Page 7 of Christmas With the Convict

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 thatlet 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 thatbuildsprisons.

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.

“Chasewhat?”

“ChaseOliver.”

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.

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