Chapter 4 Aspen
FOUR
ASPEN
“If you picked up, it means he didn’t kill you, which is great ’cause I didn’t feel like calling your parents and telling them how desperate you are for research that you walked yourself into a murderer’s playhouse.”
“Tanya…” I groan as I toss my purse onto the counter, wondering why I called her so soon. Hopefully my tone takes her down a few levels. “He’s not a murderer.” At least, I’m pretty sure he isn’t. “It went well, but I can’t really talk about this right now. See you in a few days?”
“Sure, sure. G’night.”
“Night.”
Getting Tanya off the phone lifts a weight from my shoulders that’s been resting there since leaving the prison. A weight in the shape of Cade.
He asked me to return.
I eye my laptop on the living room table with as much disdain as I did my first-ever essay.
Fuck, this visit shouldn’t have even happened.
Since putting myself in his path, it makes sense he’d want me to go again.
He’s literally my thesis personified. His entire social circle consists of prison guards and other inmates—and the circumference expanded with my visit.
It’s not me he likes, but a new face, an outsider, dragged into his limited view.
A psychological attachment formed on his side, and nothing else.
Cade is research. Nothing more, nothing less, and returning cannot happen.
Millie hops onto my lap and rubs against my arm, sensing distress in the way animals do.
“I know, girl. What the hell to do? Definitely can’t go back, that’s for sure.”
Even if I kind of want to.
Cade is exactly what I imagined.
Nothing I pictured.
And everything I should stay the hell away from.
His fathomless eyes—dark as the night sky and piercing like the stars they glint with—tore into my soul at the first glance.
Shredded me by the time I walked away. He entices a fear inside me that makes my heart race and blood pound, but the kind of fear I’m both terrified and fervent to see where it’d go.
His attention was only ever diverted once, and it was to check the time.
He’s older than I believed. For some reason, I assumed my pen pal was around my age, but he’s definitely not.
Experience rolled through every syllable, his slight motions as he waited for me to react.
It didn’t make sitting there, my thighs clenched, any less comfortable.
It’s ridiculous to be attracted to someone I just met.
Someone who screams stay the fuck away. Someone I shouldn’t even see like that.
I walked in planning to play meek and scared—and I truly did begin nervous—but within minutes, I was calm. I played a very dangerous game by taunting him. Beyond the letters, I don’t truly know Cade. Everything, down to his last name, is a mystery. He could be far more dangerous than I assume.
Why else would he have such a deadly intensity? Not only his eyes but his stance. He was coiled—ready to strike. Snakes swallow their prey whole, which is exactly how I imagine he’d react if compelled to.
Cade’s bored, and I became his newest form of entertainment. He’s using me as much as I’m using his circumstance for a research paper—which he’ll never figure out.
Moving Millie off to the side, I grab a spare sheet of paper to jot a few notes about my visit:
– Subject appeared eager for the visit and requested a second. – Implies loneliness and the visit momentarily fixed that.
– Subject accepted the holiday card and held it close to his body. – Possessive over simple gifts.
– Subject directed conversation onto visitor. – Distancing himself?
– Subject didn’t attempt physical touch. (Which was allowed, stated by visitation rules.) – Trying to not seem scary?
I note as much as I can from the visit before flipping the page over and jotting a more detailed transcript of our conversation from memory, to later refer to if needed.
Then I grab my cat, change into pyjamas, slip into bed and beneath the blankets, and watch an episode of my favourite show before passing out.
Exactly what Cade predicted I do.
The rest of December passes and Cade’s next letter comes the second week of January.
Aspen,
I wish there were things I could say to you, but I can’t. So I’ll leave it simple and thank you once again for visiting. Maybe it’s forward, but you truthfully took my breath away.
Tell me about the rest of your December and into January.
Please visit again.
Cade.
It’s with guilt I make the following notes in my ever-growing stack.
– Inmate displays more eagerness for repeat visits after only one. – Indicates true depth of loneliness. Solution is?
– Inmate appears to be resisting speaking his mind in letter. **only a hypothesis with no definite source to back up claim – do not necessarily use** Feels like a stranger wrote it.
– Waited until January. – Holding back or showing social restraint?
With even more guilt, I close the email from the prison regarding the dates of upcoming visitation days. Wanting to go see him one more time is every reason I shouldn’t.
My responding letter is shorter than most of my others, mentioning that the semester is back in full swing and work is too busy to manage another trip to the prison. Then I detail some of what I’ve been doing—minus thesis writing.
Three weeks later, my thighs rub together from where the metal bench chills my legs. Stupid prison visitation room isn’t heated enough, especially considering the negative thirty-degree Celsius temperatures outside.
Doesn’t help being seated at the exact same table as last time, like the guards did it on purpose.
The door opens, and energy in male form enters the room. Numerous of them, and like last time, my gaze remains on the metal ring attached to the centre of the table, even as two figures enter my field of vision.
One is in a dark uniform and leading the other.
