Taking Connor (2 page)

And so, I’ve swallowed my fears, doubts, and any apprehension—or at least I’m trying to. I trust Blake; I have to. I have no idea what to expect when I see Connor. Blake had very few photos of him, and the ones he had were from when they were younger. They didn’t favor each other much. Blake was a thin man, lean and tall, but his pale coloring cued the world he wasn’t well. Connor appeared just as tall, but broader and while Blake had a softness about him, Connor’s photos portrayed a young man with a face and body language that displayed a no bullshit type of attitude.

A loud buzz blares from out of nowhere, causing me to jump, and the large gate just before the gate I’m standing in front of begins to slide open, screeching and groaning as it does. Wiping my palms on my jeans, I try to calm my nerves, reminding myself I’m doing this for my late husband who I loved dearly. But even that reasoning isn’t helping me swallow this pill. I’m about to ride twelve hours to Colorado with a released felon who killed a man. When the brown metal door from the processing office flies open, slamming against the brick of the wall behind it, my heart almost stops, and my eyes go wide.

A black, heavy-set security guard emerges first, his eyes squinting from the sunlight. Connor follows, and I have to blink a few times to make sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing. The man walking toward me is
not
the young man in the photos Blake showed me. The man walking toward me is someone else entirely. Gone is the shaggy blonde hair and lean body of the former Connor Stevens. Now . . . he’s
huge
. Wide shoulders and chest and arms so big I’m not sure I could wrap both hands around them. His head is shaved, cut close and tattoos cover almost every visible part of his skin. If there’s a stereotype for convicts, he fits the bill. A cigarette hangs from his mouth as he smiles and shakes hands with the guard that walked out ahead of him.

With a pat on the back, the guard sends him on his way and Connor nods as he heads in my direction. Once he passes through the first gate, his gaze meets mine.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t grimace.

In fact, he does nothing.

He just . . . looks at me.

It occurs to me maybe he had no idea that I’d be here. Maybe he didn’t get my letter. But when the final gate is opened and he steps through, he heads straight for me and I realize that I seriously underestimated his size from a distance. He’s
much
bigger than I originally thought; the closer he gets, the smaller I feel.

I don’t move as he approaches. Instead, I battle with what to do once he reaches me. I’m not sure what the proper protocol is in this situation. I mean, we’re in-laws—sort of. The man he thought of as his brother
was
my husband. Should I hug him?

No.

Definitely not.

He doesn’t quite strike me as a hugger.

When he’s four feet in front of me, he stops, and I give him an awkward smile.

“Demi,” he says my name and I’m stunned silent. He’s attractive;
incredibly
attractive. Flicking his cigarette away, letting the last drag of smoke roll out of his mouth in a smooth exhale, he takes another step toward me and smiles.

“Those things will kill you, ya know?” I blurt out. Smooth. Real smooth, Demi.

His smile widens until I see his teeth and the little canine on the lower left of his mouth that’s a bit crooked. It’s an imperfection, yet it only amplifies his attractiveness. “That was my last one,” he replies, his voice husky. “Promised myself I’d quit the day I got out.”

“Oh,” I reply, not sure what to add.

Luckily Connor doesn’t allow me time to find something else stupid to say. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he tells me.

“You too,” I manage, finding my voice as I step forward.

Okay, I’m going to hug him. Just a friendly, nice-to-meet-you, hug. I only mean to do that loose hug, the one where your bodies don’t touch, but you somehow embrace, but that doesn’t happen. Connor pulls me in, slamming my body into his, nearly knocking all the air out of my lungs—I’ve never felt so dainty in a man’s arms before.

When he releases me, we stand awkwardly for a moment, him in his tight black T-shirt and jeans, me in my frumpy, wrinkled, white cotton top and blue jeans, damp with sweat.

“Are you ready to get out of here?”

His mouth curves slightly. “Have been since day one.”

We climb in the car, and as I start it I explain apologetically, “Air conditioning went out on me halfway here. It’s going to be a hot ride.”

