2. Diego
DIEGO
The young guy working the takeout window was going to be a problem.
Diego knew from his first day at Frank’s when he and his server friend tried to suss him out.
Diego wasn’t there to make friends–or hook up, for that matter.
He was there to work, as mandated by the terms of his conditional release from prison, and to stay the hell away from anything that might tempt him back into his old lifestyle.
Keep your head down, don’t take risks, and don’t fuck up.
Still, the view was nice.
The guy–Wylie or whatever his name was–was tall and rangy, like he hadn’t filled out completely into his frame yet, or maybe he was a hyperactive person who burned through the calories.
Lean but muscular. And strong, Diego knew, because he’d helped him haul the 50-pound slabs of meat earlier that week from the delivery truck to the walk-in freezer.
Hardworking too, considering he was always the first to empty trash cans or chip in with washing dishes if the kitchen crew got behind.
But Diego wasn’t interested.
He did wonder if the man worked out, how much he could lift and bench press, but that was more of a scientific inquiry than actual interest. It’d be best if Diego ignored him altogether, but the guy kept raising his arms to reach the takeout containers from off a high shelf, revealing a slice of lean stomach with the soft etching of abdominals and a sandy strip of hair that headed southward into his low-slung jeans. Did the guy not own a belt?
His t-shirt clung to his broad shoulders with a small, dark triangle of sweat in the center of his back, the shape of which Diego had memorized because he only looked at the younger man when his back was turned.
The kitchen was hot as hell in the summertime, and even with the air conditioning running constantly, it never got below 80 degrees.
That fact sure hadn’t changed in the years since Diego had worked at the pit.
Focus, Diego reminded himself, which, for the moment, meant shredding the smoked pork butt with a set of stainless steel forks while making sure he didn’t leave any chunks behind.
“So, you from around here?” The guy—Wylie—was now right in front of him with only a two-foot counter between them. Damn this asthmatic air conditioner; Diego didn’t like it when people snuck snuck up on him. And damn this man’s ocean-blue eyes too.
“Yeah,” Diego said, not wanting to elaborate.
He’d been born in Largo and raised by a single mother after his dad had fucked off when he was little.
His Uncle Frank had stepped in when Diego reached his teen years and had gotten too wild for his mother to handle.
He was currently living in one of his uncle’s apartments off East Bay Drive at a discounted rate and within walking distance of work, yet another way he was indebted to the man.
“Same. You go to Largo High?” Wylie asked.
Diego studied him closer. Christ, was he lusting after a high schooler? “I did, a while back.” He didn’t mention that he’d never actually finished high school.
“Me too, but probably not at the same time. You’re, what, twenty-five?”
“Twenty-seven,” Diego corrected.
The guy nodded. “I’m twenty-two, or about to be, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” Diego lied.
Wylie shot him a rakish grin. Dimples too? And was that… a tongue piercing? Shit, this guy was pushing all his buttons.
“Yeah, well, thought you might want to know that I’m legal, in case you’re interested,” he said with a wink.
Diego’s face grew hot, his body agitated.
He wasn’t used to the attention, not from men and not so brazen.
In prison, he’d done his best to radiate fuck-off vibes.
His intimidating physique helped with that.
He certainly wasn’t going around advertising anything.
It was safer all around, and after a while, he’d gotten used to the solitude.
To have this young punk throw it out there? Like it was nothing?
“I’m not interested,” Diego replied through gritted teeth, even as the blood was throbbing in his temples and his dick was plumping in his pants.
“Not yet.” Wylie’s eyebrows wagged suggestively.
Thankfully, a customer appeared at the takeout window, and the conversation was over…
for now. Still, Diego’s eyes kept betraying him, sliding back in the direction of his ballsy coworker.
Someone needed to keep an eye on him, Diego assured himself, that was all.
Yeah, this guy was going to be a problem.
As part of his conditional release from prison, Diego had to check in with his probation officer once a week.
Tuesdays, the only time he’d asked Frank to block off his work schedule.
