Chapter 2
TWO
Dutch
Dear Dutch,
I’m finding it more and more difficult not to pick up my pen and jot down things I want you to know about during the day. Like this morning, I went to pick up coffee on my way to the garage and when I went inside, there was this elderly couple sitting there, all dressed up like they were at Sunday church, not sitting at Giley’s Restaurant where even the salads are served with a side of lard.
Anyway, there they were, sipping on their coffee, holding hands across the table like they were the only two people in the world. As I walked by, I saw the woman was in a wheelchair but that’s not what caught my eye. Sitting up on the table was an old oval picture frame with a faded sepia tone photo of a young couple. I figured it must be them when they were younger and I paused for a second to look, feeling this clutch in my heart taking in the silent, frozen moment.
The woman turned my way, smiling with a wink. His eyes followed, then he said, “It’s our anniversary. Ain’t she a looker? I’m a lucky man.” She swatted the air on a giggle. I asked how long they’d been married.
71 YEARS. Can you even imagine? 71 years with someone! Well, long story shorter, I asked if I could buy them a slice of pie to celebrate and after some refusal, they agreed—on one condition, that I would have a slice with them and a cup of coffee, and they would tell me their story.
God, I would have bought them a hundred pieces of pie. They told me they met right there where Giley’s is now, 72 years ago when it was just a farmer’s vegetable stand. The husband worked on the farm as a laborer. He was there unloading a truck when her family stopped to buy a watermelon for Sunday supper.
He described the lace and sky-blue silk dress she was wearing that day with such detail tears came to my eyes. Her family was rich. He was a dirt-poor orphan. But that didn’t stop them. From their first look, they said they were in love.
Her parents did everything they could to keep them apart, including having him arrested on some false charges, but a year after they met, they ran away and got married. Everyone said it wouldn’t last.
Never bet against true love, I guess.
I hope you are doing well. Sorry about the sappy letter, I just wanted to share it with you for whatever reason. Hope to hear from you soon. I look forward to your letters more than I ever thought I would.
Your pen pal,
Daphne
I spent the morning in my cell re-reading her letters, knowing today would be a turning point for me. The one about the old couple is my favorite and I could recite it from memory.
You’d think the relief of finally being out would have me wanting to cut loose in some strip club or find the closest bar and try to drink away the last four years. Instead, I take a deep breath, enjoying the scent of the free air. It’s different. Even when I was outside in the yard at the prison, the air was sour.
Heavy.
This? This is just the opposite. Fresh and new like anything is possible.
I hear the metal-on-metal clank of the prison gates latching shut behind me as I step into the parking lot in the winter sunshine and a shiver races through me.
James waves me over to his truck. I cherish every breath. I make a silent vow that things will be different.
I’m not going to fuck up this opportunity. Her letters made me want to be better. This is my chance.
James hasn’t stopped talking since I got in the truck, but I don’t care. I’m so fucking preoccupied. I keep bouncing my leg up and down. Clenching and unclenching my fists and letting out these old-man sort of grunting sighs, trying to pretending I’m listening.
Today, I’m going to meet the woman that’s been dominating my every waking and sleeping thought for a year. There’s not a fucking thing that could ruin my mojo right now.
James keeps talking. He and I are unlikely friends. He got a shit deal from a shit friend who after a night out for beers, the so-called friend stuffed a bag full of rock and street fentanyl under the James’s driver’s seat when they got pulled over for expired plates. James had no fucking idea what was going on, but his exasperation was taken as resistance and the situation turned rotten from there.
The so-called friend threw James under every bus he could. Got himself a suspended sentence, while James, who enjoys his beer no doubt but has never so much as taken a hit from a blunt, got hard time.
Times have changed since I went in. We pass a billboard with a pot leaf and I’m reminded that now, weed is full on legal. Times change and keep changing, whether or not you’re there to see it.
