I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2) (5 page)

So why did I do something so stupid last night?

I don’t have an answer to my silent question as I close in on the church. But guilt—the relentless bitch—punches me in the gut and forces me to delve deeper.

Why couldn’t I resist temptation? Why was I weak?

But it’s like the fucking die was cast the minute Missy leaned over the edge of the bar. An image fills my mind, one of her low-cut red top. It left little to the imagination. So I took a chance. But nobody warned me that the die was loaded. I should have suspected. I should have turned away. Hell, I should have paid my tab, gotten up, and left. But I did none of those things.

Instead, I stayed.

I blame my poor decision a little on being caught off guard. Last night Missy looked vastly different from how she looks in church. Her dishwater blonde hair, usually up in one of those fancy twist things, hung all loose and tumbling down her back. In addition to the cleavage-bearing top that started it all, Missy had on a very short skirt, showing off her tall, thin legs. And she was wearing a
lot
of makeup. Missy is the same age as me—twenty-four—but with all the heavy, dark shit she’d caked around her eyes she looked a lot older. Not that it was bad necessarily. She looked good, I guess, different.

I have to admit her sultry appearance piqued my interest, in a purely lust-filled way. Still, I didn’t want to start something up with Missy, and I knew that’s what she was looking for. We’d never messed around in the past, even though she was the kind of girl—easy—I often went for back in the day.

But the last thing I need is to get sucked back into
that
lifestyle, which is why sticking around last night turned out to be such a huge mistake.

But it started out innocently enough—

No wait, who am I kidding? It started out dirty and it got downright filthy. Not immediately, though.

After Missy was done flaunting her cleavage in my face, I nodded a curt hello and took a bite of my burger.
Maybe she’ll catch the hint and leave me alone
, I remember thinking. Of course, that didn’t happen.

Missy sat down on the bar stool beside me, adjusted her skirt, and popped open her purse. She pulled out some makeup thing and proceeded to slowly apply another coat of the glittery shit that was already pretty much plastered on her lips.

“Mmm,” she hummed, smacking her sparkling lips together. “I was hoping I’d run into someone interesting tonight. It’s good to see you somewhere other than church, Chase. So, how are you adjusting to, uh, life after…” She trailed off, leaving her face in a frown.

“Prison?” I snapped, finishing what she obviously couldn’t say. “It’s okay to say prison, Missy. I won’t get mad and bite.”

I guess that was kind of a lie, since I’d done just that. And Missy made sure I knew it.

With an exaggerated sniffle and a pout, she muttered, “Jeez, I was just trying to be polite about it. I was hoping I’d think of a nice word for prison.”

I almost choked on my beer. “Don’t bother,” I shot back. “There’s nothing
nice
about prison.”

So I was being kind of a dick, but I just wanted Missy to leave. No such luck. The head of the bake committee’s indignation was matched only by her blatant attempt to draw my attention back to her huge tits. It pretty much worked too. But the more I saw of those enormous things the more convinced I became they were fake. No way could someone so skinny have tits that big.

Missy crossed her arms across her chest, not to hide, but to emphasize. She leaned forward and feigned a pout. “I think you at least owe me a drink for being so harsh, Chase Gartner.”

Harsh?
Oh, please.

But lest I sound
harsh
, I muttered a soft and tender “sure,” while I signaled the bartender to bring another beer for me and one of whatever frothy-shit drink Missy was imbibing.

My T-shirt sleeve rode up when I raised my right arm, thus exposing a tat I had inked in prison—the number 72. Missy’s heavily lined eyes zoomed in on my bicep, like a laser beam. She squinted and pursed her lips.

Let her look
, I thought.

I was just thankful it wasn’t the words that reminded me of the last night with my father that had drawn her attention. Those words are inked around my left bicep, not my right.

The 72, though, sure had captured Missy’s attention. She stared and stared. I had a feeling she’d muster up the nerve and ask me what the meaning was behind the number. I wasn’t about to tell her the number seventy-two is an homage, of sorts, to the cell block I called home for four long years. I had the seventy-two tattoo done shortly before I left prison. It was like that place had gotten so into me that I needed a permanent reminder. And there was a guy there who did some really nice work. He’d done another piece for me back when I’d first been incarcerated.

