It’s been just about twenty-four hours since I got out, and only one thing is very clear: Lucy isn’t happy with me.

Sitting in the coffee shop, I’m very careful to not make eye contact with Olivia or say anything that might be mistaken as flirting. My cousin is full of plans, telling me how she spent the entire train ride researching parole and all that. Since remaining in the state of Pennsylvania isn’t a condition of my release, Lucy thinks we can get me transferred to a P.O. in Connecticut.

All I can think about, though, is how I’ve already disappointed her. I had no idea that Olivia was her sister. My cousin, I guess. They’re seven years apart, which makes her seventeen years younger than me. An entire lifetime, basically. My head is spinning with everything.

"Let’s set up your phone," Lucy says, scooting closer to me.

I pull the phone out of my pocket. It’s one of her old ones, but completely new to me. Instead of plastic, the screen is glass, and there are almost no buttons. You can send written messages on it or play video games. There are these things called "apps" that allow you to do different things—even video chat. Lucy explains all of this to me again, showing me how to text and FaceTime her.

She also downloads an app called Uber and tells me that I’ll never need to call for a taxi again. Then she downloads Facebook.

"Let’s get you signed up," she says, her eyes intent on the screen.

Standing up, I leave her to it and amble toward the counter. I need gallons of coffee today. For one, it’s been aeons since I’ve had coffee that didn’t taste like water or mud. No in-between in prison. But really, I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I kept waking up to every little sound, shooting straight up in bed with my fists cocked anytime someone walked past my door.

Old habits die hard.

I order another venti something or other and step to the side while the barista makes it.

"Luce gets kinda batty when she’s nervous," Olivia says from my elbow.

Literally. I tower over her.

Turning, I glance down at her and nod. "She’s been really helpful. Too helpful." I shove my hands into the pockets of my brand-new Levis, feeling more than a little guilty. The thermal henley is snug but hugs every muscle in my arms and abs, and the color is right, too.

Black.

Always black.

I’ll never wear orange or tan again.

"Looks good on you," Olivia says, her eyes roving over me.

Those eyes.

When I was a kid, I had the biggest crush on Christina Ricci in Casper. Olivia’s eyes are just as mesmerizing. A brown so warm, they’re almost liquid. She’s got what they’d call soulful eyes.

Then there are the dimples that pop up every time she smiles. Sweet, yet mischievous. Alluring, like a single beauty mark. Like the dark curls that cascade over her arms. There’s a wildness to her but also a softness, as if she’s straddling heaven and hell.

I’d like for her to straddle me.

I swallow hard. Lucy may not be happy about it, but let’s get real. Olivia is the first woman I’ve been near in the last twenty years. I realize that she was a year old when I went in, and I look away. She’s too young. And she’s basically family. She is off limits. I’ll probably need to tell myself this every five minutes—especially once the three of us are sharing the same motel room. In some ways, this is worse than being in seg.

"So," Olivia says, and I swear she’s inching closer to me.

I lift my eyebrows at her in what I hope is a "go away, kid, you bother me" look. Seventeen years between us. Twenty-one years old. Too young. Family.

She smirks back at me as if she can read my thoughts. Or she’s fucking with me. "Luce didn’t really say much about you."

I stiffen, because I know what’s coming: the big question. Olivia doesn’t know yet, and I’d rather keep it that way. I’m going to need all the friends I can muster. That was in the brochure: a solid support system. At the time, it made me roll my eyes, but now it’s my only mission.

Friends. Job. Head down.

I eye Olivia suspiciously, but she doesn’t look away.

"Got any tattoos?" she asks, eyes dancing. Those eyes could kill a man. They’re round and innocent at first glance, but the more I look at her, the more expressive her eyes are. Paired with the dark curls that cascade down her back, and she is man’s ruin.

And I should not be looking at her.

"Nope." The barista hands me my coffee and I give her a grateful nod. I glance over at the table we were sitting at, but Lucy still has her face in my phone. I look quickly at Olivia, then back at my coffee. "You?"

"You’d think someone who, you know, would have a lot of tattoos." An eyebrow arches. She’s definitely fucking with me.

"I was eighteen when I went in," I say quietly.

She motions to the door and wiggles her pack of cigarettes in my face. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to beg one of these women to buy me my own pack. I nod and follow her out. We both light up and she steps back, regarding me with too much curiosity.

"How old are you now?" she asks, voice soft. Compassionate, even. She’s not being judgmental. Those eyes are wider than usual, and her lips are pressed together. Like she’s wondering how much she needs to tell me about the world. She’s put two and two together fast, since Lucy had to tell me what Uber is.

