Chapter 6 #4
"But I am weird. You said so yourself."
"Yeah, but babe, we're all weird."
"I have a monopoly on it, however."
Fuck, I want to kiss her. "So what? Makes you the most fascinating person I've ever met.
I like your brand of weird a whole fuckin' lot.
" I frame her face in both hands, holding her attention even if her eyes won't stay on mine—that doesn’t bother me.
"You are not a freak. And if anyone ever calls you that again, you tell me, and I’ll kick their fuckin' teeth in. "
She frowns. "Absolutely not, Riley. Violence only begets violence and rarely solves problems, but rather engenders more." She swallows hard, her eyes darting this way and that over my features, stopping again and again at my lips. "Riley, I…I….”
"What, honey? Whatever it is, say it."
"You frighten me."
Gut punch, acid in my veins, cold water on my desire. "I know I'm rough around the edges, to say the fuckin' least, and I know I’m an ignorant, uneducated dumbfuck, especially compared to you. But I…Cadence, you gotta know I'd never hurt you."
"No!" She exclaims, as if shocked by what I said.
"No, no, no. That is not at all what I meant.
" Her eyes close, as if it's easier to say some things without feeling my eyes on hers.
"Emotions are difficult for me. Touch is difficult for me—for the same reason certain textures and sensations make me uncomfortable.
My emotions are…chaotic, powerful, and confusing.
I cannot control them. so I…I tend to ignore them.
Block them off. Bury them. But with you, I…
I cannot. And that frightens me. It frightens me greatly.
Because I simply do not know what to do with how I feel.
" She presses her hand to the center of my chest, and I swear to god my fuckin' heart stops beating for a split second.
"You are not ignorant. You are not dumb.
You have had a different life experience than I have.
You have not been exposed to the things I have.
We could not be more different, you and I, but…
" she drops her voice to a whisper. "You are not dumb. "
Fucking eyes, man. Burning. "I didn't even graduate high school, Cadence."
There. That part is out in the open. It's a hard thing to admit to a girl you like, especially one who can speak a dozen languages, including fucking Latin, and went to goddamn Harvard, that you don't even have your fucking high school diploma. Or a GED. Or that even in high school, I was barely keeping my grades up enough to stay on the football team, and that was with a tutor and studying my dumbfuck ass off for twice as long as Fee, Cole, and Nyx did. Shit just didn’t stay in my head.
Letters swim around. Every little thing distracts me.
"But yet, even with that fact, Riley, you are successful and well-regarded."
I snort. “Successful. Okay, sure. I break shit for a living."
"You own the business, do you not?" she asks.
I shrug. "Sure—well, sort of. Our company is weirdly structured.
Fee owns Crowe Construction, and I own Crowe Demolitions, and they're sort of separate entities, but then we co-own the umbrella corporation-thing, Crowe Construction, Demolitions, and Fine Homes.
" I grumble wordlessly. "I was against adding that third part, but Fee insisted, so what the-fuck-ever.
It's a mouthful, but it works, I guess."
"So you own a business. That business has consistent clientele?"
I shrug. “Yeah. We stay busy."
"And you own your own home. You own a car."
I shift uncomfortably. "I mean, yeah."
"The community knows you. The chairwoman of the Chamber of Commerce indicated that you are well-liked and respected here."
"I've got my detractors, but yeah, I guess that's true."
"You have friends. You are close with your brother. I presume you have hobbies you enjoy."
“Yeah."
“Then, by every metric I am aware of, Riley, you are a successful man. Do you enjoy your work? Is it fulfilling?"
I nod. “Yeah, for sure. I mean, demolitions, the kind I do, it ain't exactly rocket science.
You can't just go around blindly swingin' the sledgehammer around or you'll take out a load-bearing wall, but for the most part, it's simple but hard, honest work.
I guess if we're talking fulfillment, though, I get that more from my program. "
She blinks at me. "Which program is that?"
"Oh, uh. Well, it's a work-release program through the Michigan Department of Corrections."
“Department of Corrections?” she says, surprised. “You work in prisons?"
"No, I work with prisoners. There's a state pen not far from Three Rivers—Holbrook State Correctional Facility.
I work with the warden over there to find model inmates—the ones who show signs of genuinely working to be better, the ones who want to get out and be upstanding, contributing members of society.
The ones we pick come work for me, doin' demo.
They put in the time in my program, working for me, and I pay them fair, competitive wages.
Part of that pay goes to pay off their fees with the prison, and the rest goes into an escrow account.
There's a whole complicated equation that goes on, but the state, the judge on the case, the warden, the parole board, and I all coordinate so that time served plus good-time credits plus my reports on the inmate’s behavior and work ethic is subtracted from their sentence, and they get out on parole earlier than they otherwise would be able to.
Once out on parole, they keep working for me.
They only have to report to their parole officer once a month, the rest of the time my reports serve as check-ins.
"When they get out on parole, they have money in the bank.
They have a job. I have a deal with an apartment complex in town, and when I have an inmate about to get out, they make sure a unit is available—I help with paperwork, references, all that shit, so they have somewhere to live—somewhere safe, and away from temptations and distractions that might put them back on the inside.
I help them find a car. They have friends from the jobsite—again, dudes who won't pull them back into the shit that put them in prison in the first place. "
She's silent for a long time, thinking, processing. "Riley, I don't know what to say. That is…it is amazing. Inspiring. It is no wonder you are respected in this town."
I shake my head. "Not everyone likes having convicts with sledgehammers, shovels, and saws in their neighborhoods. I'm just tryin' to give these guys a halfway fair shot at life after prison. It's…It ain't easy."
Her thoughtful frown deepens. "Riley…did…did you go to prison?"
I close my eyes, sighing heavily. Restless, knowing she deserves this answer, I shoot to my feet away pace across the living room.
"Yeah, I did." I say it without looking at her, without turning around.
"What did you do? Or were you wrongfully convicted?"
"No, I…" I swallow. "Fuck. Fucking fuck me, I hate talking about this shit."
"Then do not."
"You oughta know. You deserve to know."
"Riley—"
I have to just put it out there—just say it. Get it over with. "I drove drunk and killed someone."
Her gasp of shock cuts like a knife. Of everyone in the world, it's her I want to impress the most, it’s her attention I crave, and it's her respect I want.
That's fucked, now.
“Yeah," I bite out. "Exactly. Now you know."