He worked a lot of hours, partly to stay busy but also because he needed the money.
He was starting over from zero: no education, no career skills beyond kitchen work and manual labor, and no network either, not one that he’d want to tap back into.
It was overwhelming, at times, to think about how behind he was in life, but at least he was no longer in prison.
The probation office was over on Ulmerton Road, which required two sweaty bus transfers and a half-mile hike by foot to get there.
Rideshares were too expensive, and he didn’t want to ask his uncle for any more favors.
Or his mom, for that matter. With traffic, the buses were prone to being late, so Diego left his place early with plenty of time to spare.
Arriving at the large, glass-fronted building, he took advantage of one of the reflective window panes to check his appearance, smoothing his thick, wavy hair to one side and straightening his shirt cuffs so that most of his tattoos were covered.
He’d sweated through the fabric in some places, but that couldn’t be helped in this late-May heat. At least he didn’t stink. Yet.
He reviewed what he knew about his probation officer–Shakonda Watson was her name.
Officer Watson? Ms. Watson? They’d spoken briefly on the phone shortly after his release, but he hadn’t addressed her directly, so he wasn’t sure which would be more appropriate.
He didn’t want to make a bad first impression.
Taking a deep breath, Diego shook off his nerves and entered the massive concrete building, searching for signs to indicate where the Department of Corrections offices were housed.
The receptionist directed him to the proper floor, and once there, Diego faced an endless maze of cubicles with phones ringing and the sounds of people talking, some more loudly than others.
It reminded him of meal times at Polk Correctional Institute, minus the clattering of trays.
You’re fine. You’re supposed to be here. You’ve done nothing wrong.
Diego stood in the doorway and tried to get his bearings, until someone came in from behind him and headed toward the check-in counter, which he’d somehow overlooked.
He gave his name to the clerk, then took a seat in one of the rows of plastic chairs to wait to be called back.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, a calming technique he’d learned in prison.
Take a beat, then another. Stay calm, don’t react.
He recalled the conversation he’d had with his mother that morning, when she’d asked him if he’d been to church that Sunday.
He hadn’t because he’d been at work, which didn’t seem to be enough of a reason to skip church, especially when he could have gone to a later service.
She’d pressed him on that. Diego hadn’t cared to elaborate on why he hadn’t felt comfortable in church for a while now or how religion felt like a crutch, similar to how the drugs had been for him.
Besides, how could forgiveness be so easily granted?
Like some kind of cheat code. The idea of an all-powerful being watching over him–actually giving a shit–had always been a bit too abstract for Diego.
Even as a child, he’d always had more doubt than faith and had felt like he was faking it every time he bowed his head in prayer.
Maybe that’s why he’d been such a bad kid.
He had to do this on his own, prove to himself that he was stronger now, that he had changed and wouldn’t be tempted by his old lifestyle. He didn’t want to rely on religion or drugs, or anyone else for that matter.
But his mother didn’t understand that. Her Catholic faith was what had gotten her through her only son’s rampant drug addiction, his reckless decisions, and subsequent incarceration.
Diego had tried going to church services in prison a few times–mainly for her–but it always ended up making him feel worse. More guilt, more shame.
So, he’d spent his free time working out in the yard, the one arena where he felt competent.
He’d even made a few… well, not friends, but acquaintances, men who would watch his back, if needed.
Their camaraderie, along with that of the kitchen crew where he’d been assigned to work, was what got him through the seven long years of incarceration.
The conversation with his mother ended as most of them did, with Diego agreeing to do better, a perpetual promise never fulfilled.
“Diego Abarca?”
The familiar voice of his PO, Shakonda Watson, brought him out of his thoughts.
Her makeup, including her vivid red lipstick, was expertly applied, but even still, she looked tired.
Maybe just tired of the bullshit. No doubt she had to deal with enough of it in her line of work.
But there would be no bullshit from Diego, none whatsoever.
His mind drifted back to his ballsy coworker. Nope, absolutely not.
