4. Grayson

Grayson

W alking into the surf shack, I weave through the crowd waiting at the curb. The salty breeze from the ocean mingles with the scent of sunscreen and coconut wax, like summer cocktail of smells. Tommy is signing shirts at a table near the front, his blonde hair flopped onto his forehead, and a goofy grin stretched across his sun-tanned face.

It's my first day on site, and I want to check the inventory on hand before totaling up the accounts. Miranda has done a commendable job with Penny's help, but this is one of the bad spots. I'll be counting sunscreen and t-shirts well into the afternoon, but it has to be done.

Sam is behind the counter. The overhead music is soft, but she's singing along, her body bobbing with the beat, lost in the rhythm. I feel my cheeks flush. It's impossible not to notice she's a beautiful woman, and I've been in prison for a long time. But she's absolutely off-limits. Even in my mind. After all she's done for me, she needs to be like a sister. I don't have any real sisters, but cousin? Yes. Like Tilly and Miranda. She looks up and smiles at me.

"Hey, Grayson. How's it going?"

"Good," I say, my tone clipped. No need to stretch out the conversation. I smooth my hair, nearly forgetting for the umpteenth time today that it's no longer a scraggly mess. I was finally able to get it cut by a professional two days ago. To say I feel like a new man is an understatement. Trading in my faded, too-big coveralls and shoulder-length hair was absolutely necessary. The new cut is perfect, thanks in part to the barber Tommy insisted I use. The man certainly knows how to style hair. And having him bring everything to my house and include my son in the process was well worth the $300 price tag. Of course, I didn't pay it. Nope. Tommy gifted the experience to me, claiming that it was a 'get out of jail free' cut.

He's got a strange sense of humor but is a truly nice guy in some odd twist. Pairing the cut with slacks and a polo makes me feel like the professional I aim to be instead of the convicted criminal I actually am. The only thing I kept was my beard. I have learned to like the hair along my chin. But it was trimmed up.

"There's an office in the back. Just kick Greg out," she says, already focusing down at the paper on the counter.

I walk the hall and slip into the office. But once I get a peek, I'm not sure if that's what it should be called. The room is dimly lit by a single fluorescent light flickering above. The walls are adorned with faded surf posters and old memorabilia, curling at the edges. Boxes are scattered around, some open with contents spilling out. Greg is strumming a guitar in an old chair, some duct tape on the back. Even the aging computer seems exhausted and run down. It's whirring loudly, like a man's rasping last breaths.

"Sup," Greg says with a nod, then strums an out-of-tune chord, the sound reverberating in the cramped space.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "This is a million-dollar shop, right?"

"As of last summer, yeah."

I don't comment any further on the dilapidated conditions. "Sam needs you in the front. Tommy's about to be mobbed."

Greg sets his guitar aside and rises to his feet. I almost laugh. The man is getting a little pooch where once a six-pack resided. The effects of being married. I remember them fondly. Gaining weight while my wife was pregnant, enjoying lots of nights at home with ice cream or popcorn. It feels like a distant memory, almost a dream. How perfect my life had been in those moments.

As Greg passes by, he slaps my back. "We're ordering lunch from an Italian place. You like spaghetti?"

"Salad," is all I manage to say. The emotions have flooded into me, and I don't want Greg to know. The man is nice enough, but I haven't spent much time with him. Or anyone, for that matter.

Being the accountant for the mob tends to isolate a person.

I sit in the chair and reach into my shoulder bag for the laptop. Before long, I'm pulling up my spreadsheets and updating counts. Every so often, I go to the stockroom to check boxes. If I thought the office was out of order, the storeroom should require a hazmat suit. Everything is spread out, no dedicated spots. How the hell do they find anything in here?

This won't do. If I can call meetings, this will certainly be on the docket for the first one. But eventually, I find a rhythm. While counting shirts, I fold them and put them in size order on the shelf. Sunscreen gets the same treatment, organized by strength.

Hours pass without even realizing it. But damn, it feels good to be working. Prison was full of long, boring days. Working with numbers, organizing what I see as part of my new dynasty, it's everything I knew I needed. Once the storeroom is put together, I take my clipboard back to the office and start inputting figures.

Half an hour later, there's a knock on the doorframe. I turn my chair to see Sam standing at the threshold with a takeout box in hand. "Can I come in?"

I nod and spin my chair back to the desk. She flicks some hair behind her shoulder, and I study the takeout box. "Is that a salad?"

She laughs, a soft, melodic sound that fills the room. "No. Greg insisted on pasta for you. I think he's a little jealous," she admits.

I take my reading glasses off and fold my hands together. "Of?"

