Lock You Down (Jackson Brothers #3)

1. Azalea

1

Azalea

I love new beginnings.

The air smells fresher. The sun shines brighter. Birds sing like they composed their songs just for me. Promise hangs in the air like early morning mist.

And yesterday doesn’t exist anymore.

“That’s the last one,” I said of the many boxes I cobbled together from grocery and home improvement stores.

“Whew!” My brother-in-law wiped his forehead dramatically. “Can a brother get some lemonade now, please?”

I shot him an oh, please look as I made my way to my brand new (to me) kitchen, shiny and clean as if nobody had ever lived here before me. That’s what I chose to believe, anyway.

“You act like I’ve been depriving you of nourishment,” I said. “I offered you food and drink when you first got here.”

Patrick shrugged his broad, meaty shoulders. He was a former college football player, and it still showed in his physique even though he currently sat at a desk forty hours a week. “I guess I didn’t realize how much shit you had.”

While I poured him a cold glass, he perched his large body on a stool at the small breakfast bar and scanned my living room. “Nice place. I can’t wait to see what you do with it.”

I took a quick look around and smiled. The low cost of living here in Summerville had made it possible for me to secure a spacious two-bedroom at a price I could afford on my own. No more days and nights crammed into a dark studio with a man who didn’t love me.

“That’s the best part about it,” I agreed. “I get to create my new reality.”

A smile lingered on his lips for a moment before it finally fell. “Can we talk for a second? For real? No bullshit.”

“About what?” I slid his glass to him and waited for what I knew was coming. After marrying my little sister three years ago, Patrick had slowly chipped away at the in-law part of our relationship, leaving a loving but high key meddlesome brother behind.

“Me and Mina were talking.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you were.”

“She’s concerned. I’m not concerned , but I do wonder how you’re doing. And like I said, no bullshit.”

I drummed my nails on the counter as I thought about how best to respond. “I’m good,” was what I settled on. “Breakups happen. You deal with it, and then you move on.”

His eyebrows lifted slowly. “You moved on pretty quick.”

“Is that a bad thing? The way I see it, there’s nothing more powerful than starting over.”

“Well, Mina said—“

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” I said. “My sister thinks she can see inside my mind. I know you know how that feels.”

He chuckled knowingly.

“I really am good, Patrick. Of course the breakup hurt, but that’s why you move on. So, you can get over it. And now, look.” I gestured all around me. “I’m in this beautiful apartment, I’m starting a new job, and—“

“Ready to start dating again?”

“I don’t know yet. Why? Did you and Mina talk about that, too?”

He turned up his lemonade, gulped slowly, and finished with a loud, “Ahhh!” as he set his empty glass in front of him. “No comment.”

“Whatever,” I laughed. “By the way, how’s he doing?”

Patrick shrugged, but he wasn’t fooling me with his feigned indifference. He was the one who introduced me to Roman Williams, his best friend, and facilitated our getting together. The breakup had been hard for him, which I understood, because you never want to pick sides in these situations. For that reason, I hadn’t given anybody the details.

“He’s…struggling,” he admitted. “He said he feels like you broke up with him outta nowhere.”

Ah, yes, the old blindsided routine. Despite countless heated disagreements, and me clearly expressing my unhappiness over a period of years, I apparently blindsided Rome with the breakup and moveout.

I managed to keep my eyes from rolling.

“So, he didn’t mention any problems or anything? His story is that we were happy and living the good life and then I suddenly left?”

“Well, couples argue. He never said y’all were perfect.”

Yeah.

We were on the far side of perfect.

“Where the fuck are your hand towels?”

My little sister walked out of the bathroom shaking water droplets all over my walls, her flip flops snapping angrily at her heels.

Patrick looked at her with concern. “Damn, babe, did you fall in?”

“She was in there hiding so she wouldn’t have to help.” I grabbed a pack of paper towels out of a box and tossed it to her. “We were just talking about you.”

“What’d you say?”

“That you think you can read my mind.”

