Stepping Over the Line: A Stepbrother Novel (Shamed) (9 page)

The second the words left my mouth I wanted them back—not because I regretted being crude, but because I didn’t want Savannah to answer. God’s honest truth? I couldn’t bear for her to tell me our union had been a lark. A dare. A meaningless side effect of too much booze combined with the stress release of her graduation.

It had to mean more, because for me, to believe anything else would have been the final nail in my emotional coffin. Oh—don’t get me wrong, I knew I could never have her again, but to believe that, for those few moments when reality had been suspended, making way for pure fantasy, she’d been wholly mine, kept me sane.

Turns out I needn’t have wasted my time worrying, because as usual, after a nasty glare in my general direction, Savannah turned around and skittered down the sidewalk like a leaf caught in a stiff breeze. I suppose I should have been flattered that my question had disturbed her to such a degree, but I wasn’t. I’m not sure what I’d expected from her, but avoidance wasn’t it. I would have welcomed a confrontation. A full-on screaming match. This might sound sick, but like anyone trapped in an abusive relationship, any contact with her—no matter how toxic—would be preferable to none.

I finished out my day with little fanfare. I had a four-thirty meeting with my probation officer, so I stopped there on the way home. After a twenty minute wait while sitting on a ratty folding chair, reading the jokes in a three-year-old
Reader’s Digest
and eavesdropping on a couple fighting over money, Adam Ryker called me into his office. Adam was tall, balding, and lanky with a nose too big for his face and a penchant for frayed-hem khakis and too-short sweaters that never fully reached his waist. Otherwise, he seemed like a nice enough guy, just trying to do his job.

“Garrett. Have a seat. How’s it going?”

“I would say I can’t complain, but…” I forced a weak smile. His lone guest chair wasn’t much better than the ones in the shared reception area, but at least when he closed his door, the office was private.

“Yeah, I’m guessing for a guy like you, the past few years have been quite a culture shock.”

I shrugged.

“Well, look, so far, you’ve been a poster child for the right way to stay on my good side. Having any troubles you need to talk over? Maybe a run-in with drugs or guys offering you ways to make a quick buck?”

“Nope.”

He typed something into his decade-old desktop computer. “You’re coming to the end of your required stay at the halfway house. Considering the fact that you have family here in town, I’m assuming you have a place to stay? But if you don’t, you’re welcome to keep your current room, but the state will no longer pick up your rent.”

“Thanks, but I’m good.”

He nodded, then started typing again.

“Your case was pretty high profile. Have you had run-ins with the press? Any trouble with the victim’s family?”

Since Savannah never had the chance to marry Chad, did that mean she didn’t count? But her son did. The fact that because of me, he’d grow up without his father was sobering.

“Garrett? Any issues?”

“No.” I shook my head. “None at all.”

“Okay, well, like with the housing, you’re also welcome to seek employment outside of your work at the park, although your supervisor tells me you’re doing great.”

“Good to know. One of these days I might need a reference.”

Adam chuckled. “Maybe so.” Type, type, type.

“It’s been a long day. Am I good to go?”

“Sure.” He stood, and extended his hand for me to shake. “Oh—but there is one more thing. How’s it going with the ladies?”

“Does the state really want to know?”

He laughed again. “I doubt any higher-ups care, but I’ve been at this job for a while, and it’s been my experience that trouble of the female variety can sometimes lead my guys down bad roads. On the flip side, a positive relationship has been proven to work wonders for a broken man.”

“Are you implying I’m broken?”

“No, no…” He waved off my question. “Not at all. You’re doing really well. But then, you’re not exactly the type of guy I usually see—not to say female issues don’t run across all levels of society. Can I get an amen?” After flashing me a quick smile, he pat my back on our way out his door, and called in the guy who’d been fighting with his woman.

Adam was good. I had to give him props for unwittingly zeroing in on my life’s only problem. No shit women were a pain in the ass. Too bad I didn’t just want any piece of ass—that issue I probably could have solved. Getting Savannah out of my head and heart was a much bigger deal.

