her men intellectual and cultured, something that was pretty hard to find around campus. "Seriously, though, is everything okay? You've been off for the past few weeks."

"Yeah," I said, sighing. "Just . . . well, remember that night I said I was going to meet you at the art exhibit?"

"The one by the German? Yeah, I remember being pissed off at you, and even more when I found out that you were at the dinner for Greg DeKalb, of all people. But you told me you got hung up on some stuff. Why, what's up?"

"Well, I tried to walk to the gallery," I said, and Shawnie held up her hand, shocked.

"You did what? Abby, Atlanta might be safer than it was a few years ago, and this certainly isn't Freak Week, but are you out of your damn mind, girl? And you're a native of this area. What were you thinking?"

I smiled and took a sip of my own Coke, reaching for a slice of the medium pizza we were sharing. "Careful, Shawnie. Your Sandhills drawl comes through more when you get all worked up. But, as I was saying, I tried to walk. I ran into some trouble, and before you say anything, I know I was being stupid. But I got some help, and the guy who helped me . . . I’m just having problems getting him out of my head."

"Ooh, I see," Shawnie said. "Tell me, was he cute?"

"He was." I nodded. “A little different from the type I normally go for. Maybe that’s the attraction.”

"So why haven't I been introduced to him? Afraid I'll try and take him from you?"

I was about to answer when my phone buzzed. I picked it up off the table and grimaced when I saw the number. It was Dane, and while he wasn't exactly pestering me with phone calls, he had called me a few times in the three weeks since we'd spent that night together. I hoped he'd have given up, because every time he called, I was almost guaranteed to dream about him that night. I hit the red call rejection button and set my phone down. "Because sometimes guys aren't what they seem to be.”

Shawnie looked at my phone, then up at me, and sat back, tenting her fingers under her chin in the way that told me she was being perceptive. For a girl who was in school for engineering, she had a deep psychological streak that could either be helpful or frustrating, depending on the situation. "Really? And without going into too many details, since I can tell you don't want me to know exactly who this mystery man is, what is it about him that has you so worked up?”

I sighed and shook my head, confused. "Shawnie, it's just that . . . I thought he was a good man. But, how can a good man have done terrible things? I mean, he's been in prison."

Shawnie tilted her head, smirked, and shrugged. "You mind if I tell you something?"

"You know you can say anything to me. You're my best friend."

"Abby, you come from upper crust society. Atlanta upper crust at that, which makes even Charleston look downright Hicksville. I'm from parts of South Carolina where a lot of the folks I graduated high school with, their greatest goal in life was to get a job at the DuPont factory down the road and buy themselves a new Chevy pickup. Guys I used to date, the pinnacle of their entire lives will be the two years they played varsity football for the local high school. I guess what I'm saying is, you grew up somewhat protected. Now, I'm not saying you're prejudiced, no more than I am, but you never faced the choices that some of the people I knew had to face."

"I know," I said, thinking of some of the discussions she and I had shared over the years we'd been friends. "It's kind of what makes you special. You're also one of the few people I know who doesn't try to kiss my butt or hold it against me that I am who I am."

"You can't help it, just like I can't help being fine as May wine," she said with a laugh. "But what I'm trying to say is, there are times when good people either just make stupid mistakes or are forced into bad situations. Did you know, my graduating class's salutatorian is doing ten years at the Broad River Correctional facility back home?"

"Really?" I said. While Shawnie had been more than willing to share her observations on things or offer up a bit of down home country advice, she'd never really talked about her growing up in South Carolina except as an illustration of another point. "What happened?"

"He had a cousin in the county over that got in trouble with the wrong type of people. He agreed to help his cousin out by making a run over to the Myrtle Beach area to pick up a package and bring it back. Now, you know, I know, and yes, even he knew that nobody forgives a multi-thousand-dollar debt for running down to the Beach to pick up some doughnuts and maybe some crab cakes. But, he decided the risk was worth it to help out his family. So he took his car down there and picked up the package. He probably would have gotten away with it, too, if there hadn't been a drunk driver on the road behind him on the way back. They ended up crashing, and the cops found sixty pounds of weed in the trunk of his car. He got tabbed on a Class E felony, and even though he was eighteen and it was the first time he'd done anything, the judge was one of those hard-ass types who looked at kids like him and threw the book at him. Maximum sentence, ten years at Broad River. If he gets time off for good behavior, and a little bit of luck, he might be out right around the time you and I start grad school."

