A Dangerous Affair (15 page)

"Even shit smells better when you're free," Marvin observed from the patio table a few feet away. He pinched a new cigarette between his lips. "The county's known about the problem for years." He lit up and blew smoke toward the open cable TV box in front of him. He touched the tip of a soldering iron to a printed circuit board and attached a pair of wires.

Lloyd finished his Diet Coke and stomped the can flat. The delicious taste from the sugar-free sweetener lingered with his memory of the driver of the red Volvo at the car wash. An intoxicating woman who turned him inside out with her smile and her sweet perfume.

Marvin stripped the ends from another pair of wires and opened a spiral notebook to review his hand-drawn schematic. He traced the path from the cable box connection to the custom circuit he designed. "You see your future up there?" he asked Lloyd.

"Huh?" said Lloyd.

"You've been staring at those stars like a treasure map."

"I forgot how many there are. They seem so close."

"They're a million miles away."

"They're so bright."

Marvin took a long drag and exhaled through the side of his mouth. "You need to get out more."

Lloyd stood up and smacked the pigskin between his hands. The dry leather stirred memories of a former life. "You almost done over there?"

"What's the rush? There's no game on tonight."

Lloyd threw the ball straight up and caught it. "You ever have one of those days where you can't tell the difference between sad and happy?"

"I've been there," said Marvin.

"I thought it would be different when I got out," Lloyd confessed.

"Different how?"

"I'm not sure. It's not like I was hoping for a big parade or something. This sounds stupid, but I kind of miss my old routine. I put up with the same crap at the same time every day for so long, I felt like it was part of me."

Marvin spooled a length of solder from the coil. "That's what they call 'institutionalized.' I know a lot of brothers who'd be happy to trade places with you."

Lloyd watched his roommate at work. "It's all good. I'm just saying it's different, that's all."

Marvin soldered another wire and tested the circuit connection. He smiled at the green LED and closed the notebook. "I'm sorry about your pop. I lost a cousin when I was in the joint. Dumb fool started running with gang bangers and got caught up in a drive-by. An AK-47 ripped him in half because some motherfucker didn't like the way my cousin looked at his girl. Stupid shit like that makes you wonder sometimes. In the end, it's all about the choices you make."

"That's just it," Lloyd said. "I've made some bad ones. Life's different on the outside. I feel like I'm still fighting something."

"Let it go. You can't live in two worlds at once. You gotta focus on what's in front of you. Don't unpack more than you need."

Lloyd squeezed the football between his hands. "I saw a lot of bad shit in the joint. That stuff sticks with you. I come out here now, and I feel like I've missed out on so much."

"You got a wife?"

"No."

"Any kids?"

"No."

"Then you haven't missed nothing," said Marvin. "Take what you got in front of you and go from there. God gave you a second chance. Make the best of it. Don't fuck it up now, at least not until you punch your ticket from Varden. He will make your life miserable if you let him. So don't."

"I thought you wanted to throw the ball?"

Marvin crushed out his cigarette on the ground and unplugged the soldering iron. "You tap any pussy since you got out? Cause you're tighter than the Tin Man on a rainy day."

"What do you care?"

Marvin pushed the table aside. "Just curious if I should sleep with my ass against the wall."

Lloyd drew his arm back and pump-faked a hard pass.

Marvin put his hands out to catch it. "Don't do me like that. I got delicate work on this table."

"Go long," said Lloyd. "See if you can make the winning grab."

Marvin placed the cover on the cable box and secured it with a screwdriver. "I'm just saying... Ten years is a long stretch without a woman. You need to get back in the game."

Varden beat a path toward the men. "Ten minutes to lights out," he barked. He pointed to the smoldering butt on the ground. "Pick that shit up."

Marvin snagged the smoldering filter and gathered his tools from the table. "It's fixed."

Varden turned his attention to Lloyd. "Why aren't you on kitchen duty?"

"I finished early."

"Uh huh..." Varden pointed to the Triumph in the parking lot. "You got a helmet to go with that?"

"They're not required."

"They are without proper insurance."

Lloyd palmed the football in his massive hand. "I'm covered."

Varden deliberately stepped inside Lloyd's personal space, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "I spoke with your boss today. I told him any issues he has with you, he brings to me."

Lloyd pictured a headbutt to Varden's face. The satisfaction of hurting him would be thrilling—but short-lived, he figured.

Varden glared at Lloyd. "Throw your clothes over there." He pointed to the patio table.

"What?"

"You heard me." Varden pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket.

Men gathered from the house to witness the confrontation that had become a twisted rite of passage for new house guests who challenged Varden's authority.