The halfway house was a three-mile walk from the parole office. It took about thirty minutes, and even though I’d done hard physical labor all day, I welcomed more. Usually, walking or work kept my mind from wandering, but today, my thoughts played on a loop.

What if Dad did get my license reinstated?

It would be a game changer.

I could get my parole transferred, then get the hell out of this town and never look back.

The wheels had already been put in motion for what Grady called my haunted mansion, but if Dad’s cronies turned out to be more powerful than the Ridgemont clan, I could always hire a contractor and handle the project long-distance. Turns out the house had been owned by a bank for ten years, and they were all too happy to unload it. They’d accepted my cash offer, and it would be mine by the end of next week.

At the halfway house, I found Grady in the kitchen, making himself a grilled cheese.

“Pay you twenty bucks if you’ll make me one.” I sat at the round oak table in the center of the room. My stomach growled.

“Deal.” He grabbed the loaf of white bread.

“Extra pickles. And use the real butter I stashed behind the catsup. I can’t stand that fake shit.”

“Yessir.” Grady saluted. “Tough day at the office?”

I snorted, then leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. “What’s worse than fishing a dead raccoon and three rats from the bottom of a swimming pool?”

“Aw, hell, did you find a body?”

“Seriously?” I shook my head and laughed.

“It could happen. Folks around here like to think that fence keeps ’em safe, but that swamp’s gonna eat when it’s hungry.” He tossed my sandwich in the skillet, punctuating his rant with a satisfying sizzle. It smelled so damned good. No matter what anyone tells you is bad about prison—group showers, roaches, guys coming at you with shanks—the very worst thing is the food. The day of my release, on the way back to Julep, I’d had Dad take me to a real nice steakhouse, and told the waiter to tell the chef to butter-the-hell out of everything.

“True enough. But no, thankfully, the only bodies I found were small and slimy.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“It’s complicated.” I closed my eyes and saw Savannah, but couldn’t exactly blurt her name.

Grady flipped my sandwich. I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into all that buttery, melted cheese. “Since you’d have to literally hatchet your boss to get fired from a court-appointed job, I’m guessing you got woman problems. Am I right?”

I nodded. “Grady, you are a man of many talents. I already knew you were a great cook and orator, but I’m adding psychic to your impressive list of skills.”

“Damn straight.” He transferred my sandwich from the pan to a paper plate. Swear to God, the anticipation for that sandwich had built like a fucking orgasm. He swung around to set it on the table, but the flimsy-ass plate bent and my perfectly browned, cheese and pickle masterpiece splatted onto the yellow linoleum floor. “Well, hell…”

At that point, all I could do was laugh.

That damned sandwich was the perfect metaphor for my life.

I needed to talk to Dad about what Savannah had said. Was it true? Did he think I had a prayer of getting my license reinstated?

After helping Grady make another sandwich that didn’t look nearly as tasty as the first, I walked to my parents’. One of these days I needed to buy a car, but for that I’d also need a driver’s license, and a day off work to get it. I figured once my required month at the park had passed, I’d tackle ride procurement.

It was a good five miles to the
right
side of the tracks.

I looked forward to seeing my parents. Normal chitchat over aged scotch sounded good. Downing one of Violet’s delicious meals sounded even better.

Because of my feelings for Savannah, as a general rule, I tried not to think of Delilah as my mom, but she’d always been good to me—far better than my own nonexistent birth mother. Even before she died, she’d been pretty much absent, so it wasn’t as if losing her had been any great loss to anyone other than my sister. Delilah’s entry into our lives had been the equivalent of sunshine punching through the clouds on a rainy day. She’d burned the fog off of me and Dad’s misery.

When I came home from school on weekends, I no longer sat in my room, playing video games. Delilah supervised my homework and regular haircuts and insisted all meals be eaten as a family—only not always in the dining room. Most Saturday nights, she’d made a game out of having the five of us
dine
in the oddest places. Dad’s boat. My old tree fort. A rickety old dock on Mumford Bayou. Ever the embodiment of Southern grace, she always brought the good silver, crystal, and china along for the ride. I’m sure Violet and the rest of our servants hated Delilah’s shake-up of our morose household, but I loved her—almost as much as her daughter.