He chuckles lightly, “Haven’t had air conditioning in eight years. I think I’ll survive.”

I cringe. Tent City prison makes inmates work and sleep outside. Connor is probably used to this insane heat.

“Your compressor might just need a charge,” he continues. “I can check it out, and we can stop at an auto parts store if I can figure out what you need.”

“That’s right.” I nod as I put the car in reverse. “Blake said you were some kind of badass mechanic.”

Connor smiles faintly and shrugs. “Only thing I was ever good at. I think he got all the brains out of our gene pool.” Moments pass with only the sound of the wind coming in through the windows. I’ve never been great with silence. I have some undiscovered disorder where I’m compelled to fill it.

“I got us rooms at a hotel not too far from here. It’s a long drive back to Colorado, and it’s already late so I figured it would be best to stay the night and head out first thing tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

“You wanna settle in and maybe shower? We can go to dinner afterward if you want.” I have no idea how dinner would go with him or what we would talk about, but I don’t want to be rude. Of course, maybe he wants to be alone. Maybe he doesn’t want an awkward dinner with me either. “No pressure,” I add.

“Sounds good, Demi. I appreciate all of this. Blake said you were too good to be true.”

My heart sinks with his words. Blake always put me up on a pedestal. “What is family for?” I finally manage.

The ride to the hotel is filled with awkward small talk; the weather, sports, and Connor asks me about my job. When we check in, I hand Connor the key to his room that is located right beside mine. We agree to meet up in an hour for dinner, then part ways to go to our separate rooms. I call my mother and let her know I’m okay and that no, Blake’s jailhouse cousin has not chopped me up and left me on the side of the road in little pieces.

“I know, Mom. I gotta go.”

“Text me every hour. I want to know you’re safe.”

“Mom. Chill. Seriously,” I grumble. “I’ll call you when I get home. We’re headed out first thing tomorrow. Love you. Bye,” I hang up quickly before she has time to argue.

I toss my phone on the bed and stand, but when my cell rings again, I groan. I know it’s my over-bearing mother calling me back, so I flip it open and snap, “Mom! I can’t stay on the phone with you all night.”

“Well hello to you, too, sunshine,” my cousin and best friend Wendy snarks at me from the other end.

“Oh, hey,” I laugh embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

“I take it Gladys has been calling?”

“You know it,” I gripe as I plop back down on the bed.

“Grayson, get out of my drawers!” Wendy yells to her three-year-old son before returning to me. “I swear he’s always getting into everything,” she complains. “So . . . how is Blake’s cousin?”

I roll my eyes. Married for going on sixteen years and saddled with five children, Wendy hangs on every detail of my life. I guess she likes to live vicariously through me. Not that I’ve offered much in the way of excitement lately. Me picking up Connor is the first time I’ve left Colorado in two years since Blake passed away, and she’s foaming at the mouth for details.

“Not much to report. He seems nice.”

“Come on, Demi,” she pleads. “Is he ugly or missing teeth? You know gang rape is prevalent in prisons, and some guys get their teeth knocked out so they can give better—”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that,” I interrupt her. “Sorry cuz. I’ve got nothing.”

“Well . . . I’ve been looking forward to this call all day,” she clucks, grumpily, clearly disappointed in my details . . . or lack thereof. Realizing begging is not producing the outcome she is desperately seeking, she moves on to a new tactic: manipulation. “You know, J.J. was tossing Mary-Anne’s baton around this morning and ended up hitting himself in the face with it. He chipped a tooth and busted his lip wide open, screaming bloody murder for an hour. And as I held him,” she drones on dramatically, “bleeding all over my shirt, and simultaneously packed four school lunches, I thought to myself,
I’m going to talk to Demi tonight, and she’s going to give me an amazingly detailed play-by-play of her day
. And with that thought, I smiled all day long. But, apparently,” she heaves a theatric sigh, “you
have nothing,”
she finishes morosely.

“Okay, Wendy,” I huff, rolling my eyes. “I’ll give you a play-by-play, but can I tell it in third person point of view? You know, like I’m narrating?”

