Christmas With the Convict (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 2

CHASE

I shouldn’t be here.

Not in this expensive car. Not scuffing the leather with my dirty clothes. Not anywhere near this angel, this perfect creature that looks like she’s never experienced an ounce of hardship.

I don’t hate her for that. All my life has been spent in the gutter with people who know pain like a brother, especially these last six years. Pain turns people bitter. It beats them into a bruised, swollen pulp, and they turn that pain against the people around them.

I don’t hate them for that either, but I’m tired of it.

Is it any wonder I slept through the first two hours of the drive?

I wake up swaddled by the warm seat. Wendy hums a tune to herself and taps her fingers on the steering wheel. Her nails are painted red with little snowmen and stars as gold as her hair.

It’s strange seeing her outside the prison. The first time I caught a glimpse of her, I was mopping a hall. She came strolling by, practically skipping, silky blond hair bouncing with each click of her heels. It was like a golden fox had found its way under all the barbed wire and chain-link, passed the guards and their rifles, and into the concrete hell. She was sunshine inside, and I got myself in her class as soon as I could.

Every night, I saw her blue doe eyes in my dreams.

That was all it was supposed to be. She was my beacon, my light at the end of the tunnel. A reminder that the outside world was still there, and there might be beauty waiting for me if I could survive long enough to find it.

But I shouldn’t have thrown myself into her life. No good that can come of this. Whatever perfect holiday home is waiting for her at the end of this drive will be blackened by me, the unwanted guest. They’ll treat me like a stray dog, and they’ll be right to do so.

I should tell her what I did, what got me locked up. If I do, I know she’ll stop the car, open the door, and leave me here on the side of the road. Confessing now before this gets out of hand would be the right thing to do…

I’ve never been good at doing the right thing.

“You’re awake.” Wendy smiles, beaming like a sunrise. “Get some good sleep? You were drooling.”

I sit up and wipe my chin. “Haven’t slept that deeply in years.”

My words hang in the air. Even now, the prison seems to be chasing me, taunting me, demanding that I come back and embrace the cold cuffs around my wrists.

“Oh, God. Those beds must have been horrible,” Wendy laughs.

She laughs.

And I can’t help but laugh too.

“Hard as stone. And cold,” I say. “Is there a heater in this seat?”

“Seat warmers.”

My mind drifts to the old truck I drove before I was incarcerated. The heater only worked because the radiator did a shit job of keeping the engine cool…

“They must pay good money to teach inmates poetry and shit.” I cringe, wishing I didn’t grow up swearing like a fucking sailor. This girl is too pure for my tongue.

But Wendy fires back. “That’s a volunteer gig. I’m in graduate school. English. One day, I’ll get paid to teach undergraduates poetry and shit.”

We share a smile. I don’t press her anymore on the car or her money. If her family has a place in Aspen, then I’m sure it was pocket change for her parents to buy their daughter a luxury vehicle.

“So, where are you from?” she asks, stretching out a bit and cracking her neck.

“I could take over driving if you want.”

“Yeah, in a bit. Don’t change the subject.”

I sigh and stare out the window. We’re already climbing. Snow is piling up along the edge of the highway, in the trees, and on the mountains.

“I’m from a little mountain town up north you’ve never heard of. You from Aspen?”

“Nope. I’m from Denver,” she says casually. “But we’ve had the place in Aspen since I was a kid. It’s ski-in, ski-out. We usually spend a good chunk of our winters there.”

When I was growing up, Aspen was a fantasy. A place that only existed in movies and dreams. This girl knew it as well as I knew the junkyard as a boy.

“That must have been nice growing up,” I say. “What do your parents do?”

Wendy shrugs. “My mom’s a college professor. Western History.”

“And your dad?”

“Wow, I’m beat.” She lets out an over-dramatic yawn. “You ready to drive?”

I narrow my eyes at her.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Oh, Dad’s retired.” She winces before delivering the death blow. “He was a cop.”

My palms hit the dashboard like I’m bracing for a crash. “ A cop? ”

“Well, a police chief.”

A fucking cop.

“Let me out.”

“Chase, it’s not a—“

“Seriously,” I growl. “Let me off here. Thanks for everything, but I’ll catch a ride.“

Wendy glares at me. “I’m not gonna do that.”

I knew this was a bad idea.

“I can’t spend fucking Christmas in a cop’s house.” My heart is racing. This seat is searing hot. “ Look at me . He’ll hate me on sight. I’ll be back in fucking jail before New Year’s.”

“You’re my guest,” she says. “And my dad will listen to me. He’s retired. He’s not walking around his vacation home with a K-9.”

“This is insane.” I stare her down. “You know that, right?”

“And letting you wander alone on the highway three days before Christmas is sane ?” Wendy scoffs. “Bullshit. I was raised better than that. If my dad has a problem with you because of your record, he’s not the man I thought he was.”

This is how it starts.