I smoke my cigarette and take a swig of coffee to buy myself some time. Because the second I tell her how long it’s been, she’ll know that what I did was bad. And then we probably won’t be friends. I won’t tell her, I decide. If Lucy didn’t want to tell her, I shouldn’t, either. "It doesn’t matter," I say. "We’re cousins, remember?"

"Yes," she says slowly, as if she’s speaking to someone who is either being obtuse or hasn’t had enough coffee yet. And maybe I haven’t. "So dontcha think we should share things with each other?" She looks pointedly at the cigarette in my hand.

This woman.

"Look," she says, "Lucy might tell you otherwise, but I’m not a baby. I’ve been drinking and fucking for years now. I think I can handle a little honesty."

I drop my cigarette and stub it out with my boot. "It’s not my story to tell." I stride toward the door, suddenly eager to get back to my iPhone lesson. But as I pull the door open, I hear a little snort of doubtful laughter from behind me, and now I know two things.

Lucy isn’t happy with me, and Olivia has got my number.

* * *

"You have so much catching up to do," Lucy tells me. We’re camped out in our shared motel room with two doubles: one for the ladies, and the other for the ex-con. We’re supposed to be going out to dinner, but my cousin can’t decide where to take me. "I mean, you don’t even know what a Crunchwrap is. Did you ever have sushi before you went in?"

I glance at the bathroom door. Olivia is getting ready, but I have no idea how much she can hear. "Luce," I whisper, "how much does she know?" I nod toward the bathroom.

Her face pales, and I instantly regret asking.

I hold up my hands. "I haven’t told her anything. It’s not my place."

Eyebrows knitting together, she shakes her head. "It’s totally up to you."

We haven’t really had a chance to talk about this. I’m not even sure she remembers what went down. For all I know, she just remembers taking turns playing Crash Bandicoot in my parents’ living room. Maybe she just remembers how much she loved her big cousin Cliff, and none of the bad things. This only makes me feel guiltier.

"Luce, we really need to—"

The bathroom door opens and Olivia steps out. Everything I was going to say evaporates.

Despite the low temperatures outside, she’s wearing a sweater dress that falls only to her knees. No tights or pantyhose. Bare thigh disappears into knee-high boots. Lucy clears her throat and I realize I’m staring.

"Boom, baby," Olivia says, turning around in a circle. She points to the makeup around her eyes. It’s smoky and understated, but so fucking sexy. With a wink to Lucy, she says, "Thank you for the palette, by the way."

My cousin sighs and gestures to the jeans and sweater she’s wearing. "Livvie, we’re just going to Taco Bell." She looks at me. "I mean, unless there’s something you’re really jonesing for."

In the twenty years I was inside, I rarely thought about the food I missed. My mom wasn’t much of a cook, and whenever I thought of the delicious things my grandmother used to make, I felt nauseous. So I learned to stop thinking about it, and to appreciate the gray-colored slop on my tray. Because, all things considered, it wasn’t that bad—unless you were in seg. There was no way to pretend those loaves were food.

I shrug and give Lucy a smile. "I’m actually kind of pumped for the Demmel Fast Food Reunion Tour.

Her smile is so big, her eyes go all squinty. For a second, she’s eight again and I’ve let her win at Pokémon cards. "I’ve missed you, Cliff."

There’s no hint of fear in her eyes. Just admiration. I don’t know what to think. Maybe she really doesn’t remember. "Yeah, you too, kid." I stand from my bed and spread my arms. "All right, ladies. Lead the way.

Lucy calls another Uber and I make a mental note to ask her how this is less expensive than renting a car. Someday, I promise myself, I’m going to pay her back for all of this. I don’t know how yet, but I will.

The driver takes us through several drive-thrus: Taco Bell, McDonald’s, and a Papa John’s. I’m really suspicious about fast food pizza—which I managed to avoid before I went in—but Olivia gives me eyes that plead with me not to burst Lucy’s bubble.

I would do anything, with those eyes asking.

We take all of our food back to the motel room, and suddenly Olivia’s dress makes a lot of sense. She puts away more food than I could ever eat in one sitting and, as she reminds us, she doesn’t have to unbutton her jeans because she’s not wearing any. Lucy only eats half a cheeseburger, though.

When Olivia and I go onto the balcony for our after dinner smoke, I forget that I’m kind of nervous to be alone with her—for multiple reasons.

"What’s up with Lucy?" I ask.

She hugs herself against the cold. I was all for breaking the non-smoking room rule, but she insisted that we go out. "I’ve been wondering the same thing," she says.

I’m taken aback by her honesty. Most women would just shrug and pretend not to know. "So this really isn’t her."

