Chapter 7
Logan
Password must be eight characters in length including a lowercase letter, an uppercase letter, a number, and a special character.
“What the fuck.” I scowl at the red error line on the computer screen. I had an email address. I’ve long since forgotten it, but I’m positive it wasn’t this hard to set up.
When I went inside, we were using modems that dialed into the internet through our phone lines.
That’s the last time I ever used the internet.
The prison library had computers but no access to the outside world, so all I know about the way things have changed is from my mother’s letters, the revolving door of inmates serving time, and cable TV.
It’s going to take me more than an evening to catch up.
Orange flames cast a soothing glow as the woodstove pumps out heat.
I didn’t need to jam in those two extra logs, but I was so excited about starting a fire that I wasn’t thinking straight.
Now I’m down to my boxers, with beads of sweat rolling down my neck.
Hell, I could be buck naked if I wanted. It’s an oven in here.
I tap at the keyboard with my two index fingers, retyping the password I came up with but adding an exclamation mark to the end this time.
Finally, it works. After four attempts, I have an email address that I will forget by tomorrow.
Grabbing a pen, I jot the information into my notebook, and with an odd sense of accomplishment, I check off one box on the to-do list my mother spent weeks making for me. One checkmark on pages’ worth of tasks required to rejoin society.
Will everything be this hard? I eye the phone still in its box, taunting me. I think I’ll wait for a lesson from my twelve-year-old nephew before I tackle that. Today’s been a long, overwhelming day, and right now, I need something familiar.
Anything that might anchor me in this new world.
Like the box of CDs on the floor. Jay and I had a decent collection back in the day, and I was pleasantly surprised to find it sitting here when I came in, and even happier that the stereo we used to play music on still works. I don’t need a twelve-year-old’s guidance for that.
We were allowed MP3 players in prison. It’s the first thing I bought from the canteen, along with prison-approved headphones and songs, to be listened to only during certain hours.
Every aspect of my life for the past twenty years has had to be reviewed and approved—even the music I could listen to and how I could listen to it.
Fishing out my favorite albums from back in the day, I load the five-disc carousel, crank the volume dial, and sink into my chair, closing my eyes as the music drowns out the noise in my head.
I smile as nostalgia rushes forward.
Emery and I would spend hours in here with this album playing on repeat.
Sometimes we’d talk nonstop, about anything and everything—things as shallow as who said what at school, and as deep as where our future selves would land.
Other times, we didn’t say a word, content in each other’s company while the lyrics filled the void.
She was my best friend.
She was the only girl I’ve ever loved.
And despite the fact that I’ve spent years dwelling on the moment I’d see her again, I have no idea what I’ll say when it finally happens.
What does she even look like now? The last picture I saw of her was from fourteen years ago.
Based on the offside comment my cousin’s boyfriend made, I’d say she still looks good.
Glass shattering startles me back to reality. Something lands on the wood plank floor with a thud and rolls to settle next to my feet.
A rock. Someone threw a fucking rock through my window.
That can’t be an accident. But who the hell would come all the way out here on my first night home to do this?
Nobody with good intentions, that’s who.
Fear and anger explode as I rush down the stairs, fumbling for switches until I find one that bathes the garage in dull light.
On impulse, I grab the first thing within reach on the workbench—a pipe wrench—and charge for the backside of the garage.
Slapping on the floodlight, I shove open the sliding barn door, my fist wrapped around the cold metal, ready for whoever’s waiting.
Four startled female faces stare back at me.
It’s the farthest one away that my focus snags on.
“Emery.” It’s not a question, there’s no doubt it’s her, even though all hints of the girl I knew are gone.
This version has aged gracefully, with slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes and a permanent line where she’s spent too many years furrowing her brow.
Her mane of streaked strawberry-blond hair is pulled back in a lopsided ponytail, highlighting sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw.
“Logan.” Her green eyes are wide as they roam over me, and in that instant, I remember that I’m down to navy boxers, the cold nipping at my bare skin. And holding a pipe wrench.
I toss it to the ground as if it ignited in my grip. “I thought you were someone else.” Plaid ranch jackets hang on wall-mounted pegs nearby. I hastily grab one and slip it on. It’s at least two sizes too small, and I’m fully aware of how ridiculous I look.