She sets the box down in front of me and sits on the corner of the desk with a shy smile. "Uh, I might have commented on your frame and maybe poked fun at his belly."

I remain stoic. I'm proud of the weight I've lost in prison, though it was more a lack of proper food than hard work. "Greg's a handsome man." Though inwardly, I'm puffing my chest out a little more.

"I agree. I'm totally infatuated with my husband, dad-bod or not."

Not sure what to say to that, I flip open the lid to the food. "That's nice."

Sam laughs again. "Scale from one to ten; how uncomfortable are you right now?"

That causes the corner of my lip to twitch, but I refrain from actually smiling at her. "Do you know what a pivot table is?" Sam shakes her head. "It's a little graph that adds up at the bottom, basically. But when the numbers don't make sense anywhere along the way, the total column will have a number symbol and read ‘incalculable.'"

That earns a throaty laugh from Sam. "Your discomfort is incalculable. Got it. Well, I'll just leave your pasta and let you get back to it, then." She saunters out of the room, but I don't watch her go. Cousin Sam is not to be ogled.

Once she's gone, I dig into the food. It's a good enough sauce, but hardly up to the standard I was used to before prison. $36 million. That's how much money the government took from me. This is not the pasta of someone with $36 million. But it's edible. As I eat, I get back to work, trying not to think about how much I've lost. When I admitted I was guilty and signed my deal, I knew the money would be taken. But a part of me is still upset. I earned that money. Being an involuntary prisoner of my family and the Chernobog Brotherhood was not easy work.

But, alas, it was dirty money they paid me with. I am a criminal. Maybe it wasn't entirely by choice, but the police took that into account. Two years is not nearly what I could have gotten.

An hour later, my pasta is gone, and I'm finishing up for the day when the phone rings on the desk. I pick it up. "Hello?"

"Hello, can I speak with Mr. Cardenas?" I tell them who I am, and the voice lets out a long sigh. "I'm sorry, sir, but your son is really struggling today. He's physically okay but asking for his grandma and won't stop crying."

"I'll be right there." I hang up and close my laptop lid before stowing it in my bag. Walking out of the office, I see Tommy glance up.

"Oh hey, man." When he gets a closer look at my face, he stands up. "You okay?" I nod, but Tommy comes to my side, excusing the leggy blonde that had been leaning over the table. "You sure? You look like you swallowed a cactus."

"My son needs to be picked up." I had been certain the daycare I picked would be fine, but it was cheap, and the staff obviously doesn't know how to handle things.

"Really? Damn. You have a car?"

I almost smack my own head. No, I don't have a vehicle. We had to brave the bus system to get to daycare and work. "No worries." Tommy fishes keys out of his pocket and holds them out. "Take mine. We keep a booster for TJ in the back, so it's all good."

Before I can refuse, Tommy is already going back to his table. I pinch the bridge of my nose before taking a deep breath and striding out of the shop. The line has thinned some, but as I squeeze past a couple of blonde men, I hear my name.

I turn and see her. As beautiful as ever, with her kissable lips pressed into a stern line.

Detective Parker.

Fuck. What did I do now? I stop, and my shoulders involuntarily slump.

She hustles forward and outstretches her badge. "Mr. Cardenas, I'm Detective Parker. Can we talk?" Like I wouldn't remember her. The woman is a stunner. Thick auburn hair pulled into a professional tie at the back of her head and a grey pantsuit painted onto her body. She has curves to kill, and I spent some of my time signing arrest paperwork staring at those lips. It wasn't the only thing I couldn't look away from either. Her perfect olive skin along her neck looks positively delectable, and my cock twitches in my pants.

What's wrong with me? Two years in jail, and I'm some sort of sex-craved man?

Nope, a little voice reminds me, you wanted her before prison.

"Yes, Detective Parker. How can I help you?"

"Mr. Cardenas, this is my partner, Harry. Is there somewhere we can sit down?"

I look over my shoulder and shake my head. "I need to run an errand. Can it wait?"

"Afraid not. Mind if we join you?"

I nod and click the key fob. The lights on a BMW X5 light up, and I head that way.

But when we open the doors, the back seat is filled with car seats. Detective Parker and her partner share a look.

"I'll follow in the crown vic," Harry says, and Detective Parker nods. She climbs into the passenger seat and buckles up as I do the same.

I look around the dash, confused as to how to turn the vehicle on. The delay isn't lost on Detective Parker. "Is this not your car?"

"It's a friend's." I finally find the button, and the car roars to life.

"It's nice. Camshafts, carbon filters, and whatnot," she says. I stare at her. What she said makes no sense to me, but I'm not much of a car guy. "It was a joke, Mr. Cardenas. I know nothing about cars."

