Page 18 of Sycamore Circle

CHAPTER 7

When Lincoln had moved next door with his new wife and made his former home into the official headquarters of T-DOT, which stood for “Tomorrow Depends on Today,” he had given Bo one of the back rooms to use as an office and meeting space. The big house on Edgewater Road was made of white wood and had a large front porch. It was a little run-down but solid and perfect for its purpose.

Bo had done what he could with his meeting room. It had a small kitchenette, a grouping of comfortable chairs, a desk, a couple of cabinets, and even a flat-screen television hooked up on the wall.

It had quickly become a comfortable place where the guys didn’t mind meeting with him. He’d sit with recent parolees, discussing- everything from their parole officers to jobs to families to more complex ideas, like the adjustment to being able to make their own decisions again. It was amazing how accustomed a person could get to being told what to do, what to eat, and practically how to think after living in Madisonville. Bo often commiserated with them about things like how overwhelming a trip to the grocery store could feel after living behind bars.

Even though all these things were good things, there were moments when Bo would sit in one of his comfortable chairs, sipping a canned iced tea, and wish he was literally anywhere else.

This was one of those moments.

The kid sitting across from him was crying. Looking at the guy and knowing his troubled history, Bo figured he deserved a few tears. He’d learned from experience that every so often, even the strongest man needed to give into his emotions.

He’d never faulted that. Not even when he’d been in the pen and showing emotion was seen as weakness and was practically an invitation to get beaten up or abused by anyone stronger.

That said, Grafton was starting to become annoying.

As Bo had never been long on patience on the best of days, he figured the kid was only getting another five minutes before he cut him off.

Allowing Grafton to fixate on his misery wasn’t going to help him get through the next four months, and it was Bo’s job to make sure that he did just that. He took it personally when one of his guys gave up on going straight and ended up back in prison before the guards even had a chance to forget his name.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do next,” the twenty-something said around a wet sniffle. “Molly was into me.”

It was moments like this when Bo really missed the time when Lincoln was constantly nearby. Bo was okay with guys crying and whining from time to time, and he was even okay when they lost their temper and freaked out. All those things were normal when one was acclimating back to the “real world.” But as much as his obvious compassion might help, Lincoln’s presence had inspired a good amount of fear in the men.

Few of the guys had ever wallowed in their misery for long when Lincoln was in hearing distance.

After handing Grafton a box of tissues, Bo turned one of the wooden chairs near the table around so he could straddle it. While Grafton blew his nose, Bo rested his forearms on the top of the chair and watched. He mentally counted to ten.

Grafton sniffed.

Bo gritted his teeth. Counted to twenty.

Finally, finally, the kid leaned back and sighed.

It was time for some hard truths. “Grafton, you need to get it together.”

The guy’s dark-brown eyes filled with hurt. “I’m trying, but it’s unbelievable, you know? All she ever used to write in her letters was that she couldn’t wait for me to get out. Her letters were so sweet too. And hot.” Grafton met Bo’s eyes. “Molly’s letters were sexy as all get out. You know?”

It was hard to keep his distaste from showing but he tried. “Uh-huh.”

Grafton waved his hands. “When I first got out and saw her, I couldn’t believe it. She looked so great—and happy to see me! She kissed me. I thought she was mine.” He swallowed. “Now, just a couple of weeks later, she’s gone. She promised to be there for me, but she isn’t.” Looking at Bo intently, Grafton added, “I don’t know what that means.”

It meant that Molly was a liar or that Grafton had turned out to be more than she wanted to deal with on a constant basis. Bo figured either option made sense, but given the way Grafton was carrying on, he would have put money on the latter.

“I hear what you’re saying,” Bo murmured, just like one of the counselors back in Madisonville had been fond of saying. The truth was that Grafton’s story wasn’t unusual. It happened all the time. Some women really liked having a lovelorn pen pal. They wrote lots of guys and led them on with empty promises.

But writing a guy who was safely behind bars was a whole lot different than dating a bitter ex-con without a whole lot of job prospects. They dropped the men like hot potatoes.

And honestly, who could blame them?

Grafton inhaled, then released it with a messy, wet sigh. “I can’t believe she blew me off like that, man. How come she wrote to me for three years and even started visiting me once a month— but now doesn’t want to give me the time of day?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s all you can say?”

If the kid only knew everything Bo was thinking! “Nope. Buddy, you’ve got to get over her and think about your future.”

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