Page 60 of Riff

Rook, in the time I’d known him, had been pretty chill. If there was ever someone I didn’t think I’d hear yelling, it was him.

Curious, I followed Riff’s path out into the hallway, then downstairs, where Rook was pacing back and forth along the kitchen island.

“I’m so fucking sick of it,” he snarled.

“I know it sucks—“ Colter tried to interject, but Rook whipped on him, anger sparking off of every nerve ending.

“How the fuck do you know? You pay that sniveling shit a couple grand and he doesn’t even show his face in this town for weeks. When have you ever had him show up to drug test you? When has he tossed your fucking apartment three times in one goddamn week? You have no fucking idea.”

Colter’s hands went up in a placating gesture.

“Look,” Coach tried as Rook resumed his pacing. “We all know Nancy is a nightmare. But you gotta stop letting her get to you so much. It’s only going to make shit worse.”

“She denied me again,” Rook growled, picking up a glass that had been sitting on the counter, and tossing it before anyone could stop him.

A gasp escaped me as it shattered, a loud sound in the open, quiet space.

Rook turned quickly, spotting me, his face twisting up in concern and regret.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Vienna,” he said, voice soft, the anger bleeding out of him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—“

While I did love how sweet they all were with me, I did also sometimes bristle at how they treated me like I was so fragile, so breakable.

“Who is Nancy?” I asked, cutting off whatever he was about to say.

“She’s Rook’s parole officer,” Riff supplied. “She’s…”

“A raging bitch?” I supplied, getting a surprised chuckle out of the men.

“Something like that,” Riff agreed. “Her husband was put into a coma from some random man on parole. So she decided to change career paths and, essentially, harass the fuck out of all other parolees.”

“Oh, wow. What did she deny?” I asked, figuring the usually so well-contained Rook wouldn’t be so mad about general harassment, even if it was excessive.

“She won’t let me get in touch with my mom. Not to go see her. Not to call her. Nothing.”

Right.

Rook’s mom.

Who was in a mental health facility ever since whatever happened with the man who swindled her.

The man that Rook attacked for doing that.

“That’s cruel,” I said, my heart aching for him. All he wanted to do was see his mom. Who could deny him that? Who could deny her, an innocent party, that? “How long is your parole?” I asked.

“Three years.”

“How far into it are you?”

“About a year and a half,” he said, jaw muscle twitching. Whereas I was thinking along the lines of Well, at least you’re halfway done, I imagine his mindset was more similar to I’m only halfway done?

“There’s no way to get a parole officer switched?”

“Yeah, but not really,” Coach said, shaking his head.

“Do you have one?” I asked.

“Not really. I got county parole, which is done by the cops and, luckily, that wasn’t much of an issue.”

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