Page 131 of Felonies are Forever

They’ll take you back…take you away from me.

I slam my shoulder into a metal door, pulling Daphne back with me into the dark space, feeling on the wall inside the door for a switch.

I flick it upward with my palm, shove the door shut, closing us into the small supply closet, my heart racing as I pray that I haven’t fucked up on my first day of freedom.

“Shit,” I grit out, running my hand through my hair as Daphne opens her eyes wide, as if finally taking in what just happened.

“Yeah, shit,” she says, sounding mad. “I can take care of myself, Dutch. I have for a long time.”

“Sure you can. But you don’t need to anymore. I’m here to do it.”

“Oh, is that so, mister?” She crosses her arms over her tits, the soaking fabric showing off her pebbled nipples. “And how are you going to do that if you’re back in prison? Huh? Think you can protect me with letters, Dutch? Think you can keep me safe through the US freaking Postal Service?”

The anger in her eyes turns to fear as her chin quivers. Her eyes sheen over with a layer of tears. And my heart fucking breaks.

Shit. Shit. Shit. It wasn’t just hard for me; it was hard for her, too. Being apart, it almost fucking killed me. And it hurt her just as much. I reach out and pull her into my chest, the feel of her softness against me clearing my rage.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. You’re stuck with me. You hear me? I’m not going anywhere.”

She pushes me back, shaking her head. She’s not ready to give in to me, not yet. “We need to get out of here, Dutch. I don’t want to take a chance someone will call the cops. Let’s get James and go home.”

She reaches over and grabs the knob with one hand. Then two. Then tugs harder. The sound of metal rattling against metal fills the closet, but the door doesn’t swing open. “Wait, are you telling me…”

She struggles, twisting and pulling, finally slapping her hand against the metal door.

She turns to me, all fire and heat in her eyes. And then she smiles. “Did you just pull me into a locked closet?”

I give the handle a rattle. Well, shit. If there’s one thing I know about, it’s locked doors. So I snap my tongue in my cheek. “Yep. I did, baby.”

She gives the door another try, bursting into giggles as she struggles against the metal, making her cleavage jiggle and bounce.

Life is fucking amazing. Two minutes ago, I was this close to going back to jail. Now I’m locked in a closet with her. And everything is perfect.

SIX

Daphne

“Do I stink?”I tug at the damp fabric covering my chest, taking a sniff with a disgusted grunt, all the while trying to cover up my delight that I’m sitting here locked in a closet with Dutch.

“Doll, you could never stink.” Dutch eyes me from his seat on a metal folding chair surrounded by cardboard boxes. “Although, I know there are parts of you that smell pretty fucking good.”

My cheeks sting with a blush, remembering the perfection of Dutch’s mouth as I wiggle my rear end on the milk crate across from where he sits. Our knees are touching, the single light bulb casting long shadows down his face, the scent of dust and dampness doing nothing to distract me from admiring the gorgeous man sitting across from me.

The music and sounds from the bar are muffled as I reach over and try the door handle again. “How are we going to get out?”

Dutch shrugs. His eyes are locked on me. He is just effortlessly sexy. The most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. “Don’tknow. Don’t care.” Even his voice is sexy. His words slow, measured, low and thick with an undercurrent of that calm, I got this attitude.

I click my tongue. “Really? I mean, sooner or later one of us is going to need the bathroom, or a medical procedure. We can’t stay in here forever. Shouldn’t we bang on the door? Someone will hear us.”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. I’m enjoying just looking at you. Making memories with you.”

“Memories?” I look around the small, cramped room. At some point when I was probably still in diapers, someone tried to pep it up with Smurf-blue paint, which now just looks extremely sad.

“Yeah. Fifty years from now, when our grandchildren ask us what we did on our first date, we’ve got a pretty good story to tell them. Like that old couple in your letter.”

“Date? This?” I wave my hands around toward the crowded, dark shelves, filled with off-brand cleaning supplies and stacks of plastic-wrapped paper napkins and coasters. “This is our first date?”

He runs his tongue over his front teeth, pausing for a second on his crooked, left incisor. “Sure is. You, me, out, stuck in a closet. Plenty of time for all that traditional, out to dinner, see a movie sort of stuff. This…” He jabs a finger at the floor. “This is the stuff that makes good memories.”

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