Page 3 of The County Line
My new parole officer laughs giddily and tucks a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. “You know, they never consider the fact that we live in a rural town when they set these travel restrictions for parolees.”
I force a smile. “So basically, the county line is my limit.”
She nods. “Stay within Whitewood Creek and you should be good.”
Won’t be a problem considering I’ve got all I need right here in my small, hometown.
That and my family’s property is where I’ll be living and working.
“Okay, and curfew is eleven p.m. every night.” She shuffles the paperwork she brought with her to our first meeting around on the tabletop before looking up at me with a smile. “Wemightbeable to make some exceptions,” she says, her voice dripping with suggestion as she leans in a little closer. Her dark blonde lashes flutter against her cheeks, drawing my eyes back to hers—pretty blue eyes that hold just the right amount of seduction. She’s attractive, no doubt. The kind of woman who knows exactly what she wants and isn’t afraid to use a sultry smile and a batting of her lashes to get it.
But… they’re notherblue eyes.
No.
These blue eyes, no matter how striking, are nothing like the ones I used to get lost in when I was younger.Thoseeyes were a brighter shade—like the summer sky when there’s no cloud in sight. Clear and full of intensity. Becausethoseeyes…Well, they belonged to my childhood best friend’s little sister.
Molly.
And those are the kind of eyes you don’t forget.
I force a smile back, managing a wink as she bursts into a fit of flirtatious giggles so exaggerated that I can’t help but chuckle.
I’ve been out of prison for only four days now, and already temptation is staring me in the face. Namely, in the form of my new, cute, though not exactly my type, parole officer.
She flips her long blonde hair over her shoulders and taps her perfectly manicured nails on the table. Tiny little peonies are painted on the tips indicating to me that she’s never had to work a manual job. I can’t help but wonder what she’s doing as a parole officer here in Whitewood Creek, where her job is to meet with rough men like me and ensure we’re abiding by the law after leaving incarceration. Then I realize—maybe that’s her thing.
I’d heard plenty of stories in prison about guards—both male and female—who got into the career because they liked the thrill of sleeping with inmates without getting caught. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong, I’m simply saying I get it. When you've been locked behind concrete for almost five years, anything looks pretty.
The temptation never appealed to me, though—not when I had something to look forward to on the outside, like my family’s businesses, our property that butts straight up to the North Carolina, Blue Ridge Mountains, and getting back to the people I love who live there. That was my sole motivation for staying alive and sane while being tested and threatened every day.
“Alright, I think that’s it. We’ll meet every Wednesday at eleven o’clock for the next eight weeks until you’re officially off of parole. I’ll text you the location, and you’ll confirm via that message that you’ll be there. That way we have a record for the judge that we’ve made plans. But, you know, I trust you.” She smiles again, her giggles slipping from her lips once more.
“Alright.”
A brief flicker of disappointment crosses her face as she realizes I’m not matching the flirty energy that she’s giving off. I’m just not in the mood for it. I want to be home. I want to work on the house that I still need to build on my family’s property, work at the brewery we’re opening in Charlotte in a few short weeks and spend time with the family that I’ve missed. I want to breathe in the clean mountain air of the town I grew up in and stretch out my legs without bumping into a cold wall or another human being.
And fuck, I want to give my old dog one hell of a belly rub while she licks my face.
Hell, I’d rather beanywherebut here—sitting in a cramped, local coffee shop with a woman I barely know, on a damn restricted timeline, talking about how I still need to be babysat for the next two months even though I’m technically a free man.
On the outside.
The words taste bitter, more bitter than the black sludge in the cup in front of me. I don’t drink coffee. Never have. But I like the way the warmth of the cup feels against my palms, grounding me, reminding me that I’m not behind bars anymore.
Still, some days, I’m not sure if there’s much of a difference.
My eyes scan the bustling shop, taking in the unfamiliar faces that drift in and out. It’s almost spring now, but the chill hasn’t quite left the air. The people of this town don’t seem to notice, though. They’re too busy grabbing their morning fix before heading off to the same blue-collar jobs that have kept this town afloat for generations. Farmers. Construction crews. Mechanics. Hardworking men and women who keep their heads down and do what needs to be done.
I used to be one of them.
But that wasbefore.
I wonder if I’ll get back there soon.
She slides a sheet of paper across the table to me face up. “Besides weekly parole meetings, you’re mandated to attend court appointed therapy sessions.”
“Therapy?”