Two hours later, I’m ready to jump out of my skin when we finally pull into a driveway in an ordinary—if not a little rundown--blue collar sort of residential area. James finally takes a breath, silent for the first time since we started driving as he shuts off the 1990-something Chevy pickup.
I look at the wood-framed old Craftsman-style house. It’s painted a cheerful yellow, a few unfinished boards waiting for matching paint from what looks like a repair to some rotting wood over the front porch. A blue plastic snow shovel leans against a broken handrail along the stairs next to a half-empty bag of rock salt.
“Dad’s a great mechanic, not as much a carpenter.” James nods toward the house.
“I’ll help.” Two words is all I can manage as I straighten up in the passenger seat. The fear of what could happen in the next few minutes is damned near strangling me.
This is it. Make or break. If she hates me, so be it. It will just take longer to convince her she’s mine.
I know that in my soul already. Mine. All fucking mine.
But there’s other shit to deal with, too. There’s the small matter that I never mentioned to her brother: that she and I have been writing to each other. A lot. When he offered me a place to stay and a job, when and if I ever got parole, I knew I should own up, but I didn’t.
I could have told him if I really wanted to. But fuck no.
The truth is, I have other options. I could look up my sister, get my hands on my inheritance and start over anywhere I wanted.
But, there is only one place I want to start over. Only one place I want to be. And he offered it up to me on a silver platter. Here. With her.
“I know you’ll help, man. Relax.” James grips my shoulder with a reassuring shake. “My dad’s a hard ass but under that crusty exterior he’s a marshmallow. My mom will dote on you like you’re her own. And my sister, Daphne…” He laughs, shaking his head.
Daphne.
“She’s a piece of work,” James says. “I’m sure it won’t be long before she’s recruiting you to volunteer on her dog outreach.”
I nod, gritting my teeth, adrenaline surging through me at the sound of her name. Pretending I don’t know her. Pretending I haven’t memorized her smooth, looping handwriting. Pretending I haven’t imagined her every night when I fall asleep.
I managed to sneak in one question while we drove about Daphne. Back at Cleary, he talked about her a bit. Said she’d never even been on a date as far as he knew but driving, getting close, I had to know. I threw it out there like it was just some off hand, trying-to-make-conversation sort of question, Your sister still not had a date? No boyfriend?
James gave me the answer I wanted, adding on that anyone she might decide to take a second look at, would have to come through him first, then their father. He said she didn’t even go to prom because all the guys were too scared of her brother and father. He added, she didn’t seem to really care. I appreciate their protectiveness, but soon they’ll need to know, that job is mine.
It’s go time.
There’s a lump in my throat and my mind is fucking racing. I’ve had the displeasure of being a guest at several of Michigan’s Corrections facilities, but not one of them had me this fucking nervous walking inside.
As James hops out of the driver’s seat, I grip the handle and suck a breath through my teeth.
I feel like a fucking duck on roller skates as we make our way up the uneven concrete walk to the front door. A sign above reads The Fosters Est. 1975, surrounded by a homemade floral wreath. From somewhere inside, I hear barking from what sounds like a whole pack of dogs.
Holy fuck. This is it.
As James opens the front door, I see a man sitting in a faded brown recliner in a living room to my right. He looks over from his open newspaper, then folds it neatly, setting it on a table next to him as he stands.
He’s as tall as James, but thicker. Less hair. Lines dig into his face but there’s a warmth in his blue eyes even as he inspects me, shoving his hands down into his worn blue work pants. His shirt is smeared with grease, the name Walter embroidered over a red patch with Foster’s Garage printed in the center of a tire-shaped logo.
I’m more thankful than ever for the clothes James brought for me. Leaving in the state-issued stiff khakis and denim shirt felt like a neon sign telling everyone I was a con on his first day out.
But I didn’t give a fuck what strangers would see. It was about coming here to meet his family.
To meet Daphne.
And never has a cheap flannel shirt and an unbroken pair of Levi’s felt better.
I nod and extend my hand as I approach. The dark indigo of my full sleeve of ink shows on my wrist. India ink. Prison art. And he knows it.