Meanwhile, my sister Jennie had quietly turned Goth and started cutting herself. After she’d threatened suicide and Dad checked her into a clinic, her absence came as a relief.

I turned the corner onto our quiet road. A nostalgic rush softened all that the last years had hardened.

I saw Savannah as a teen, darting between live oaks, playing tag. In slow motion, her hair streamed behind her and lightning bugs sparked twilight. I saw her waiting by the mailbox for her bestie, Elaine, and her mom to pick her up for swimming at the club. When the days were especially hot, she’d kick off her flip-flops, popping tar bubbles on the road with her big toe. She’d wear her long hair up, and the back of her neck would be dewy with sweat. I’d been seventeen, watching her from high in a tree—too old for climbing. Not old enough to articulate the crisis just looking at the girl created in my heart.

Pulling my adult self together and tugging at my fly to better accommodate my throbbing dick, I trudged onward, hating walking, hating that my California license was long expired. If I wanted to operate my own vehicle, I’d have to camp at the DMV.

At the drive’s end, I noticed a green Land Rover.

My parents had company.

The same vehicle had been there at the dinner party from hell. Shit. My stomach clenched. No need to wonder whose car it was when Savannah’s laugh punctured the still night. A child’s laughter followed, and then Dad and my stepmom joined in.

Every instinct told me to turn around. I had no business barging in on a gathering to which I hadn’t been invited. So why was I rounding the house to stand on the back patio, peering at my own family like some creepy Peeping Tom? Why was I staring at Savannah’s interaction with her son in awe, as if I had never seen a woman wipe mustard from a kid’s mouth?

I edged five feet closer, then tripped over a goddamned flowerpot.

“Is that Garrett?”
my stepmom asked.

While I dropped to my knees, scooping up chunks of dirt and terra-cotta, my family discussed me. I knew all of their voices as well as I knew
The
Young and the Restless
cast, all of whom I’d grown far too intimately acquainted with during my incarceration. Another piece of prison trivia—cons fucking love soap operas.
The Bold and the Beautiful,
General Hospital—
all of them. There’s some kind of weird synergy with the two-timing, fraud, and murder.

Dad said, “What would he be doing lurking outside?”

“I have no idea.” My stepmom asked, “Garrett, hon? Is that you?”

The screen door banged open. A pair of killer legs stepped into view. I looked up to take in all of Savannah. Her khaki shorts, the strip of her abdomen between her yellow tank and waistband that was probably only visible to a ground-level perv.

Hands on her hips, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

I rose to my full height, then brushed dirt from my knees. “Not that it’s your business, but I need to talk to Dad.” The last thing I ever wanted was to reinforce the fact that we legally shared a parent, but tonight, I needed that formality to remind me to keep my distance.

For this time of year, the night was uncomfortably warm.

Muggy.

I wished it was cool enough for Savannah to wear sweatpants and a roomy jacket. I wanted the elegant column of her throat covered and not glowing with a fine sheen of sweat.

“Fine. Give me a sec to pack up my son, and then come inside.”

She turned, but I clasped the back of her upper arm. “Let me see him.”

“No.” Her eyes widened and nostrils flared. “Keep him out of this.”

“Keep him out of what, Savvy? What the hell do you think I’m going to do?”

“I. Don’t. Know.” She punctuated each word, drenching them in acid. “That’s my point. The last time you were here, you acted like you were out of your mind. I can’t deal with a repeat performance—not in front of Cook.”

“Give me some credit. I would never hurt him.” My stepmom hadn’t visited me in prison, but she had gifted me with epic letters. She told me everything from the gossip at club luncheons to the cute story behind her grandson’s nickname.

Savannah crossed her arms, fixing me with a narrowed-eyed stare. Was this her way of implying I would—hurt her? Little Chad? If she did think that low of me, then we’d never really known each other at all. “You’re a loose cannon. No one knows what you’ll do.”

Unsure of how to reply to the statement that was mostly true, I clasped my hands on top of my head and groaned.

“See? That noise? Is that frustration, or are you about to stab me with a pottery shard?”