Leaning against the railing, Olivia shakes her head. "Ever since she told me she was coming to see you."

So Lucy does remember. She must. "Did she say why she wanted to come?" I need to know whether she pities me or is afraid of me.

"Lucy doesn’t usually explain her choices to us peons." Olivia sighs. "Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on with her. We usually tell each other everything." She pins me with one of her looks. "I was hoping you might give me some insight."

If I don’t tell her, the brain behind those eyes is going to be on overdrive trying to figure it out. I can already sense that Olivia isn’t the kind of person who is satisfied with the status quo. And it’s been clear that she sees straight through anyone’s bullshit. Even mine. Our eyes meet, and I hold her gaze. Trying to decide. To tell, or not.

Her eyes narrow. A dimple appears in her cheek. "I bet you got put away because Lucy jacked a car and you took the fall."

At least, I hope so. "Nothing like that," I tell her.

"So I’m your only car-jacking buddy?” She leans close, and I can smell her perfume. It’s a warm mix of vanilla and sandalwood, maybe even some jasmine. Her lips are only inches from mine. All I have to do is duck down, sweep her into my arms, and—

The sliding glass door rolls open and Lucy steps out onto the balcony with us. We separate like smoke, and I return my attention to locking lips with my cigarette.

Lucy waves her phone in the air. "I just got an email from your probation officer. He said he'll submit the form for your request." She grins, bouncing on the balls of her feet a little. "You can come home. Maybe even in a couple days!"

"That’s great, Luce. Thank you." I wrap an arm around her. "For everything." I press a kiss to the side of her head and she nuzzles in. I would do anything for this woman, and it’s still not enough. It never will be.

"So now we need to talk about where you’re going to stay," she says, ducking out of my embrace. She bounces back toward the door. "Inside, where it’s warm." She waves for us to hurry, then slips back into the warmth of the room.

Olivia snubs out her cigarette and tilts her head back to look up at me. "I’d say you can stay with me," she says with a smirk, "but I have to share my apartment with another girl. We even get undressed in front of each other."

When she sweeps past me, she presses her ass into my thigh. Then she disappears inside. When I glance down at my cigarette, I realize it went out minutes ago.

* * *

I thought leaving Lewisburg was going to be the hardest part, but Lucy seized that little problem by the reins. It took almost a week, but our request was approved. My new P.O. insisted we meet the second I set foot back in Connecticut—a relatively simple condition, considering I thought I’d never go home again.

Home.

I’m not even sure Naugatuck is home anymore. I have no family left, other than Lucy. I guess Olivia, too, though we have different last names. Her name is Reynolds, and it suits her. It’s a German surname, meaning "to rule." If that isn’t Olivia, I don’t know what is.

If Lucy took over my case, Olivia has consumed my thoughts. Though I no longer jump at every single sound during the night, I’m wide awake thinking about her. I replay bits of conversation we shared during the day. I trace her face onto the velvety underside of my eyes. And sometimes I even dream about her.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but this week I’ve already had three dirty dreams starring Olivia Reynolds. Living in a motel room with two women has made it really hard to be a man. The only alone time I get is when I’m shitting or showering. I’ve jerked off more times than I can count, and I’m pretty sure both of them think I have an odd fixation on cleanliness. So far, neither of them have noticed my extracurricular activities. But if I don’t get back in the game soon, it’s going to get a lot harder.

In more than one way.

Obviously it can’t be Olivia. I’ve already resolved to stay away from her, and she’s too close to me anyway. It has to be a one-night stand, with a woman I’ll never see again. Lewisburg is a good choice, considering Pennsylvania is several states away and, in a few more days, I’ll be gone forever. But I can’t figure out how to meet any women around here.

Though drinking isn’t against the terms of my parole, there’s no way I’ll be able to go to a bar alone. Neither of them mean to be helicopters, but these two are almost worse than the C.O.s in prison. Plus, I don’t have a dollar to my name. It seems kind of wrong to ask to borrow money and then tell Lucy she can’t come with me. And since they’ve been feeding me and attending to every single one of my needs, there’s really no excuse for me to go anywhere on my own.

At least not until it’s time to meet with my Lewisburg probation officer.

It’s more of a formality, since I’m transferring, but it gives me the out I need. I tell Lucy and Olivia that I don’t know how long it’ll take, then walk to the office. It’s cold as fuck, but walking keeps me warm and gives me time to think. One of the conditions of my parole is finding a full-time job within thirty days or at least enrolling in a full-time continuing education program. I’d already graduated high school when I went in—with a pretty sweet GPA—so I could go to college if I wanted to.

