CHAPTER SEVEN
JASE’S MEETING WITH his parole officer had gone better than expected. He’d been placed on unsupervised parole, which meant there would be no more monthly meetings and fewer random drug tests. He could mail in his dues and wouldn’t be subjected to monthly inquisitions about his activitiesCHAPTER ONE finances and future plans.
Almost over. Less than six months to go.
Finally. An end in sight.
Jase longed for the days he would no longer have scheduled reminders of a youth spent behind bars and the reason he’d been sent there. Or of all the times he’d been placed in the shoe, forced to spend twenty-three hours of every day by himself, locked inside a too-small room, his “good days” taken away from him.
In prison, every thirty days of excellent behavior earned an inmate forty-four days off his sentence, while every infraction meant those days were tacked back on. Needless to say, he’d had a lot of infractions.
He now sat on the sidelines of a field, watching West and Beck coach the Strikers, a youth soccer team the two had sponsored long before earning enough money to actually do so, made up of boys and girls trapped in the system, whether through foster care or simple financial aid.
“Edward, my man,” West called from one of the goals. “That’s the way. You’re doing great.”
A little girl approached him and asked a question. West listened intently before demonstrating the proper way to kick a ball. Beck—who loved playing soccer but had always hated being teased about his name—was currently helping a redheaded boy improve his goalie skills.
Jase envied his friends. He would have loved to share his own knowledge of the game, to actually make a difference in someone’s life, but these kids had dealt with enough crap. They didn’t need the hassle an ex-con would bring to the table. And as soon as their guardians learned about his past, there would be a hassle and he would be asked to leave.
“Which one is yours?” A thirtysomething brunette placed her lawn chair next to his.
He spared her a brief glance, noticed the yellow sundress hugging generous curves—but he wasn’t even close to tempted. “I’m friends with the coaches. Just waiting for them to finish up.”
“Ah. The coaches the mothers can’t stop talking about. I swear, more moms watch the Strikers practice than any other team on the planet.”
He nodded, saying nothing else. Encouraging a conversation of any sort wouldn’t be wise. Mistakes were the stepping-stones to ruin, and Jessie Kay had taken him too far down that path already.
Brook Lynn, on the other hand—
Would only take him further, he decided. He’d tossed and turned most of the night, images of her in his shower, naked, wet, using his soap and his shampoo, playing on a continuing loop in his mind. This morning he’d woken up on the verge of climax and gasping her name. Knowing how soft her skin was and just how sweet she tasted would likely turn him into a frothing-at-the-mouth he-beast with only one goal: sinking inside her no matter the cost.
Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, though. Maybe he would forget her afterward, just like he’d forgotten so many others.
Stop rationalizing, seeking permission.
“Go, Johnny, go!” the woman beside him called. “Yes! Yes! That’s the way. Oh, baby, I’m so proud of you.”
It was clear she loved her son, and a pang of envy hit Jase. He’d been six years old when his mother had packed up and abandoned him in a crumbling, run-down apartment, knowing she would soon be evicted. Days had passed before the super found him.
Being a parent wasn’t a responsibility he would ever want or welcome, but he was damn sure he’d never abandon his own child like that.