“As long as you know not to trust me too much, we’ll be fine.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you just said you wouldn’t hurt me. At least, I think that’s what you meant.”
“I won’t hurt you. But if you give me the opportunity to do the opposite, I’m taking it.”
Oh, God… He thought he was putting her on notice, scaring her off. He probably figured that if he destroyed any chance he had before they were even together, he wouldn’t get his hopes up. But, in reality, he was offering her some of the thrills that’d been so conspicuously missing from her life. “Then I’ll be careful to keep my signals clear.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Now she was worried, but more because of how she might react to him than how he might react to her. “See you in a few minutes.”
5
Virgil was fairly certain that what he stood to lose outweighed what he stood to gain. Driving himself crazy wanting what he couldn’t have had never seemed wise. While in prison, he’d watched other men torture themselves over missing this or that and he made a point of not being so stupid. But he was only human. And, as the chief deputy warden led him up the stairs to her front door, moving slowly because of her ankle, her ass was right at eye level. He couldn’t help admiring it. He’d been seventeen when he’d had his last sexual encounter—with the girl he took to the homecoming dance. They’d dated a few weeks, lost their virginity to each other, continued to experiment for a month or so and that was the extent of it. It probably hadn’t been the best sex in the world, but he would’ve had no experience at all if not for that short period. Three months later he’d been arrested.
Her name was Carrie. He’d dreamed of her soft thighs and br**sts a lot since then, but as he aged those dreams had become so old and tired they were as ineffectual as a threadbare shirt. They certainly weren’t as stimulating as a flesh-and-blood woman, especially a woman who looked like Peyton Adams….
As soon as they reached an elevated deck from which he could see the Pacific Ocean, he circumvented her so he could focus on something that didn’t make him instantly hard. Like the barbecue, the picnic table, the trees towering all around or the wind chimes that hung from the eaves and tinkled in the breeze.
“This is nice.” He noted the rhythmic wash of the waves. The ocean sounded even closer than it was. “Peaceful.”
“I like it.”
The house behind him had a wall of windows. He was eager to look in, but only because he wanted to learn more about this woman who seemed so out of place in the prison system.
Once he’d acknowledged the reason for his interest, he knew he’d be a fool to feed his curiosity. He crossed to the banister instead of letting her lead him directly inside. There was no point in getting to know her. Even if he ended up liking her, she’d never feel the same way. He was an ex-con. The fact that he’d been wrongly imprisoned was irrelevant. He’d lost the most important years of his life, the years during which most other men built a foundation that allowed them to support a family. Other than the few classes he’d taken while incarcerated, he had no college education, no career—just a lot of experiences guaranteed to keep him up at night.
It’d be easier, smarter, better, to immediately rule out what his body insisted might be attainable.
“How long have you lived here?” he asked.
“Since I started at Pelican Bay six months ago.”
“So Crescent City is pretty new to you.”
“Yeah.”
“Where did you come from?”
She approached the banister at the other end. “I grew up in Sacramento, where I worked at Folsom Prison for fifteen years.”
“Do you have family in Sacramento?”
Hugging herself to ward off the cold advancing with the fog, she kicked a pinecone off the deck. “Some. An aunt and a few cousins.”
Quit asking her questions. None of it matters.
And yet he wanted to know. “Any siblings?”
“I was an only child.”
He closed his eyes, breathed in the scent of the forest. “Where are your parents?”
To keep the wind from whipping her hair into her face, she anchored it behind her ears. “They’re both dead.”
The sadness in her voice undermined his resolve. “I’m sorry.”
“Things happen.” For a moment, she seemed lost in her memories. Standing still, staring out to sea, she reminded him of the female figurehead on an old wooden sailing ship. Beautiful, lonely but serene. A bare-breasted woman was supposed to shame nature and calm the seas. He’d read that somewhere. He’d also read that a live female on board was considered bad luck.
He felt as if he’d just discovered a stowaway on his own vessel. Would Peyton prove to be a blessing or a curse?
Maybe seeing her bare-breasted would help him decide….
“How’d you lose them?” he asked when she didn’t elaborate.
“My mother had ovarian cancer. She went into remission for quite a while, over twenty-five years, but…it came back in the end. She died twenty-nine months ago.”
She counted by months, not years. The pain was still fresh.
Zipping his sweatshirt, he sat on the picnic table. He’d left the hat and glasses he’d worn from the motel in Peyton’s car. There was no need for them out here. She didn’t have neighbors. “And your father?”
“Died in prison.”
Virgil walked over to her. “Your father was a convict?”
“He spent five years behind bars.”
“What for?”
She continued to fight the wind. “It’s a long story.”
In other words, she didn’t want to get into it. “How’d he die?”
Her gaze remained anchored on the horizon. “How do most people die in prison?”
“Someone shanked him?”
A slight nod confirmed it.
Virgil wanted to touch her, to comfort her, if he could, but he didn’t know how. Except for what he’d said to his sister in his letters, he hadn’t had much experience with tenderness, not in fourteen years. And, as an eighteen-year-old boy who’d had only one rather tentative sexual relationship, a less than reliable mother and four step-fathers, he hadn’t had the best example. “How old was he?”
“Thirty-one.”
A year younger than he was. She’d lost him early. “That’s too soon to die,” he said, but he’d seen it, plenty of times.