Page 2 of Felonies are Forever

I’m out.

Whatever that means, I’ll die a man not a pawn. I’m good with that.

I sit there dead still for a long time. Long enough for the shadows on the tabletop to grow a few inches as the sun drops outside the window of my shit hole apartment.

I set my elbows on my knees. Looking at my hands and the ink that decorates them. Then I bring them to my head and rub back and forth, the friction heating my palms. There is a faint scratching of something that has taken up residence in the cabinet under my sink.

Truth is, I don’t have the heart to do anything about it. I don’t want to kill it, rodent or not, the damn thing just needs to eat and I remember scratching around for the same more than once in my life.

The pounding on my apartment door hits me, making my body jerk and turn.

Fuck. Maybe Black took it harder than I thought. Sent someone for me. A dark laugh comes out of me thinking he’s pissed that I broke up our little felonious romance.

I wipe the back of a hand over my cheek and it comes away damp. Tears blur my vision and I look like a fucking pussy, but it’s not because I’m scared. I’m not afraid to die.

After all these years, I accepted that risk. But now it’s just all hitting home: I never actually did anything with my life.

I could run, but fuck that shit.

The pounding comes again, harder.

“Open up. Police.”

TWO

THORNE

Present Day

God, it smells so fucking good. I’ll never get enough of that smell.

The backroom of the shop is clocking in at ninety-one degrees and it’s already cooled down a good bit from its highest point during the early morning baking hours. It’s also spotless, the steel and glass thermometer glinting in the sunlight through the window, and I make a mental note to thank the staff for keeping up on my standards.

“Hey, boss man! I thought I heard your beast pull up. You ride that bike dressed like that? You are one of a kind, man.” Christopher Ward shakes his head and his eyes light up as I stride through the back hall. He’s in the prep area where he’s wiping down a gleaming, stainless steel table. “Guess it’s our undercover boss Friday, huh? How many stores we got now? Sixty? Sixty-three? I quit counting.”

I straighten my suit jacket and run a hand through my hair, a little smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. “Sixty-two openedlast week in Times Square. But it’s your lucky day, man.” I slap him on the shoulder and he turns in for a quick bro hug. “Place looks great, as always. You run a tight ship. Don’t need to even come here, never anything to put on my report except ‘fucking outstanding.’”

“That right?” He’s trying to hide the grin of pride, but I can see it. “Then why do you come here? Don’t you have investors to meet or something?”

“Sure. But they don’t have your fucking personality, man.” I glance around. “Seriously, good job. I mean that. The place is safe in your hands.”

I work at one of my stores every Friday. Always have, always will. I enjoy it; it reminds me of how lucky I’ve been. More than that, it lets the staff know that they’re not working for some faceless corporation. We’re in this together.

“Awww, shucks, boss. Guess you raised me right. From thug to this.” He chuckles and spins his head, looking around the back room. “Who’da thought?”

Tattoos cover his neck and hands, the only ink that’s currently on show, but I know from our time at Jackson State he’s almost eighty percent covered in color. I kid you not, and I have the community showers to thank for that information.

My body isn’t far off from his ink coverage, either. But I’m a waist-up kind of guy when it comes to my body art. My ink is a kaleidoscope of color and covers me from hip bones up until it swirls up my neck under my crisp, tailored dress shirts. Yeah, my contradictions turn heads.

I look up to the ceiling, thanking whatever higher power took a hand in my life. “Do you remember years ago when we opened that door, took a knee and prayed?” I set my legs wide and cross my arms as he nods back. “Fucking crazy ass ride it’s been, right?”

“Fucking sweet ride. Here we are. Two felons selling three dollar donuts.” He throws his head back letting out a deep breath. “From making fucking glazed donuts for a thousand inmates in that hell kitchen. Now this. Some days, I still wake up and think it’s a dream.” He looks around the room, gleaming with stainless steel and racks and racks of decorated donuts in twenty-four flavors.

Not just any flavors either. Try a Cappuccino and Coconut. Or our white chocolate truffle. My newest is a dark salted chocolate and mango. We name them all, too, with these chicken shit names that would have the old Thorne shaking his head.

Names like: Mango Bango. CappoNut, 101 Dalmatians.

I look through the window of a glassed cool room at the rear of the baking area, where two smiling women are chatting and working to apply the icing and decorative toppings that have become our trademark at The Sweet Spot.

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