That early ink was just a revision of the wings on my back. The wings now rain feathers—just a few—down and around the angel. A couple feathers fall all the way to my lower back. The falling feathers are there to remind me every day that
my
wings are damaged and broken.

Sorry, Dad, I’ll never soar.

I don’t make it a habit to discuss the meaning behind my tats with anyone. Ever. The number, the words, the angel, the wings, the falling feathers—these are mine, all mine. I hold the meanings behind each piece close to my heart. And I sure as shit don’t ever plan on sharing
any
of it with the head of some fucking bake committee.

Missy must have felt my angry gaze boring into her last night, as I thought these same exact things. She wisely diverted her eyes away from my bicep and asked no more questions, choosing instead to focus on the rest of me.

“You have an amazing body, Chase,” she cooed, switching up her pick-up strategy. “Look at you.” She squeezed my shoulder as her eyes traveled over my back, then returned to my chest. “Don’t you look and feel all hard and ripped. Wow, you must work out. Like, a lot.”

It was a lame come-on, and I’d heard it before, so I mumbled “whatever,” while I turned my head to roll my eyes. Mercifully, the arrival of our drinks brought an end to that line of conversation.

As we drank, Missy switched gears yet again and began to go on and on about the church, singing the praises of Father Maridale. In that assessment, I had no argument. The kindly priest with the shock of white hair who shepherds the flock at Holy Trinity is giving me a chance, something no one else was willing to do.

Father Maridale knew my grandmother for over thirty years, and during the past few, while I was in prison, she must’ve somehow convinced him I wasn’t a completely lost cause. How she did it, I’ll never know. But I know Gram never stopped believing in me…even after I let her down…time and time again. If only she had lived long enough to see me walk out of those prison gates, two years earlier than I was supposed to. That would have made her happy, joyous even, especially since it was my mother who made it all happen.

Yeah, that’s right. My mother, who’d given up on me six years earlier, finally came through in the end. I know part of it was because Abby had finally hit the jackpot, but I like to think she helped me because she loves me, despite the fact we still butt heads.

Anyway, my mother didn’t come into all her newly found wealth at some casino. Nope, not even with all that trying. Remember, the house always wins in the end. But the house had nothing to do with my mother’s fortunes. It was steady boyfriend number eight, a man named Greg, who turned out to be Mom’s winning ticket. And, in a way, I guess he ended up being mine too.

See, Greg has a ton of cash, and for my mother he was willing to share, especially after they got married. A week to the day after steady boyfriend number eight became husband number two my mother hired a big-shot attorney. She called me up, told me about him, and said he was going to get me out of prison. I thought she was bluffing, a true Vegas gal. But, to my surprise, she was telling the truth.

The attorney she hired was good, and he got right to work. His strategy was to appeal to the governor and convince the court I’d been deprived of due process. Mr. Big Shot Attorney came to see me in prison the day after I talked to Mom. He arrived armed with a stack of legal pads and enough righteous indignation for the both of us.

He asked a shitload of questions…

Was I ever read my rights?
I didn’t recall.

Did the court-appointed psychiatrists overprescribe medications, turning me into a zombie who had no way of comprehending the charges I so willingly pled to?
Yeah, pretty much
.

And that was just the start.

I never would have expected it, but Mr. Big Shot Attorney turned out to be not just a good lawyer, but also a good guy. I slowly grew to trust him. When the time came, he argued my case before the judge, insisting I’d been railroaded. He spread out all the documentation, presented the evidence. He was nothing if not thorough. And when all was said and done, the judge agreed. My six-year sentence was commuted to time served. I couldn’t believe it. I was a free man. Finally, I could go home. Unfortunately, I had no home to go to.

I’d already decided—even before I was released—if I got out of prison I wasn’t going back to Vegas. There were just too many memories there, most of them bad, some of them sadder than fuck. So no, I had no desire to return to the town that had broken me.