I thought about it, then shook my head. "So you're saying the next time he calls, I should pick up?"

She might have had a point, but then again, we weren’t talking about naively smuggling some drugs here. Dane took a man’s life.

Shawnie shook her head and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "What I'm saying is that you should think about it before hitting that red button so hard or so fast next time. Is there something you don't know about this guy? Is there more to the story than what you know already? And also, more than anything, is there a reason you're still thinking about him weeks after you met him for only one night? Oh, and one more thing."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Are you going to eat that last pepperoni?"

I
was sitting
on the couch that separated the bedroom area of the loft from the living room area when I heard the doorknob rattle, and insane hope flared inside me. In the time since my night with Abby, life had become painful at best. Each day had started with rolling out of bed, a desultory shower, and then off to find a job. My list of rejections was now standing at two hundred and thirty, the latest being at a soul food restaurant on Peach Street that had five customers along with one of the dishwashers in the back having gang tattoos when I'd put in my application. However, one look at the box and the details of my conviction, and the manager hadn't even given me the respect of waiting until I was out the door to throw my application in the trash. Instead, she had balled up the paper in front of me and tossed it in the trash can by the door. "Boy, we don't need your kind around here," she'd told me. "Now get out, and I don't want you here as a customer either."

I'd tried again afterward to call Abby, but just like she'd done the other times I called, it went to her voicemail. I'd left her a message, then went on my walks again.

That morning, though, I woke up totally broken. Lying there in bed, staring at the ceiling, the thought of trying to get out of bed, shower, and go out job hunting again was too much. Even the thought of going downstairs to the library and grabbing yesterday's copy of the
Constitution-Journal
just felt like too much effort. Even the time I spent in Iraq wasn't so exhausting.

So that day, I lay in bed until nearly eleven o'clock before my bladder chased me out of bed. I'd always been a guy whose body seems to run by an internal clock that rarely varied. I sighed. I had exactly five dollars left on me and not a prospect in sight. Still, there was no way I could face going out there that day, not after two hundred and thirty rejections. And especially not after Abby.

So I crashed on the couch, foregoing a shower for the first time in over five years, the first time since Iraq. Instead, I lay on the couch, watching as people with even more fucked up lives than I had yelled at each other over paternity tests, who was sleeping with whom, and who was going to kick whose ass later on. It helped. No matter how fucked up your life gets, no matter how low down the ladder of life you felt you were, you can always turn on daytime TV and find someone who is worse off than you.

I was watching a DVR-delayed celebration of Drew Carey giving away a new car to some co-ed from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo when the door rattled, and I sat up. The slight hope I had was squashed a moment later when I saw Chris Lake walk in. I mentally kicked myself, considering the Mayfair Tower is one of those types of places where guests can't exactly walk in and out without a lock code or being buzzed in by the front desk. If it had been Abby, I would have gotten a call.

"Hey, big man," Chris said, looking fresh and happy. Then again, if I'd just spent weeks in Europe catching the last of the ski season in the Swiss Alps, I'd probably be feeling pretty good too. "Taking the day off?"

"Hey, Chris," I greeted him, admittedly sulking. When he gave me a look, I shook my head. "Sorry, I just thought you were someone else for some stupid damn reason."

"She must have really rocked your world.” He laughed, dropping his backpack and putting his wheeled suitcase next to the fridge. "Or did your time in prison change your preferences?"

His joke was made with a lighthearted tone, but when I didn't respond, he sobered up, coming over and taking a seat in the chair that completed the rest of the living room ensemble. "I was just pulling your leg, man. Sorry, I guess I shouldn't joke about your time in prison.”

I shook my head. "It's not that. Just . . . it's been harder than I thought it would be getting out. I just couldn't take it anymore today. That's why you found me this way."

He looked at me with an expression of mixed pity and commiseration that was somehow more painful than if he'd just looked at me in disgust. "You're still struggling on the work front?"

I nodded. "Yesterday was number two hundred and thirty. And not even a second interview. I was going to go down to the day labor office tomorrow. I'm down to my last five dollars. Which, by the way, I have to thank you for, and I promise you, I will repay you. You didn't need to leave me five hundred bucks."

"Five hundred bucks for two and a half months isn't a lot," Chris said. "Besides, it was the least I could do for you. You're my brother, man."

