One
Loretta
Five Years later
It’s been exactly five years to the day since I signed my life away. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself for the memory of that day as this is the only time I allow it to be upfront and alive.
“Loretta, this is the best option that you’re going to get,” my lawyer states in what could be boredom as he slides the paperwork across the table to me.
“What do you mean by the best option?” My voice is so high pitched that I don’t even recognize it.
“What else do you need me to say? They’re offering to have you serve time only until your eighteenth birthday. You will then be on parole for the next ten years.” My lawyer leans forward, placing his arms on the table and laying his hands flat. “You take this deal, and we do not go to trial.”
“You said if we went to trial with everything I’ve told you and the pictures of my bruises that we would win. That it’s what was best for us because you never fucking lose.” By the time I’m done, I’m screaming like a crazy person.
“And that’s exactly what will fucking happen if you go to court.
We will fucking lose. So, save us both the time, effort, and loss.
Take the goddamn deal.” He leans in so that we’re nose to nose.
“Do not be a stupid little girl. Be smart; sign this deal and do the exceedingly small amount of time in prison. You will be out just after you turn eighteen and off parole before you turn thirty. You will still have plenty of time to live your life.”
I slam back into my chair, glaring at the man. “It sounds like I don’t have a choice here. I take the deal and flush everything down the damn toilet, and the person who actually killed that slimy fucker gets to walk around free and clear?”
“Look at it however you choose, little girl. What I’m telling you is that if you go to court, you will go to prison for a substantially long time,” he says, pushing the paperwork closer to me, never once looking anything but bored. “Sign the deal.”
I take the pen and sign my name on the line as tears course down my face as I watch all my dreams and future slip away with every stroke of the pen.
I slide the paperwork back to my lawyer as I allow the last of my tears to roll down my face, not bothering to wipe them away.
My lawyer, like the cold hard man that he is, doesn’t even seem to be fazed by the tears or the fact he is gutting me.
He picks the paperwork up, looking over it and making sure that everything is completed and signed correctly before standing.
Straightening his too-nice suit jacket for a dingy juvie interview room.
Before I can stop the next set of words, they just tumble from my lips. “I’ve wondered how, as a public offender, you seem to be dressed as if you're headed to an awards show.”
His shoulders go square as he levels his gaze on me with an iciness that I’ve not seen at any time since we started this. “Not everything is as it appears, my dear.”
His words hit me like a blow to the face, causing me to flinch.
When I do, I watch a flicker of satisfaction fill his eyes as a smirk spreads across his face.
That’s when I realize that I’m seeing the shark he claimed to be when he strutted into this hell instead of the cold, indifferent man he has been.
Deciding that I’m done just letting the assholes who believe they run the world tell me what to do, I push forward, even though the voice in my head is screaming for me to stop. “Well, it appears you don’t believe you're as good as you think you are.”
His smirk grows into a humorless smile. “I’m following orders. Do your time, get out, and move on. That’s the best advice I have for you, little girl.”
As the memory fades, it all rises like a tidal wave—the sorrow, the anger, the raw devastation of it all—working to consume all of me.
I allow a single tear to fall onto my knee, the very first one I’ve allowed to fall since the day I signed the paperwork that took away any future I might have had.
What kind of future can you have when you plead guilty to manslaughter charges?
It’s been five years since it all happened, and I still do not have words for the way it all makes me feel.
When my phone alarm goes off letting me know it’s time to head to work, I surge to my feet and dust off my ass.
As I gaze out over the sky painted bright with pinks, oranges, and purples from the setting sun, I shiver with the feeling of being watched.
I tuck my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie as I slowly turn to scan the surrounding area.
When I don’t see anyone, I make my way back up the trail toward where my car is parked.
Ahead of me to the right, tucked deep under the shadow of a grove of trees, I swear I see the silhouette of a man.
I watch that spot as I make my way up the slope, not paying attention to where I am placing my feet.
I’m reminded of how bad of an idea this is when I catch my toe on a root.
This causes me to come down hard on my hands and knees.
“Holy shit! Are you okay?” someone calls, rushing down the embankment toward me.
Rolling to sit on my butt, I look up into chocolate brown eyes filled with concern. I lose all train of thought with how pretty this man is. A masculine chuckle breaks whatever fog I’m lost in.
“It would be a lie if I said that is the first time I’ve ever been called pretty,” he states, squatting down in front of me.
“I said that out loud then, didn’t I?” I mumble, dropping my eyes to my hands to study the scrapes on them so I don’t have to look at Mr. Pretty again.
“You did,” he says, laughing while grabbing my wrists and pulling them to help me stand.
My eyes snap up to meet his as mortification once again erases all filters from my brain. “I’m so sorry. I do not know what is wrong with me right now. I normally have no problem keeping my internal thoughts just that—internal.”
He gives me a small grin. “I quite like your honesty. Now, are you going to answer my original question? Are you okay?”
I drop my eyes, accessing first my knees then my hands that are still in Mr. Pretty’s hands.
I try to pull them back and out of his grasp, but he squeezes them to keep me in place.
Panic rises in my chest since we’re on a part of the mountain that doesn’t get a ton of traffic and it’s only him and me here.
“They don’t look terrible, just some scraps and bruising.” I go for nonchalance as I try to pull my hands free once again. “Nothing some soap, water, ibuprofen, and rest can’t cure.”
His grip tightens once again slightly before he lets go. “Why don’t I help you to your car?”
With my hands free, I put as much space between us as I possibly can. “No, that’s fine. Thank you for your help.”
Slowly, I back away before turning and hastily making my way up the embankment.
I scan the area as I go, hoping that there will be someone else around.
My heart sinks until I see the shadow once again just inside the tree line.
I don’t know how or why, but I know its eyes are on me and Mr. Pretty, watching every move we make.
I make it to the top and nearly jog to my car when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Hey! Wait, please,” I hear him call behind me.
I don’t slow or even chance looking back at him. “Sorry, I’ve got to get going. Have a nice day and thank you for helping me.”
When I’m nearly to my car, I pull my keys from my jacket pocket, once again annoyed that I don’t have keyless entry on the old beater.
Just as I get the keys into my hand, I drop them on the ground.
They hit with a thud, and I drop my head back, looking up at the sky and praying that for once in my life something would go the way I want and or need it to.
The footsteps stop right behind me, and he places a hand on my lower back as he bends to pick my keys up for me. “You dropped these,” he whispers way too close to my ear for comfort.
Gritting my teeth, I bring my head back up, and when I do, they land on eyes so green that I must be imagining them.
The harshness and scowl on his face seem to make his eyes even more mesmerizing.
Everything around me seems to stand still for just a moment, as if waiting for the predator to strike.
I feel as if my blood has stopped moving through my veins, waiting to see what he will do.
The man behind me is oblivious or just plain stupid not to see the man who seems to be glaring at us.