His family was upper-middle-class, and in a small town like this? He’d ridden the gravy train his whole life—until he stole his parents’ car and went out for that joyride, anyway.
He’d spun out on the highway. Caused an accident. Got arrested for grand theft auto. If he hadn’t injured the other driver, he might have gotten a slap on the wrist. As it was, he’d hardly gotten more than a time-out. There were guys who’d have done fifteen or twenty years for that shit. Joseph Whittaker got five.
I was a little surprised he’d joined Redemption Road at all. Surely, his father could get him a better gig. But I didn’t know what he went through in prison—or how his family and friends might treat him now that he was a con.
It changed things. No one ever saw you the same. Hell, you didn’t even see yourself the same. That was sometimes the hardest part.
I’d approach Joyride when I was in a better headspace. Right now, I was spinning. I walked past the lanes, giving Hollywood space to vent his anger, and joined the program director, Matteo, where he was setting out two boxes of pizza.
“Hey, I need to talk to you about Tex,” I said in a low voice.
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “He called me last night. He’s out.”
Last night? So this wasn’t an impulsive decision he’d made while arguing with Hollywood.
“Damn. Did he say why?”
Matteo shook his head. “He just said the program had done all it could for him. He’s moving on.”
“Something went down with him and Hollywood.”
Matteo glanced across the bowling alley, watching as Hollywood flung a ball down the lane. Even this angry, his form was impeccable. The ball crashed into the pins, sending them flying. Another strike.
“Keep an eye on him for me, okay?” Matteo said. “I don’t know what happened, but it sure as shit isn’t good for his morale. We already lost Tex. I don’t want anyone else dropping out.”
“Yeah. How’s the new kid doing?”
“Joey needs time to adjust.”
Joey was Joyride. While most of us used nicknames, Matteo preferred to use our real names unless otherwise requested. Tex hated his name, though, and like me, his nickname predated prison, so Matteo respected our wishes.
Matteo sighed. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, don’t we?”
I chuckled. “Makes you miss Flynn, huh?”
“He was a walk in the park,” Matteo agreed, running a hand through his dark waves. He was a gorgeous man, with sun-kissed skin and dark eyes that drew you in. Straight as a ruler and happily engaged, though. He was an ex-con, too, though he was no longer on parole. He started Redemption Road to help other guys like him get their fresh start after prison.
But he was a success story of his own making.
He turned and clapped his hands. “Okay, everybody! Let’s get started.”
Ghost, our oldest ex-con in the program in his early fifties, sat at a table alone. He wasn’t much for socializing. No one was sure if he’d gotten his nickname in prison because he’dbeen there so damn long—thirty years or thereabouts—or because he was often as silent as the grave.
Joyride came up the steps and stopped to pile pizza on a paper plate without making eye contact. Hollywood lagged behind him, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else.
He wrinkled his nose at the greasy pizza that looked as if it’d been under a heat lamp for a year. I wasn’t so picky. I grabbed a couple of slices of the pepperoni-and-jalapeño half that Matteo ordered just for me, poured myself a soda, and followed Hollywood to a vinyl booth near the back.
He huffed as I slid in next to him. “Really?”
“Really,” I muttered. “You gonna tell me what’s up?”
“Nothing to tell.”
Like hell there was nothing. Matteo started the meeting, checking in with each of us about our jobs. My questions would have to wait.
“What about you, Knight?” Matteo asked. “Everything still solid at the tattoo parlor?”
“Cyrus offered to cover my certification if I want to make it permanent.”