I sat up, my hands dangling between my knees. "You're the only friend I've got left, Chris. Thank you for giving me a lifeline.”

Chris shook his head and sat up straight. "You can cut that shit right now. Everyone needs a second chance. That so far you haven't found that chance yet doesn't mean it isn't out there. So here's what we're going to do. You chill out a while, let me unpack, then go get yourself cleaned up. I can smell your funky ass from here."

I sniffed, and I had to admit he had a point. While I'd showered just the morning before, I'd done a lot of walking to quiet my inner demons, and that was pretty funky. "Okay, okay, a good scrub down with the Irish Spring wouldn't hurt things. I suppose you're going to want me to find my own place soon too, right?"

Chris laughed and shook his head. "You're welcome here for as long as you need it. If I need to bring a girl home, I'll give you a heads up. Worse comes to worse, we can do the old tie on the doorknob routine."

"Remember, I didn't finish college," I said. "That must have been your frat buddies."

Chris had gotten out of the service soon after he'd gotten back from his Iraq rotation, just as the Army was starting to draw down some. He'd gone on to college and graduated six months before I'd gotten out of Leavenworth, just in time to bury his father. Now he was twenty-nine like me, and was half owner of the second largest chain of car dealerships in Georgia, along with his uncle, his father's younger brother.

"Frats wouldn't have me," Chris said with a laugh, "probably because I ended up with enough ladies to start my own sorority. But seriously, though, let me unpack and you chill, then go get washed up. Then we'll get dressed and go out on the town, my treat. I'm sure there's some woman out there with your name on her lips, just waiting for you to give it to her.”

The idea of cruising bars with Chris wasn't exactly appealing, but I couldn't exactly say no. I had no idea how to explain Abby to him, after all, and if I refused his offer, he'd want to know why. "All right, man, but don't be too mad if I don't exactly hit a home run tonight. All that time in the exclusive company of men does make your game weak as hell."

Chris laughed and got up out of the chair. "I doubt that, Dane my man. The biggest thing standing in your way is that you just have that damned inconvenient noble streak about you. And you always were pickier than you needed to be. Just remember, a pair of sevens beats a ten every day."

I snorted at the bad joke, causing Chris's smile to broaden. "Besides, we need to go out and celebrate."

"Celebrate what? You not breaking your leg in the Alps?"

"Fuck no. Your new job. Starting Monday, you're going to be the new shop assistant down at Lake Ford-Lincoln-Mercury. That is, unless you have another opportunity knocking.”

I sat there, stunned. "Chris, you didn't need to do that. Really."

"It's not charity. Trust me on that. I may be half owner, but other than getting my Uncle Hank to agree to hire you, I've got very little to do on the day-to-day operations of that place. You're going to be working your ass off for your paycheck."

"And just what will you be doing?" I asked, feeling the first smile in a while creep out on my face. "Selling used F-150s?"

“No," Chris said with a laugh. "I've got my own job. Don't you know? You're looking at one of the managing partners in Lake-Crawford Real Estate. Starting tomorrow, I've got to start actually putting all that shit I learned in college to work. Use it or lose it, you know?”

H
ank Lake was
the epitome of a Southern good old boy. With sun-pinked skin and a slightly piggish look to his face, he could have done justice to a remake of
The Dukes of Hazzard
as a double for Boss Hogg. That being said, he was a lot gentler than his outer expression put off. In fact, he was a pretty good guy.

"Bell," Hank said one evening as I was sweeping up the mechanics’ bay. It was one of the duties of my job, along with fetching tools, unloading and sorting parts deliveries, and a lot of go-fer work in general. I couldn't complain though. Chris had arranged that I was getting twelve bucks an hour, and each of the two weeks I'd been there so far, there'd been the chance to catch a few hours of overtime. "Come by my office when you're done with the bay."

"Yes sir, Mr. Lake," I said, putting my broom aside. I still had two more steps to clean the floor, since it was a Friday. After the initial sweep, I had to scatter absorbent material over any obvious oil spots, let it dry, and then sweep those up before mopping the whole bay with a strong detergent that was supposed to break up any thin layers of oil. If there were a lot of spots for the absorbent stuff, it could take upwards of an hour and a half to do the whole thing. Thankfully, that night there were only two, both of them small and in bay four, the left-most bay. By the time I finished the first three repair bays, I was able to sweep up the absorbent material, which now looked a lot like wet kitty litter, and get bay four done without too much delay.