My mother, who had no idea I’d already made up my mind, gently suggested I give Vegas another try on the day she visited with my brother. It was the morning of my court date.

At the courthouse, while we all waited in a holding cell in the courthouse, she said, “We have a big house out there in the desert, Chase. There’s plenty of space. I can decorate a room for you any way you’d like.”

It was a sweet sentiment, but it was about seven years too late. I had needed a mom who was interested in stuff like decorating and taking care of her wayward son right after Dad died. But what can you do? Mom was more into gambling, not nurturing, back then.

I didn’t go into my real reasons for not wanting to go back to Sin City. I just told Mom, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

It was ultimately Greg’s home she was inviting me into, and her new husband had already done enough for me. Despite all we’d been through over the years, it was still great seeing my mother. She may piss me off, but I’ll always love her. She looked so fantastic at the courthouse that day, healthy and together, no more vices. No more gambling, no more smoking. Although I could have sworn I smelled smoke on her clothes. But Greg had definitely gotten her help for her gambling addiction, and she assured me she’d stopped going to the casinos months ago.

I begrudgingly conceded to her that Greg was an okay dude, better than all the rest of the guys who had never cared what my mother did in her spare time. I guess I missed my mom more than I’d realized. I actually got a little misty-eyed when I first saw her that day at the courthouse. Maybe she missed me too. Lord knows she sure held on to me for a small eternity when I gave her a hug.

“I love you, Chase,” she told me in a strangled voice as she struggled to hold back tears. “I’m so sorry all this happened to you, baby. I wish we could go back in time. I’d do things so differently.”

No, you wouldn’t
, I thought.

But it didn’t matter, and it doesn’t now either. And though I couldn’t say it back that morning, I think she knows I love her. She is my mother, after all. She’s far from perfect, but she’s the only parent I have left. And I’ve lost too much time these past few years to waste any more of it being bitter.

Will, who’d accompanied Mom to the courthouse, stood quietly in the corner of the holding cell that day, eyeing me warily throughout the whole exchange with our mom. I couldn’t believe how tall he’d gotten. But he is almost fifteen now. He’s a good-looking kid, favors Mom a lot. His hair is dark blond, same shade as hers. His eyes are also the same vivid green. A color that never fails to remind me of freshly unfurled spring leaves.

“Give your brother a hug, Will,” my mom said when she was finally done hugging me.

“Do I have to?” he asked, hurt and betrayal evident behind the hard stare he leveled my way.

“Of course not, buddy,” I cut in, not wanting to push.

The look of venom I received in return cut to the quick. “I am
not
your buddy,” Will hissed, “not anymore. Not ever again.”

Fuck, his words hurt like hell, still do. But he has every reason to hate me. I let my baby brother down. I disappointed a kid who once looked up to me like I was some kind of a hero. I am no hero, that’s for sure. It seems the only thing I excel in is disappointing the ones I love. Yet another reason why I knew that day that Vegas was most definitely out.

I wasn’t sure where I was going to go once I was released. I feared freedom would yoke me in the same way as prison. But then I got word that when my grandmother had died she left me the farmhouse out on Cold Springs Lane, all the property too, and even a little bit of money. Grandma Gartner accomplished in death what she had strived to do in life—she saved my ass. And that in and of itself would have been enough, but she’d also miraculously managed to convince Father Maridale—probably as a dying wish—to have mercy on me.

Father Maridale came to see me the day I was released, once everything was official and I was truly free. He urged me to come home to Harmony Creek and move back into the farmhouse. It didn’t take too much convincing, I’d just found out the house now belonged to me.

I guess I could have sold it and moved anywhere. I may have chosen that path in the past. But when I considered it, for a few brief seconds, it just didn’t feel right. I hadn’t seen the farmhouse in almost four years, but all I could do was sit and wonder if the frame exterior was still the same antique white color I’d painted it one September. Would the shutters still be blue, blue as a country twilight sky? I needed to know, it seemed more than important. Everything in my soul told me it was time to go back.

I did have a home, and it was time to go to it.