"Chapter six, section four, Mr. Sullivan. All parolees under direct supervision in a state-approved facility shall be subject to personal inspection, at random, for the purpose of determining the presence of illegal contraband found on, near, or within, said person."

"I've got nothing to hide."

"We all have something to hide, Mr. Sullivan. The question is whether or not you get caught."

Lloyd could see the other men watching him, chuckling, whispering, waiting for him to cave—or better yet—blow up at Varden and get hauled away in cuffs.

Lloyd knew a fight with Varden would cost him his freedom, but if he backed down to the man in charge, he'd lose all respect. And if prison life taught him anything, it taught him you never give up respect.

"Let it go," said Marvin. "A hard man shatters. A strong man endures."

Varden brandished a Taser from his belt. A blue spark sizzled between the conductive prongs. "This will happen with or without your cooperation, Mr. Sullivan. Either way, the choice is yours."

Chapter 20

Jamie locked the bathroom door and slid herself inside the oval soaking tub, filled with scented, turquoise water. She leaned back against the bath pillow and faced the glow from a cranberry candle in the steam-glazed mirror. The thrum of steady rain against the bathroom skylight quelled the sound of distant traffic.

She let her thoughts drift on autopilot, reflecting on the simple life she'd enjoyed in her twenties. A time devoid of Alan Blanchart, uncluttered by a wife's responsibilities and life's unpredictable nature; a time with no one to care for but herself, when the world revolved around her own pleasures.

Unaccustomed to romance, she'd gained more experience from books than from personal knowledge. She shared her life with Alan Blanchart, and her commitment to uphold the vows of matrimony through the good times and the bad. Yet despite her promise, she couldn't deny the rekindled sense of longing she'd felt in the presence of the handsome car wash attendant who stirred a dormant passion inside her.

She slid a wet washcloth from her shoulder to her naked chest, rubbing her flat abdomen in small circles to massage the area below her navel and north of her waxed pubic region.

She spread her legs in the moisturized effervescence, reliving the moment when she brushed against the rugged stranger and felt an instant, almost indescribable connection.

She closed her eyes and imagined a forbidden kiss. Her fingers traced along her erogenous zone, provoking sensations she hadn't felt for months. She moaned softly, her inhibitions subsiding in the sanctuary of her warm bath. Stimulated by a feather touch, she awakened a sensual craving induced by a guilty pleasure—abruptly ended by an incoming call.

She dried her hands on a bath towel and reached for her cell phone on the toilet lid. "Hi there," she greeted Alan, his name prominently displayed on the caller ID.

"You sound out of breath,"
Blanchart said through the speakerphone in his cruiser.

"I'm taking a bath. Are you coming home?"

"Not yet. Did you see the dermatologist?"

"I did. I'm on the schedule for next week."

Blanchart typed a Web address on the laptop keyboard in his cruiser.
"Did you get the car washed?"

Jamie thought about her answer. "I did, but it rained. I'll have to go back again."

"Did you get the mail?"

"It's on the table."

"Any packages?"

"Not today. A few bills came. I recycled the junk mail."

"What else?"

"Samantha called again. She keeps asking to come down for my birthday."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her I'd have to talk to you."

A long silence came over the phone. Jamie heard a voice in the background. "Are you still there?" she asked.

Blanchart spoke in a monotone voice, preoccupied with the Website content.
"Samantha's important to you, so she's important to me. If she wants to come see you, let her come. Don't let me stand in the way."

"Really?" Jamie said incredulously.
"

"Thank you," said Jamie. "It means a lot to me." She pressed the phone against her ear to compensate for the weak signal. "You still there?"

"I have to go,"
said Blanchart, tersely.
"Make sure you set the alarm."

"I will."

"And don't forget to blow the candle out. Those things will burn the house down."

Jamie covered her breasts with the washcloth and slid beneath the waterline. She stared at the ceiling and felt her bath grow cold.

Chapter 21

Leeland Marks drank Crystal at two in the morning, from a champagne flute in the back of a stretched limousine. Gold cuff links sparkled on the sleeves of his black Armani blazer. Grey whisker stubble outlined a budding goatee and mustache, adding chic with a pinch of sinister to the man who ruled a mounting empire.

An entrepreneur with the right connections to the right people at the right time, he'd built a thriving drug business from the ground up. Everything from manufacturing to distribution and sales came under his purview. Expenses were down with revenues at triple digits and rising steadily from increased demand for his methamphetamine product. Drawing from raw talent and years of MBA experience, he acquired new properties and expanded his market base from a single West Coast operation to a network of high-volume kitchens established in low-rent, high-yield locations across the country.