He regards me in silence before offering up a handshake which I take, holding it a second longer than necessary, with a hard squeeze on the end that says, Don’t fuck this up.
I’m going to do everything I can not to.
James stands between us, nodding as he takes on the introductions. “Dutch McCabe, this is Walter, my dad. Dad, this is Dutch.”
His chest fills with a deep breath as the sound of a woman singing Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’ chimes out softly from what I guess is the kitchen through an archway behind him. The barking from earlier grows louder as I hear small but heavy footfalls sounding on the hardwood.
I hold my breath as the singing pauses, then a questioning voice, “James? You back? Is he here?” I don’t think it’s Daphne. Sounds older, more mom-like.
“James?” Another female voice, lighter, younger, more excited, and my hips twitch in a little thrust as my dick stands at attention. That’s her. I know it. Holy fuck.
Here it comes.
Boom.
The first sight of the girl that’s filled my fantasies day and night for a year is almost rapturous. I swear I hear fucking angels singing. Goddamn church bells. I may have found religion.
The light from a window frames her perfection. She’s in torn jeans, cut off at her ankles. Black boots. A low-cut black thermal shirt. You’d think she was wearing some fantasy stripper lingerie from my reaction, but she could wear a flour sack and make me hard. Her fucking body is a vision. Strong, compact, but with a doll-like quality that makes me want to hoist her into my arms and carry her through life. Her fucking evergreen eyes are like heaven itself.
Two large dogs curl around her legs in figure eights while several others in a variety of shapes and colors walk behind. She snaps her fingers and they all sit in unison as she looks down with a smile.
“Good boys. And girls.” She turns those magical green eyes to me, the moment frozen in time. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen bar none. I’m fucking lost.
Two of the biggest dogs stare me down, lips twitching as if to say, who’s this motherfucker in our house?
“Mother!” Walter breaks the moment calling out over his shoulder. He keeps his eyes on me, but I barely hear anything over the raging river of blood rushing through my ears. The pounding in my temples like a drumbeat calling to some primal part of me she’s awakened.
Daphne’s more beautiful than any fantasy I’d conjured of her, impossible as that seems. From that first letter, she did something to me through the loops and swoops of the ink on the page. I felt her somehow.
Knew her somehow.
Now, fuck. I want to know everything. Especially how it would feel thrusting inside her, making her mine once and for all.
Her dark hair catches the light streaming through the living room window. I can’t speak. I can’t even move. Tendrils that remind me of her handwriting fall around her oval face, the comma of a dimple showing on her right cheek as she dries her hands on a green towel before shooing the dogs off behind her.
And fuck, I want to be that towel.
“Dutch.” Walter addresses me, dropping my hand, draping his arm around a woman that looks like an older version of Daphne, with silver streaks in her hair but the same brilliant green eyes and pale, ivory skin. “This is my wife, Joan. And this…” He leans over as Daphne comes to stand next to her mother. “…is my daughter. Daphne. My family.” His voice hardens and I see that don’t fuck this up look again in his eyes.
I tip my head to them both but my eyes are locked on Daphne.
Her body was built for fucking. She’s small, with a tight little frame that makes her look younger than her age, only with womanly curves and teasing cleavage. The best of everything.
My thoughts turn filthy. Depraved. And fast.
A vision of her eyes, wide, her feminine lips soft and wet as I stuff every inch of my thick cock into her tight pink cunt while I squeeze her throat, slap her ass and tell her she’s my fuck toy from now until ever more. My heart nearly seizes as every drop of blood pumps into my erection.
Shit. I look down to make sure the tails of my shirt cover the effect she’s having on me because everyone getting an eyeful of my hard-on as a first impression isn’t what I’d planned.
The sound of a ringing phone snaps me from my delirium as James pulls out his cell and looks at the screen.
“Gotta take this. It’s the shop.” He puts a finger up and nods at Walter before answering and stepping into the hallway, then behind a door.