He adjusts his orange jumpsuit and settles in the bench across from me. His eyes are on me, practically undressing me from intensity, but I prevent looking at the man who frequents my dreams each night until the guard moves along and we’re alone.
Piercing eyes I swear follow me everywhere around the city twinkle in both pleasure and amusement. “Well.” Melting chocolate drapes over me at the sound of his voice. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
You won’t after today.
After diligently working on my paper throughout January—and now into February—Cade’s situation has filled my work alongside my other examples to a sufficient degree. No further research is required.
I no longer have any reason to continue the pen pal project.
A part of me doesn’t want to end it for both him and me, but at what point will it be too much?
Staying in contact means we’ll become friends of sorts, and I can’t predict where it’ll lead.
Not knowing how much longer his sentence is, or how the law even works, I wonder if I’m ready to subject myself to constant visitation to maintain this friendship with a near stranger—a man who’ll probably never speak to me once he’s released.
No. We came together for the program, but my life needs to continue on the path I’ve been determined to get it on, while Cade finishes what he’s meant to here.
Before ending this for good, I had to see him one more time, aware it’s probably a huge mistake. It’ll make it harder on us both, especially if he asks me to come back again. This time, it’ll have to be a no.
“You asked. Of course I came.”
Cade’s eyes narrow and harden to the same stone of this room. “You didn’t want to?” His tone is sharp—dangerous.
Last time, light humour worked well on him. Humour and a gift, which is why I didn’t come empty-handed again. Reaching for the bench beside me, I raise the small heart-shaped box that I bought yesterday after confirming the prison would allow me in with it.
“If I didn’t want to be here, would I get you something?” I slide the red box over the table to him. “They said you’d be allowed to eat them, provided you do so in here.”
Cade stares before bringing the box closer and slowly lifting the lid to take in the caramel-filled milk chocolates—his favourite.
“Happy early Valentine’s Day.”
One hand slides from the box to rest on the table. Flat, for a second, before tightening into a fist. He continues staring, like he’s trying to tell me something else. After another flex of his hand, his shoulders lower about four inches.
“This is seriously for me?”
Amused and a bit apprehensive, I make a show of glancing to my left and right, ignoring the man seated at a nearby table glancing over at us at the same time. “See anyone else I’m gifting chocolates to?”
More delicately than what his large form seems capable of, he lifts a chocolate, rolls it between two fingers, and then pops it into his mouth, slowly chewing. A low groan emits, and heat blasts through my stomach until I’m forced to cross my legs.
Who would have thought a man moaning around food would sound so…erotic?
His eyes pop open and pin me from across the table. “You have no fuckin’ idea when the last time I tasted chocolate was.” He gobbles up another before twisting the box. “Eat.”
“Oh, no, it’s okay. I’m not the one—” Foot in mouth. Shut up! “I mean, I could always pick up more when I…” Fuck my life! Stop talking.
“Leave here,” he finishes with a smirk. “My situation is pretty hard to ignore. This” —he pinches his uniform’s collar— “kinda makes it impossible to. Share with me.”
It’s not a question, but a demand, in an authoritative tone that implies he’s used to getting people to do what he wants.
My ankles cross, thighs tightening. “I got them for you.”
“But I’m stuck in this fuckin’ place and didn’t get you anything, so entertain me with this much. If I knew you were coming, I might have had time, but this is all I got.”
Oh. It’s his pride speaking.
With a small smile of gratitude, I reach for a chocolate and pop it into my mouth, chewing slowly.
The heat in his eyes expands down my chest and into my blouse, and it’s a while before he grins again. “Tell me about your week. I want to know everything.”
So, I do.
I ramble while eating two more chocolates and he polishes off the remaining ten or so. We talk about anything and everything—most of which are demanding inquiries about my life.
When the hour is up, I stand to leave—to tell him this will be it. But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out.
He slides his hands as close to me as the cuffs allow him to, his dark eyes pleading with wonders I’ll never be able to answer. But this, I’m able to. Even if touching him after all the time of sitting apart is probably the stupidest thing I’ll ever do.
My hand lowers onto his, ignoring the guards calling for all visitors to leave.
It’ll be my last chance—my only chance—and I want this as much as he does.
He flips his hand over, covering mine on the table.
He stares at where we’re touching before tilting his head to meet my gaze.
There are no words needed to explain the different power dynamics.
He may be the one locked up, but I’m the one held captive.
His hand, so much larger, shifts until his fingers intertwine with mine. A low rumble comes from his chest, and his thumb strokes my fingers until flipping my hand back over so my fingers are draped over the side of his.
Then, he brings my hand close to his mouth, deleting the remaining distance. Warm lips press into the back of my knuckles, held for only a few seconds before a guard shouts at me to leave and Cade is forced to pull away.
His lips may no longer be physically touching me, but the imprint remains. One reinforced by his eyes trailing me out.
“I’ll be seeing you again,” he calls after me.
You won’t.
Holding my hand to my chest, I flee without a backwards look so he doesn’t see the guilt.
And the lone tear sliding down my cheek.