That earns a twitch of my lip. "Yes, well, me neither, so the joke was lost on me."

She chuckles as I start backing up. "You needed to speak with me?"

"I do. It's somewhat sensitive, and I don't want to worry you, but we have some information we thought you needed to know."

She leans forward to reach into her back pocket. A folded piece of paper is produced, and she hands it over. "We found this at the site of a murder today. The man was found to be a dark web contract dealer. Looks like there's a price on your head." I barely glance at the page as I drive. They drove down from LA to tell me that? "Mr. Cardenas, did you hear me?"

"I did. But it's not exactly news. I ratted on the family. It was only a matter of time before this happened."

"I guess. Still, you probably should keep a close eye on things. Look out for people following you, lock your doors. That sort of thing."

"But that's not why you're here, is it?" She's quiet, and I know I've hit the nail on the head. "I'm happy to help. Who was the murdered guy?"

"Lucas Peterson, know him?"

I nod. "Punk kid, good with computers. He had a drug problem. We used him to doctor shipping records for a while. He was a whiz with Photoshop."

Detective Parker shifts in her seat until she's facing me. "That wasn't in your confession."

That rubs me the wrong way. Back when I was first released, Penny had mentioned that she understood the issue of being labeled. Since that day, I haven't once felt like a reformed felon. Not with my family. That isn't true any longer. Detective Parker clearly doesn't trust me. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel, but I keep my face a mask of indifference. "No one asked. I'm telling you now. I have nothing to hide."

"I'll bet. I mean, you already have a cushy new job, a furnished condo, and a $70,000 car." The disgust in her voice is impossible to miss, and I nearly snap back with equal disgust. But her point isn't missed, and she isn't wrong. I am incredibly lucky to have my family supporting me right now.

"I told you it's a friend's."

"Nice friends," she says under her breath. Though I want to say something witty and defensive, I let the comment go since I'm already pulling up to the daycare. The building is small, with fading paint on the outside walls. There are bars on the windows, and more than one homeless person walks around, their faces weathered by the sun. When I dropped him off and picked him up, there wasn't such a crowd. Seeing the area in the middle of the day is even more eye-opening than the call I received.

It's humbling. Partly because this is the one thing I allowed myself to do without help from Tilly. I chose this place because it was within my budget. When I toured, the other children were happy, and I saw all the childproofing in necessary spots. Safety plugs in the wall sockets, childproof locks, high fence, nothing dangerous sticking up on the playground, and even low-flow toilets in the bathrooms. Though that last one was impressive for another reason. We live in California, a state in constant stages of drought. It made the facility look responsible and environmentally conscious.

Point is, I checked. I did what I thought was my diligence.

And I failed.

It's the first rule of real estate: check the location at different hours. What if you buy a house only to find that the neighbor has a dog that barks all night or enjoys watching porn loudly in their living room at two a.m.? But of course, in my haste, I didn't apply that to his daycare. My frustration notches up. Now, I'll need to reach out to Tilly for help. Again. But of course, I'll suck up my pride, mostly because if it's for Georgie, I have no pride. If his safety and happiness are in jeopardy, at least.

I shut the car off and turn to face her. "I need to get my son. There will be no mention of this while he's in the car." My tone leaves no room for argument. Georgie doesn't need to know or even hear hints of my disgusting family's past.

"Of course, Mr. Cardenas," she says, her voice saccharine. The lyrical sound causes a stirring in my pants. Witchy woman. She probably wants that to happen. Horndogs are easier to interview than stoic assholes. Unlucky for her, I am most assuredly the latter. I get out of the car and slam the door behind me. While walking to the daycare, I flex my fingers, trying to calm my grated nerves. This day is not turning out how I imagined at all. Inside, the daycare is a cacophony of noise, with children laughing and playing, their voices echoing off the brightly painted walls. The smell of crayons and glue hangs in the air, mingling with the faint scent of disinfectant. I can hear my son sobbing, a heartbreaking sound amidst the chaos. I sign the sheet and barely speak a word as they bring my boy over.

"Georgie!" I say, my voice light. But George tucks his head against the daycare worker's chest, his small body trembling.

"I want gwamma." My heart squeezes like a fist. It's too much change too fast for the boy, and I suddenly wish I had asked Lori to stay an extra week.

"We're going to call Gramma in the car, Georgie."

The boy peeks his face out, and I hold open my arms. George lunges, and I catch him, his small body warm and reassuring in my arms.

"He will not be attending daycare in the future." My voice is tight, my chin raised. Maybe I'm not an influential Cardenas family member anymore, but that doesn't stop me from throwing my scowls around. I spin on my heel and stride with confident steps back to the car.