Walter sniffs as Joan sighs. It smells nice in here; like someone bakes cookies every fucking day and dusts with that lemony smelling spray. But mixed in there somewhere, I can smell her, too. Perfume or lotion. Soft and sexy, and it makes my mouth water. Because I want her. Here. Now. Forever.
James got the gift of gab from his mother. Joan is chattering away to me while Walter stands silently to her side, but I’m only partway listening. Because I can’t take my eyes off of Daphne. And I can’t stop thinking about her pussy.
Is she bare or does she have one of those little fluffy landing strip shaves? Or, is she full on muff, soft and retro?
I don’t care, I just want to know.
And see.
And taste.
“You said you would take the afternoon off,” Joan scolds James when he comes back from the call, making his apologies that he’s got to go back to the shop soon. “I knew it was too good to be true. Next thing I know you’re going to have the shop open on Sunday. We always said Sunday was family day. Family dinner…I suppose it’s only a matter of time…”
“Don’t start, baby.” Walter leans over and kisses the top of his wife’s head. “We gotta do what we gotta do. Make hay while the sun shines, right?” He gives her a devious wink as Joan swats his chest.
“Don’t start with that,” Joan says, chiding him. “You’ll give Dutch the wrong impression.”
Walter looks at me with a nod. “You getting the wrong impression, son?”
The only impression I’m getting is an image of Daphne’s knees pressing into the mattress as I fuck her from behind, spreading her ass cheeks and telling her where my dick is going next as I spit on her back entrance and listen to her moan out my name.
I shake my head as my fingertips twitch, thinking of grabbing Daphne’s tits as she rides me like a barrel racer, the waterfall of dark hair a slick mess, stuck to her face with sweat and the cum facial I’d give her as soon as I can set my dick free and give it a single pump.
The vile thoughts rage as I force myself to recognize that she is part of this goodness I feel here. This warmth. This home. A family that through the trials of life has managed to stick together.
I force myself to refocus on what’s around me. The furnishings are simple and neat but not opulent. A step above Archie Bunker but way below The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
I’ve met psychopaths, rapists, murderers, every sort of evil humanity has produced, and something I’ve figured out is the solidness of a good family goes a long way in preventing a person from becoming a mess.
Like me.
William “Dutch” McCabe. Disgraced son of a decorated war hero father and a loving mother. She loved me like a hurricane and left my life just as fast; she took a stray bullet from a drive-by when she turned down the wrong street coming home from the grocery store two fucking weeks after we moved to Van Dyke. I loved her. My dad, too. I loved being a military kid. Loved the travel, the living in exotic places, the thrill of life abroad. And life was good. For a while.
When my dad decided to retire and bring us back ‘home’ I was fourteen. That was when the nightmare started.
I fucking hated it here in Van Dyke. It was a city ripe and ready for a rebellious teen. It wasn’t the same place as when my father grew up here with the auto industry thriving. By the time he moved us back, the world he remembered was gone, turned into empty lots and crumbling concrete factories that once provided support to the population.
But he was too fucking stubborn to admit maybe he made a fucking mistake. Nope. He dug in and here we stayed.
Then Mom was murdered and nothing seemed to matter to me anymore. Or him. I was soon swallowed up by every lowlife group that needed fresh meat to help their cause.
I watched as so-called friends held up pharmacies to get the over-the-counter drugs they needed to fuel their back-room meth kitchens. I got arrested for petty theft within three months of Mom’s death.
It escalated from there. I paid the price. I have blood on my hands and I hold memories of things I’ve seen and done, that a bright star in the world like Daphne never needs to know.
I snap back to the moment and the room spins around the axis that is the dark-haired stunning beauty as I battle off the groan stuck in my throat.
“Nice to…” She pauses, giving me a knowing smile. “…meet you. James has told us all about you.”
Our shared secret only binds me more tightly to her. It’s something that is just ours. Even here, in a room filled with her family, we already have a life of our own.