“I can read your mind,” she pouted.

At twenty-nine, Amina was three numerical years my junior. But mentally and emotionally? The girl was more like an auntie when it came to my life and wellbeing.

Actually, she was more pitbull than auntie.

I watched her hand the pack of paper towels to Patrick, who tore it open and pulled out a roll. He tore off two sheets and handed them to her for her to dry her hands. It was emblematic of their entire relationship—anything Amina could do, Patrick would do so she didn’t have to. I loved that for her.

“So, are y’all done?” she said. “Because I can go pee again if I have to.”

“Shut up,” I laughed. “Your husband got all the boxes brought in.”

“Okay, I can pull stuff out. No problem. Do you know where everything is going?”

“I do.”

She turned to Pat, and they shared a smile.

“What?” I demanded.

“I told him.”

“Told him, what?” I looked to Pat for answers.

“She said you probably had the apartment floorplan and a…what was the other thing?”

“A Pinterest board,” Amina answered. “Probably an Excel spreadsheet, too. And a list in your notes app. Did I miss anything?”

I looked between the two of them, annoying and nosey, and crossed my arms in front of me.

“I also have a printout of the furniture layout for each room.”

“Told you!” Amina cheered in triumph.

Not to brag, but these new age manifestors have nothing on me. I was a dreamer long before it hit the internet. As a little girl, I would envision my life, and then I would write the vision, or sketch it, or plan it. I don’t think I even cared that much if my dreams came true. As long as they existed in my mind, I was happy and content.

I can’t honestly say I envisioned breaking up with the man I thought I would marry, but here I was. I refused to feel bad about it. Life gave me lemons, and I added sugar and water.

Amina and I were putting clothes in my dresser drawers when she started her interrogation.

“When does work start?”

My body stiffened. “Tomorrow. And I’m excited .”

“Girl, why?”

I folded four pairs of panties and put them away before I answered, “I love my job.”

“You’re still gonna be working with prisoners.”

“No, I’ll be working with people looking to start their lives over.”

“After having been to prison .”

We’d had this argument so many times, it was a ritual at this point.

I wish I could say Amina was a lone wolf in her displeasure over my job, but she was actually the leader of a very large pack. My parents were dumbfounded when I used my social work degree to go into corrections. My friends tried to talk me out of it. Even my adviser thought it was a bad idea.

Roman hated it, too, but he kept his mouth shut about it. He wanted me to be happy.

At first.

“We’ve been over this, Mina. I have a gun. I’m trained.”

“You’re five feet four and a hundred thirty pounds. What are you gonna do when you get overpowered?”

“How about we think positive? There’s no when , okay. It’s not gonna happen. I was fine in Tucker, and I’ll be fine here in Summerville.”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t say more, and I was glad for that, because it wasn’t going to change anything. I’d been a probation officer for a whole year in Tucker, a few towns over. As far as I was concerned, I was a pro, and this transfer was an opportunity to bring my talents to a new place. I’d have new clients, but the job would be the same.

I bought us pizza to end the evening, then I walked them out, trying my level best not to show them how excited I was to have them out of here.

I thrive in solitude. It’s the only place I can be myself without judgment.

For example, I planned to end my evening by getting a jump start on my client list. Amina would have judged me for that.

I locked up behind them and went straight to my office, which I set up in the second bedroom. It would double as my dogs’ room. I was excited about that, too.

Henry, my new supervisor, told me he’d only assign me ten cases for now. That’s how I left off in Tucker, but there was one major difference here.

Eight out of ten of the cases were men.

All of my Tucker clients had been women, and that was understandable, and likely deliberate, because I was the only female officer on staff. I have to admit, it was often demoralizing, if only for the fact that a good seventy percent of my clients had gone to jail for reasons related to the men in their lives. It’s like…if you’re going to break the law, at least let it be for your own benefit.

But I didn’t judge. I’ve never seen the point of it.

I logged in on my laptop, eager to meet my new clients.