Her perfect life will splinter because of me. It’ll shatter and leave her in pieces that she won’t know how to pick up. If I don’t leave now, I’ll ruin her.

Wendy reaches across the seat and takes my hand.

I let her. I let her loop her fingers in mine, and I wonder how a person could grow to be so soft.

“Everything is going to be alright, Chase.”

Something pangs in my heart.

It’s so intense, so overwhelming that I have to look away. I can feel the tears behind my eyes, begging to be free.

No one has ever told me that before… and if they had, I would have called it a lie.

But I believe her.

I let myself believe her.

I keep quiet as she drives. I allow this to continue.

Because I’ve been thinking about her touch since the first time I laid eyes on her, and I can’t let her slip away now that her fingers are locked in mine.

My journal is on my lap, filled with all the words I wrote because of her.

If she read them all, she’d stop the car, throw me out, and forget all about me…

The sun is setting when we reach Aspen County and stop to get chains on the tires. It’s night as we roll through the village at the foot of Aspen Snowmass, the main resort for wealthy tourists and Colorado elites.

I’m sure not everyone who skis here is rich. Wendy’s family falls snuggly into the living on another planet category. We turn onto a path that splits off from the resort, hugging the mountainside as the trees grow thick around us.

“Didn’t we pass the cabins?” I ask, craning my neck to look behind us. We’re leaving all the warm lights of the resort behind us.

“The cabins at the main resort are rentals and time-shares,” Wendy says, bouncing in her seat as we power through the unplowed road. “Hold on tight!”

Wendy drives this dark road like she owns it.

And soon, new lights come into view. The tire tracks ahead of us pierce out into a wide clearing, branching off toward a dozen massive two-story cabins. They’re twinkling like Christmas-colored campfires.

It’s like a dream.

“ This is where you spend your holidays?” I ask, holding the handle above the door as the car dips in the snow. “Just how rich are you? Does your family own all these cabins?”

“Don’t be silly,” Wendy laughs, pulling us up behind a line of trucks and SUVs crowding a wide, shoveled driveway. She stops the car and stretches, already getting her bare feet back in those heels. I resist the urge to watch her fingers work the clasp around her ankles. “This is ours. Bettencourt Bungalow.”

“Bungalow?” There must be ten rooms in this place… “Wouldn’t mansion be a better word?”

“My dad’s idea of a joke.”

Suddenly, I don’t want to leave the confined space of the front seat. My mind even flashes back to my cell, six by eight feet of gray. I knew what each day would bring behind those bars. If I step out of this car, I’m not sure what I’ll find waiting for me in this world I’m not welcome in.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Chase.” Wendy turns in her seat and puts her hand on my leg. She really needs to stop touching me like that… “You belong here, alright?”

Those blue eyes calm me in a frightening way. Her gaze is opium, and I’m addicted.

“You really don’t know how wrong you are.”

The double doors of the home open. Out comes a man with slick silver hair and a perfect smile. Two kids no taller than his waist run past him.

I grab Wendy’s hand just as she’s about to open her door.

Her face goes so soft that I swear she’s going to melt into the grooves of my palm. “I’m right here.”

On the inside, I faced things that would bring any man to tears. Sometimes, they did, in the quiet of night with my face buried in that paper-thin pillow. Riots. Gang hits. Guards that let the power of a badge and a nightstick get to their heads. I faced it all and came out the other side.

Something tells me I won’t survive this.

That man walking down the drive has more power to destroy me than any skinhead, prison guard, or psycho having a breakdown. He’s got the kind of power that builds prisons.

And he’s glaring at me.

“ Wendy! Wendy!” The kids are banging on her window, jumping with sugar-rush fuel. “ AUNTIE WENDY!”

“Come on,” Wendy laughs. “Let’s go meet the crazies.”

I wish I was wearing different clothes.

With my journal in hand and two dollars in my pocket, I put my boot down into the snow. The cold bites at me, punishing me for a lack of layers. I hear Wendy squeal about the snow on her heeled feet.

Nothing could be more frigid than the look in that man’s eyes. They’re nearly the same blue as Wendy’s…

The kids are screaming and jumping all over her, so that leaves me defenseless. The man, her father, walks up to me and extends his hand. “And you might be?”

“Chase.” I stare him down as I take his hand. I can’t help it.

“Chase what?”

“Chase Oliver .”

He’s smaller than me, but he squeezes my hand like a fucking giant.

“Richard Bettencourt,” he says through a strange smile. “I didn’t know my daughter was bringing a friend.”

His eyes scan the patches on my vest, lingering on the goat emblem above my right breast.

“You a motorcycle enthusiast?” he asks.

“I used to be.”

“Dad!” Wendy cuts between us and throws her arms around him. I’m grateful to have my hand back without a cuff around it. “Dad, this is—“

“Chase Oliver,” he interrupts. “Which is just a name.”

“Dad…”

The kids, both boys, are staring at me with wide eyes.