I found Hank in his office, located inside the sales area. He wasn't a salesman. He'd let his brother deal with that side while he concerned himself with the mechanical side of things, but as the now operations owner of the whole chain—four dealerships throughout central and southern Georgia—he'd had to leave the greasy coveralls behind. In the little bit of time I'd worked there, it seemed to me that he wished he was back in the garages instead of wearing a white duck, cotton button-down shirt. I knocked on his door frame, a habit from my military days I hadn't yet lost. "Mr. Lake? I just finished bay four. Sorry if you were waiting."

He looked up from his desk, which was covered in paperwork and invoices, so much so I had no idea how he kept it organized. He must have had one hell of an assistant. "Not at all, Bell. Trust me, there's always more work to do with keeping this place going. Have a seat."

I looked down at my stained and spotted coveralls, and shook my head. "No offense, sir, but I'd mess up your office. If it's all the same to you, I'll stand."

Hank nodded, looking my clothes over. "Suit yourself. I just wanted to give you your first paycheck personally, so here you are." He handed over the envelope, which I glanced at before putting it in my back pocket. "You're not going to open it?"

"No, sir. I was taught that you don't tear open letters and stuff like that when the person giving it to you is still there. Either it's good news, in which case it can wait, or it's bad news, in which case you don't want to lose your temper in front of who gave you the letter. Besides, I trust you, and I've kept track. To be honest with you, no matter what it is, it’ll seem like a fortune."

Hank sat back in his chair, entwining his fingers over his belly. "I'm going to be honest with you, Bell. When my nephew said he wanted me to give you a job, I was confused. I don't know if you know, but he and that boy, Lloyd, knew each other before they enlisted in the Army."

I shook my head, surprised. "No, I didn't, sir. I always thought that the three of us met at Benning in Airborne School."

Hank chuckled. "Nope. That boy, Lloyd—his parents are from right here in Atlanta, same as Chris. In fact, Lloyd's daddy and I were high school classmates. Lloyd and his folks moved up to Pennsylvania right after he finished his junior year in high school. You never noticed he had an accent?"

"Lloyd was one of those guys whose accent never really gave him away," I said. "Maybe he blended his Southern with a bit of Yankee or something. Besides, a lot of us ended up with a bit of accent after a while. It kind of all blurs together when we're in green."

"I see. Well, anyway, those two boys grew up really thick, and I was glad when they met back up in the service. Guess what I'm saying is, if Chris stuck it out for you, there had to be a reason. So, I'm gonna make you an offer. Starting up soon, the shop has a summer surge of folks coming in. Lots of trade-ins and lots of repairs as folks want their cars tuned up for going out to the lake or going on summer vacation. We normally bring in a bunch of new folks around that time to do the lower level mechanical stuff—things like oil changes, tire rotations and changes, things like that. Pay's better. We pay each of them fifteen an hour, and those that have skills have a chance to become full-time mechanics if they know what they're doing. Tell me, do you have any real mechanical skills?"

I thought, then shrugged. "I learned how to do the basics on a Humvee, and back in my high school days I helped my dad with a rebuild of a small block Chevy engine for a '79 Camaro he was doing as a project. We finished just before I enlisted. Prior to that, I did basic stuff at a Jiffy Lube down the street from my house. But I never got any formal schooling or anything like that, if that's what you are asking."

Hank laughed. "I never went to any of those schools myself. I started the same way you did, rebuilding small block Fords with my daddy and doing oil changes here in the shop, back when this was a one-dealer operation. All right, then. The offer's on the table. You keep working hard as you've been the past two weeks, and tell me by the start of next month if you want a slot in the program or not. I'm not saying it'd be permanent. You might find yourself sweeping bay floors again come fall, but it'd be something."

"Thank you, sir. I'll think it over."

On the way back to the apartment, I did exactly that, mulling it over. Hank didn't strike me as the sort of man who would try and feed me a line of junk, so the offer did make me happy. I was a little disturbed by what I'd learned about Chris and Lloyd, but in the end, I figured that they'd just forgotten to mention it during the time we had been friends together. After all, military time was just different from civilian time. There's no other way to really put it. I didn't tell them too much about my life growing up in the Midwest, either.