She clears her throat and levels a stern glare on the three teenage girls shifting on their feet. “Who wants to explain?” she asks, as if reading my mind.
“We didn’t think it would break the glass,” one says, her nervous gaze flickering to me. I don’t need an introduction to know this is Emery’s daughter, Isla. The resemblance is uncanny, in the shape of her eyes and nose, in the color of her hair.
I hold up the golf ball–size rock with jagged edges. “You didn’t think this would break glass?”
“Jesus,” Emery mutters, shaking her head.
“We just wanted you to come hang by the fire with us,” another says, her fingers twirling a strand of platinum-blond hair as curious eyes trace the scar where Travis Dorsey impaled me with a shiv made from a filed-down toothbrush handle.
I may have been locked up for the past twenty years, but I’m no idiot. This one’s flirting.
And, I think, drunk.
“So, you thought vandalizing his home was a good idea?” Emery scoffs.
“Obviously we didn’t mean to,” Isla’s voice cracks with frustration.
“Oh, yes. Obviously.”
“You’re blowing things out of proportion, just like you always do!”
“Always?” Emery’s jaw tenses and then something seems to snap. She turns to me, her posture straightening as she says smoothly, “Mr. Landry, would you like me to call an on-duty officer to handle this?”
So this is Emery in cop mode. I have to say, I’ve had more than my share of dealings with law enforcement and none of them have ever been this attractive—even in rubber boots and a jacket tossed on over pajamas.
All three sets of young eyes widen with panic. They believe she’ll do it. Maybe she will. I don’t know this Emery.
I want nothing to do with charging teenage girls, but clearly this is about teaching a lesson. “I’ll let it slide this time.”
Emery’s shoulders dip with relief, as if she really would have gone through with it had my answer been different. “Apologize to Mr. Landry, girls.”
I don’t miss the emphasis on Mr. and girls, as if to remind all of us about the massive age gap.
A chorus of mumbled apologies follows.
“Isla, put the fire out and get inside. I want to see Cody’s car heading down our driveway within the next five minutes, with Holly and Paige in it. I’ll be calling your parents tomorrow morning to let them know what happened. They can decide how you’ll pay your share of the window repair.”
The third girl hasn’t said a word, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Isla huffs and opens her mouth.
“Now!” Emery barks, pointing toward her house.
Their shoulders hunch as they march through the dark, the blond stealing a last glance at me. I don’t miss the coy smile.
Neither does Emery, I suspect. “Clock’s ticking!” she hollers.
They pick up the pace, their whispered curses carrying.
Gooseflesh erupts over my skin, but I ignore the chill, this moment too surreal to be disturbed by discomfort.
I’ve known Emery for almost four decades, even if half that time was in my memory, and here she is—the girl who pelted me with snowballs and played hide-and-seek for hours within the crops of trees.
She looks like the girl I grew up with and yet also nothing like her.
I can’t believe Emery McAllister is standing in front of me again.
I had to let go of so many things to survive prison. I had to let go of her. But all the promises and feelings long since buried are flooding back to me like a rapid river through a busted dam.
All those summers racing horses across these fields.
All those nights looking up at the stars.
She’s ten times more beautiful than I remember.
“I heard Holly yelling your name and I came running but …” Emery’s gaze flickers over my chest before diverting quickly to my face, as if catching herself. “I don’t know what they were thinking.”
“Music’s on. I didn’t hear anything.” And I’m pretty sure I can guess what Holly was thinking. “How old are they?”
“Sixteen. Well, actually, Holly’s still fifteen. Her birthday is next month.”
“Jesus.” I shake my head. Despite the fact that I’m in desperate need of feeling a hand on my dick that isn’t my own, I have zero interest in that need being met by anyone who can’t legally drink or vote.
“Holly’s a wild child. Anything she shouldn’t be doing, you can bet she’s doing, including flirting with older men.”
“You know they’re into the booze, right?”
“Oh, I do. I’ll find cans of Twisted Teas in the blue bin tomorrow morning.”
I have no idea what those are. Something sugary, if I had to guess. “And you’re okay with that?”
“It’s not that I’m okay with it, but they’re gonna do it, anyway. At least this way I can let them have a few while making sure they don’t chug ten coolers and pass out in a ditch or worse.” She snorts. “Clearly, I failed at that task tonight. The one with the red jacket is—”
“Isla.”