“You’re huge,” one says.

“Your clothes are dirty,” adds the other.

“Go in the house!” Wendy growls like a monster and they run off laughing. “Sorry, those are my nephews. Daryl and Duke. They’re at that age when they just say every little thing that pops into their heads.”

“So, Mr. Oliver,” her father says. “What were you in for?”

Wendy sighs. “And apparently they’re not the only ones… Dad, don’t be rude.”

Each time he looks at Wendy, his eyes twinkle.

When he looks at me, they burn.

“You think I wouldn’t connect the dots? My buddy who works the gate called me six hours ago to tell me you were on the road,” he says. “ He didn’t tell me you picked up a hitchhiker. What are you doing bringing an inmate here? Do you even know him?”

Of course. All these fucking cops know somebody somewhere who will tell them everything they’re not supposed to know.

“He’s been in my writing course for months,” Wendy snaps. “And he’s been released early on good behavior. He has nowhere to go and it’s Christmas. Dad… ”

“Don’t do that.”

But whatever tone she’s hitting in her voice has power over him. His nose twitches and he exhales the way only a frustrated, defeated old man can.

“He served his time,” Wendy says, taking my arm. “Doesn’t he deserve a little warmth and cheer?”

If I were to speak now, I’d just fuck up Wendy’s play. She’s working him, and it’s working.

They both go quiet.

The wind howls and makes me shiver.

“Well? It’s freezing out here,” Wendy laughs, already walking me toward the house. “Let’s get inside! Oh, and Chase needs to borrow some clothes.”

“No shit,” Richard Bettencourt huffs.

He walks behind us, snow crunching menacingly. I can feel his gaze burning a message into my brain. Don’t get comfortable.

Somehow, the inside of the house is even more unreal.

The entryway is bigger than any place I’ve ever lived. Everything is pristine, warm hardwood. Intricate rugs form paths that snake off through the infinite space. Warm lights from chandeliers, candles, and bulbs hidden so well that they bleed like ghost firelight up the walls. Coats are hung by the dozens by the door, draped above countless sets of boots. And from all corners of the house, laughter and conversation reach toward us.

All the scents of Christmas embrace me with warmth and richness I’ve never experienced. Pine and wood-fire and cinnamon are so thick in the air that I could ball them up and eat them.

My senses are so overwhelmed that my eyes hurt, and I haven’t even taken five steps beyond the threshold.

“Honey, you wore that into a state penitentiary?”

Wendy rolls her eyes at her father as she takes off her long coat. Her slender figure fits tightly into that red skirt, blouse, and heels. My eyes find solace in her pale skin, her blond hair, and those long, toned legs.

I stare for far too long.

“ You. ” Richard snaps his fingers. “Follow me. We’ll get you some proper clothes.”

“Be nice…”

I throw Wendy a pleading glance but she signals for me to go. The kids are back and they’ve got her by the hands, dragging her out of sight.

Richard Bettencourt stops at the landing halfway up the grand stairs. He spits down at me, “You forget how to follow instructions already? I walk, you follow. Just like inside.”

My hands ball into fists.

The disdain in his eyes is a blowtorch. It sears me. It takes every ounce of willpower not to thrash against the pain. I take a deep breath, thinking instead of Wendy’s loving, sky-blue eyes as I follow her asshole father up the stairs.

Through the halls, he leads me. Every few seconds he glances back at me to make sure I haven’t strayed from his exact steps. I get a peek of the main living room downstairs from a sort of indoor balcony; about a dozen people are gathered on cream-colored sofas around a fire, all fawning over Wendy.

I stop and lean over the railing.

This feels like it did before, watching her from afar. A physical barrier separating us, surrounded by people who would never let me get within an arm’s length of her. She looks up and flashes me a secret smile before returning her attention to the others.

A hand on my shoulder pulls me back to this strange reality.

“Something catch your eye?” Mr. Bettencourt says.

I clear my throat. “Just admiring your home, sir. I’ve never been in a place like this…”

“Oh, I’m sure. Is that all?” He leans on the railing and looks down at his family, at his daughter. “You think I don’t know that patch on your vest? You think I don’t know the type of boy you are?”

“These were the clothes I had on my back when I went in,” I say, never backing down from his gaze. “I’ll be happy to get out of them for good.”

“I’m sure,” he sighs casually. “You have no business here, Mr. Oliver. My daughter… she’s idealistic. Good-natured to a fault. You are that fault today, and I’m sure you’ll prove me right in due time.”

“Why not kick me out? Send me on my way.”

Richard Bettencourt laughs like a man holding all the cards, and he doesn’t care who knows it. He pats me on the back and smiles warmly. “And ruin Christmas? No, boy. I’ll leave that to you.”

He turns his back on me and whistles as he walks. It’s a whistle that a man makes for his dog to follow.

Wendy is down there, laughing and smiling, waiting for me.

I think about her, and only her, as I trail behind him.