Something no one else knows. A secret I fucking cherish like no other.
Her green eyes sparkle as I take in the way her jeans hug her hips. My mouth starts to water, thinking of the slick treasure that waits between her thighs.
I harden to the point of pain, nearly making me double over. A fire has been lit inside me, and I know I will never be able to put it out.
She already feels like home. I want to pull her softness against me, to feel her melt all my hard edges as I cling to her for my salvation.
I rip my eyes from hers, knowing I’ve been staring too long and too hard. I don’t want to end this before it can begin.
“We’re glad you’re here, Dutch.” Joan crosses her arms, offering a genuine but guarded smile. “Dinner will be ready about six.”
“It already smells delicious.” I swallow hard, wary that it might be obvious I’m not talking about the scent of food that’s drifting from the kitchen.
It’s already clear Daphne’s about a thousand pay grades above me. Too young. Too pure. Too perfect.
My world has been darkness and discomfort for so long. Her letters were the only things that kept me tethered to any sort of hope. Like flares on a battlefield.
“Mom is a great cook. But I’m not.” Daphne smiles and it feels like my balls fill with a pint of hot baby-making cream, ready to top off her womb with every drop. “Except if you count doggie stew, I guess.”
I blink. Tipping my head. For a second, my brain locks up as I swear she said doggie style instead of doggie stew…
“I’m sure you have other skills,” I say, my voice sounding far away as I glance over and see her father narrow his eyes at me.
Fucking hell. I want to chew through her jeans and tongue-fuck her pussy until she drowns me in her sweet honey, but from the glare Walter has set on me, I need to rein it in.
For now.
For a second, I make myself believe that this heady, over the top lust is from being locked up for four years. But in my heart I know that’s not the reason.
I don’t just want her. I fucking need her.
A dinging sound comes from the kitchen, releasing the tense moment as we all stand in silence.
“Show Dutch where he’ll be staying since James has abandoned him.” Walter nods at Daphne. “Sure he’d like to have some time alone to get his bearings.”
Joan scurries toward the kitchen, fluttering some words of encouragement over her shoulder as Walter shoots me a final pinning look. This old fucker, man. He means business. “We’ll talk later.” He turns, heading down the hall where James disappeared, leaving me standing with Daphne, my control hanging by a thread.
“Well,” she starts, stepping past me to grab her coat, “I got the place pretty cleaned up for you this afternoon. But if there’s anything you need, just ask. Come on. I’ll show you the little house as we call it. It’s cozy, but it has a bedroom with a smart TV, so you can watch whatever. Or my I connected my Spotify on there as well, so…music. There’s a little kitchen slash living room, bathroom. Everything you could need.”
I’ve been in jail so long that I don’t even really know about smart fucking TV’s or Spoti-whatever. But it doesn’t matter.
“There’s no way it has everything I need,” I say on a sigh, then recover when Daphne gives me an unsure squint. “A nice hot shower alone sounds good,” I mutter, before I think about what I’m saying. I watch her nibble her lower lip as we head out the front door into the cold.
“Alone, huh?” she asks, amusement in her voice as our feet crunch on the cold path with each step.
She shouldn’t be fucking amused. She should be guarded at all times around me because the things I want to do to her sweet mouth are probably illegal.
I clear my throat. “Four years showering with ten other guys takes its toll.” I breathe in her candy scent as I walk next to her. “But a hot shower alone isn’t exactly what I meant.”
Her cheeks burn red as she nods toward the door of the guesthouse. “I’ll leave you be. If you need anything, just call. James got you a cell. Should be in there on top of a basket with some towels for the bathroom, a couple new pillows we got for you and some spare sheets. I programmed our numbers in already.”
The words hang between us as my cock pulses. This girl is turning me inside out but I have to find my control.
“Thank you,” I manage as she spins, walking back down the path. Watching her go, a hollowness fills my chest. But somehow, I know she’ll be back.
And I’ll be waiting.