After a small pause, she states simply, “I’ll allow it.”

Standing up, I head over to the mirror just above the dresser and grab my hairbrush. Just to be a smartass I muster up my best imitation of a sultry southern accent and begin. “Demi Stevens, the poor lonely widow, was embarking on a journey across states. Her destination was far from glamorous, but she had no choice. She had made a promise to her husband before he passed. And she’d keep that promise.”

“I really like your narration voice,” she jeers sarcastically. “Keep going.”

“When Connor Stevens exited the prison gates and laid eyes on Demi, his deceased cousin’s wife, he had to work hard to hide his attraction to her. There aren’t many women that can pull off windblown hair and sweat-soaked, wrinkled clothing, but Demi could.”

“What does he look like?” Wendy asks, her kids yelping and hollering in the background. I imagine she’s contemplating locking herself in the bathroom or closet, desperate to hear me over the noise being made by her loud clan.

Brushing my hair, I continue. “Connor was a large man with bulging biceps and tattoos everywhere. Heat immediately blanketed Demi’s skin as she drank him in. It only took minutes before the two were hot and sweaty . . .” I let the last word drag, for dramatic effect, “in Demi’s car. The ride to the hotel was a hot one as the air conditioning in the car was broken, and Arizona heat is unforgiving.”

“Mary-Anne, stop picking your nose!” Wendy shouts.

“As they reached the door to Demi’s room, she asked, ‘How about dinner?’ To which Connor replied, ‘Sounds good.’”

“There. You happy now?” I snip.

“Yeah. Riveted,” Wendy says, dryly. “You’re mean for the hot and sweaty part.”

“What did you think would happen?” I ask, laughing. “We’d meet, and I’d bang my husband’s cousin in my car outside the prison?”

“No,” she argues, the word dragging slightly, as if she thought exactly that. “But it would have been a cool story.”

“He’s Blake’s cousin, Wendy,” I point out.

“So,” she replies.

“And he just got out of prison for murder,” I add.

“Manslaughter,” she counters. “Which means it was kind of justified murder.”

“That is not what it means,” I laugh.

“Well, what does it mean?” she sasses.

I toss my brush on the dresser and start rummaging through my purse in search of gum. “It means he murdered someone and most likely got a lesser charge because the prosecutor mishandled evidence or something.”

“You don’t know that, Demi,” she murmurs. “Maybe it was justified.”

“And you don’t know that it was.”

“I can’t believe Blake never told you what happened.”

Blake didn’t want to touch the subject of Connor’s conviction—at least not with me anyway. He said it was
complicated
, whatever that meant. Complicated does not mean justified.

“Are you so desperate to see me with someone you think I should not only hook up with my late husband’s cousin, but that I should overlook said cousin is a violent felon as well?”

“I don’t know,” she whines. “I just want to see you happy.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Can we drop this for now, please?” The day has been long, and I’m tired and hungry. I have no desire for a lecture from Wendy about how it’s okay for me to move on and live my life.

“Yes,” she sighs with an air of defeat. “Thanks for the story.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I gotta go. Grayson must’ve gotten in our bathroom closet again, and he’s wearing my diaphragm like a bowler hat,” Wendy groans in frustration.

“That’s . . . so gross.” I’m glad we’re on the phone so she can’t see me cringe.

“I never use it . . . hence why I have an army of children over here,” she defends.

“I’ll see you day after tomorrow.”

“Fine. Enjoy dinner with Connor.”

“Yeah, yeah. Night.” I hang up and laugh to myself. My best friend is a nut.

Pulling my duffel bag out and tossing it on the bed, I unzip it and realize I forgot to give Connor the clothes I brought him. This was all part of Blake’s plan, too.

Taking the jeans, boxer shorts, and shirts—all still with tags and wrapped in their packaging—I rush over to Connor’s room hoping to catch him before he gets in the shower. I knock softly and wait. Without warning or hearing any movement from inside, the door flies open scaring me to death.