Diego stood and smoothed down his shirtfront before offering his hand. That was an appropriate greeting, right? “Nice to meet you, Officer Watson,” he said while trying to calm his racing heart.
She may have smirked at that–he wasn’t sure–and after shaking his hand, gestured for him to follow her through the maze of cubicles.
They took a series of turns, and Diego wasn’t confident he’d find her office again if left to his own devices.
Once there, he took the seat across from her and from an old manila folder, produced the paperwork he’d been instructed to bring–an intake form with proof of employment, his net worth statement (nada), and payment receipts from court fees.
He also included the results of his most recent drug screening, which he’d been told would be filed electronically, but he brought a paper copy just in case.
There were no traces of anything in his system, not even alcohol. Diego wasn’t fucking around.
Officer Watson flipped through his paperwork with her long, acrylic nails, pausing to study one page in particular. “Frank’s Pit Barbecue,” she mused. “Great hot dogs there.”
“They’re deep fried,” he told her, not exactly a trade secret. It made them extra juicy with a thick, slightly burnt skin.
“Makes sense why I’d like them then.”
“The Cuban sandwiches are good too. Authentic,” he said.
“I’ll have to give them a try. How’s the job working out for you?”
Employment was a requirement of his conditional release, a non-negotiable, which would have been more difficult to find with two first-degree felonies on his record if it weren’t for his uncle.
“My uncle is the owner,” Diego said. She lifted her eyebrows as if that didn’t answer her question. “We get along well. As well as can be expected, considering…” This wasn’t the direction he wanted to take the conversation at all. “It’ll be a good fit for me, as long as I don’t mess up.”
Christ, was it hot in here?
“Are you planning on messing up?” she asked, eyebrows rising even farther on her forehead.
Diego tugged at the top button of his shirt. Should he have worn a tie? “No, ma’am. Not at all.”
She nodded, studying him a moment longer. “It can be a hard transition from prison to the real world. To go from every minute of your day having structure to a lot of unknowns. You might be tempted to look up old friends. The same ones who landed you in jail. Don’t do that.”
Diego shook his head vehemently. “No, ma’am. Not me. I’ve cut those people out of my life completely.” I’ve learned my lesson, Diego wished to tell her.
“You have family here, Diego?”
“My mother and uncle, a lot of cousins. My grandma’s sisters too.”
“Good. Family is important. What do you like to do when you’re not at work?”
“I exercise. Running and lifting weights.” Also staring at his wobbly ceiling fan, regretting every dumb decision he’d ever made in life…
“It’s important that you find productive ways to spend your time. Surround yourself with people who are going places. You get what I’m saying?”
She sounded like his uncle back in the day, ever critical of his friends, though as it turns out, he was right. “Yes, ma’am, one hundred percent.”
She leaned across the L-shaped desk to grab a single sheet of paper from a stack of handouts, then placed it in front of him. “Have you read over the terms of your release?”
He’d memorized this sheet of paper when the correctional officer at PCI told him he was being considered for the program.
Weekly check-ins. No traveling outside of Pinellas or Hillsborough Counties without written permission.
Employment was mandatory. No non-prescription drugs or illegal activities. Regular drug tests.
“Yes, ma’am, I’ve read them and I understand.”
“And do you have any questions?”
Diego swallowed, overwhelmed by the number of questions he had, none of which had easy answers. Who am I now? What’s next for me? How do I keep from screwing up again?
He just had to focus on getting through today, through the next five minutes. Life on the outside was similar to prison in that way.
“No, ma’am, not at this time.”
She tapped one fingernail against the desk. “There’s no reason why you can’t have a happy and productive life, Diego. You’re a young, able-bodied man with your whole future ahead of you. You just have to make the right decisions moving forward.”
Every single decision mattered, Diego knew that to be true. One wrong step could land him back in prison, or worse.
“I will, Officer Watson, and thank you for your time,” he said as a familiar mantra repeated in his mind.
Keep your head down, don’t take risks, and don’t fuck up.