As I toggled through each file, familiarizing myself with each case, their faces stared back at me. Some older, some younger, most bearing the sad eyes and drawn features of those who have spent time in the system.

I took notes on a legal pad, brainstorming ways to apply my CARE for U system: Collaborate, Advocate, Rehabilitate, Empathize, and Understand. I created that and considered it my only job. It didn’t matter the order, as long as they got done.

I met an arsonist, a repeated drunk driver, a drug dealer, a serial shoplifter, three drug offenders, and three perpetrators of assault. My clients weren’t always the easiest to understand or empathize with, but I never run from those types of challenges. They make me a better person, too.

The last client caught my eye, and not because of his offenses.

Isaac Lamar Jackson’s mugshot immediately put me in the mind of that young man who went viral—felonbae, as he came to be known. Mr. Jackson possessed the same smoldering good looks and golden-brown skin, but his eyes were a deep dark brown, and he had no visible tattoos.

His crimes were unremarkable—kid stuff, assault, and drug possession. His last PO, who had recently retired, hadn’t left any alarming notes in his file. By all accounts, he would be a standard client.

But something about his face…

His eyes .

I was inexplicably drawn to this man, and I didn’t understand why. At first. And then it came to me. The transition was pretty quick, actually.

I try to see the good in all humans, but this was beyond my personal philosophy. This was plain old attraction, and in my position, it’s something I can’t afford to indulge.

Personal relationships between POs and clients are expressly forbidden.

I wasn’t about to lose the job I love over dick.

The sun shined bright and golden, and pristine marshmallow clouds billowed across the ocean blue sky. What a perfect tableau to wake up to on the first day of my new job. I was so excited, I couldn’t keep the goofy grin off my face.

My second order of business after I spent some time in my office was making the rounds at the employers of my clients—those who were gainfully employed, anyway, which was only half of them.

Isaac Jackson had risen to the top of my list. Not because he was fine, but because his office was closest to mine.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I reached Jackson Distributors a little after 3 p.m. and bounced over to the receptionist.

“Hello, I’m here to see Isaac Jackson.”

The woman looked up and gave me a bored smile. “What department is he in?”

“I’m not sure, actually.”

The smile faded. “What is it regarding?”

I hesitated.

It’s extremely poor form to put your client on blast with their employer, hence the blazer I wore that covered my Summerville Corrections polo.

“It’s a private matter.”

Now, there was a scowl. “Ma’am, we have lots of employees, so I’m gonna need a department.”

This wasn’t working. “Can you point me to his supervisor? Or maybe someone in human resources?”

“Okay, but I still need to know what this is regarding.”

“Ms. Angie,” I read from her nameplate with all of the patience I could muster. “I’m not at liberty to say why I’m here.”

“Then I’m not at liberty to—“

“Is there a problem?”

The deep voice startled us both. I turned toward it and stared into the face of a man who looked awfully familiar.

“Mr. Jackson, this woman is trying to find your brother.”

Ah. That made sense.

The wrong Mr. Jackson’s jaw tightened as he looked me over. “What’s the problem?”

“Can we speak privately?”

He looked over at Ms. Angie, who had straightened her posture and busied herself with something. “Anything else?”

Without meeting his eye, she mumbled, “No, sir.”

He nodded and led me over to the elevators. And when I say led , I mean he started walking, and I followed behind him like a puppy.

“Is he in trouble again?”

A perfectly knotted blue tie sat atop his crisp, blinding white shirt. I stared into his clean-shaven face, and, just like Ms. Angie, I straightened my posture.

“I’m just here to verify his employment.”

“For…?”

I looked around me and sighed. I wasn’t getting anything out of this man without giving him an answer first.

“I’m his probation officer. He was recently assigned to me.”

His eyes raked over me again. “Come on up to my office so we can talk.”

“Actually, I just need—“

“It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Well, that was that.

We got off on the tenth floor. Mr. Jackson pointed toward his waiting area and kept walking, leaving me to sit and wonder why I was so nervous.

And why I discretely checked my hair and makeup in my compact.