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I couldn't be creating connections with some chick who didn't understand what a monster I could be.
I couldn't drag a seemingly good woman down with me.
That wasn't in my cards.
Why she was even contacting me was beyond me. She was beautiful, smart, funny, and warm. She should have been out there getting worshipped by some normal man, not sitting and penning letters to a fucking criminal.
Maybe it was just Coop.
Maybe it was a way for her to get her kicks, learning about the ins and outs of prison without actually having to experience it herself.
Maybe she felt a weird connection because she watched me get arrested.
Who knew.
Whatever it was, it probably wasn't healthy for her.
And it definitely wasn't good for me.
It was making me think things, giving me hopes for a life I knew I couldn't have anymore.
And on Christmas, after I sent off the letter, and got into my bunk, and thought about those fucking finger vibes, my cock got a mind of its own for the first time in a long goddamn time.
That, well, yeah, was that.
She wrote me back, but I had decided by then to cut ties.
It was better for the both of us.
Even if I had to steel myself and plant my feet every single fucking mail day.
But slowly, over time, like I had needed to do with the roots that planted much, much deeper - my family - I had been able to phase it out, to put it on a shelf, to refuse to think about it.
Until I saw that fucking sign, man.
It all came rushing back.
And I knew I had to.
I fucking had to.
I hadn't even consciously made the decision to go in before my legs were already carrying me in that direction.
Hot salted caramel coffee.
She had called it a 'food... you-know-what' because, obviously, the woman had done some research about the content allowed in letters, and was worried the word 'foodgasm' might raise a red flag. She was careful about that. If the word she was using was a curse, she put stars in it. She never used staples or paperclips. She never sent any images that were suggestive in any way.
She had sat down and brought up her computer, and went to Google and fucking looked up how she was allowed to correspond with someone in prison.
It made no sense.
But she did it.
And, even though I had been determined to do my time in my detached, cold way for the good of myself and everyone around me, I had looked forward to it; I had taken a small bit of comfort in the contact.
Which was why I cut it off.
I shut it down.
I pretended to forget.
Until I saw that sign.
I hadn't had a decent cup of coffee in six fucking years. And given my old addiction to it, there was no way I was passing up a foodgasm even if flavored coffee wasn't usually my thing.
I walked up to the door, not sure what I was expecting despite getting a detailed letter about it. Autumn had claimed that the inside changed as often as one of the women who owned it changed her hair.
Before I even moved inside, I could hear the music, loud and thrashing, some kind of post-hardcore slash NU metal band I wasn't familiar with. And, apparently, it was about dismembering corpses.
No one sitting at one of the dozen or so tables scattered inside seemed the least bit phased by the choice of song or the ear-splitting volume. And as I walked up near the counter, I saw a sign claiming that they would not change the music or turn it down because it was the only thing keeping them from slapping rude customers.
My lips curved up as I stepped in front of a woman with a mass of wavy and curly red hair around her pale face complete with a light smattering of freckles and almost see-through light blue eyes. Tall and thin, she still managed to make her simple jeans and She's Bean Around black tank look like the sexiest outfit a woman could wear. There was just something in the air about her.
There's this redhead named Gala (yes, like the apple) who kind of has this sweet, innocent face, but is a complete shameless flirt who every man goes completely gaga for.
That was Autumn's description. And it was accurate.
"Rough day, huh?" I asked, motioning toward the speakers in the ceiling.
"Some out of town suit came up to the counter on his cell phone then had the nerve to tell me - not the person on the phone - to wait a minute. The call went on for five minutes, then without apologizing, he called me 'toots,' and demanded I just give him a shot."
"Did you throw it at him?" I asked, smiling a little at her level of anger. But, having worked in the service industry when I bartended at Chaz's when I was younger, I knew that it was never just one rude customer. It was a slew of them in varying degrees of awful that led to a mood such as hers.