But I’m already so much older than the kids taking English 101. If I matriculated now, I’d be almost forty-three by the time I graduate. And I don’t even know what I’d study. All of my pre-penitentiary hopes and dreams seem silly now. No one is going to hire a felon like me, even with an undergraduate degree.

The Department of Social Services office looks like every other government building: squat, yellow-gray, and brick. I stroll through the doors and give my name to the security guard. I’m waved through and led to a small windowless office with a grubby gray carpet. Bright florescent lights press down on me. A mustached P.O. with a bald head and deep brown skin sits across from me behind a desk and holds out his hand for me to shake. His hair is as gray as the floor, and the bags under his eyes suggest he’s probably not very alert.

The name sewn on his uniform is Ntshiza.

"How you doing, man?" I greet him.

He nods, long and slow. "How are you?" His voice is deep and gravelly, as tired as he looks.

I wonder if he’s tired because he dedicates himself to his clients. I decide to try and find out. "Lousy," I tell him. "I can’t sleep and I’m freaked out. My cousin is picking out my clothes and I need to get laid."

Ntshiza laughs. "Aren’t you a breath of fresh air." He settles back in his seat. "Okay, son. You’re only here for a little longer, so there’s not much I can do for you."

I sit forward. “Yeah. I got the email that my request was approved.”

He gives me another slow series of nods. Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He lights up and then slides them to me, touching a finger to his nose and lips like Santa Claus. "You have to see your new probation officer in three days, understand?" The smoke curls from his mouth, drifting into the air.

I nod. "I won’t fuck this up."

"For your sake, I hope not." He regards me with solemn brown eyes. There’s warmth in them, too, though. "Demmel, you’re not a bad guy."

I exhale smoke toward the ceiling. "Do you tell all of your guys that?"

Ntshiza shakes his head. "Just the ones I believe in. Listen, your new P.O. is a friend of mine. We go way back. He’ll go easy on you and he’ll help you, if you let him. Got it?"

I nod again, feeling like a little kid in the principal’s office. Ntshiza is the first person in a position of power in the last twenty years to really give a shit about me. I probably should take what he’s saying with a grain of salt, but it feels so fucking good to have someone on my side, even if he’s an old and tired P.O.

"He’s got a job lined up for you."

I sit up straighter. "Really?" I wonder what it is. Maybe the job is really terrible. Still, I want to hope.

"Your file mentioned that you got into quite a few fights during your sentence—usually in defense of other inmates." Ntshiza fixes me with this owlish, knowing stare.

I almost feel bad that he thinks so highly of me. "Yes sir."

"As I’m sure you probably don’t know, the economy is shit, especially in your hometown area. But Govender—he’s your P.O. up north—was able to find you something. It’s full-time, night hours. And it doesn’t violate your parole, because it’s part of the job."

Now I’m more than curious. I lean forward. "What do you mean?"

"You’ll be a bouncer at a . . . night club." Ntshiza sort of coughs and clears his throat.

I stroke my goatee, an eyebrow cocked. "A night club, huh?"

He sighs and gives in. "It’s a strip club."

"It sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of this," I say. There’s no way I’d turn this down, even if I wasn’t sex deprived. I need a job, plain and simple. I’d take just about anything.

After taking a drag off his cigarette, he flicks ash into the pot of a spider plant. Surprisingly, the thing is thriving, its spindly leaves taking over the desk. He points the cigarette at me. "Don’t get any ideas while you’re in there."

I lean forward, grabbing my jaw with one hand. "What are you getting at?" I’d never go after any of the women. The only way I’d get into any trouble would be if one of the scumbags there attacked any of the dancers. But like Ntshiza said, it’d be part of the job. There’s no way I can fuck this up. I should be thanking him, but I can only stare at him in bewilderment. Not for the first time this week, I’m deeply confused.

Ntshiza closes his eyes for a moment. When he reopens them, he actually looks concerned, as if he’s my father trying to teach me something. But those days are long past. I’m old enough to have my own sons. This realization makes me a little sad. So much time has passed, and I’ve missed out on so much. There’s a very real chance that I won’t be able to regain any of the things I’ve lost.

"Son," my P.O. says, "this particular strip club is owned by a motorcycle club. Ever heard of the River Reapers?"

Figures. Pushing my chair back, I stand. "You’ve had your fun. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find a real job." Sooner rather than later. I’ve only got four weeks left.

"Wait," Ntshiza says. "I just wanted you to have all the details. The River Reapers are in the ninety-nine percent. You have nothing to worry about."

I don’t know what any of this means. When I went in, I was just a kid. Now I’m basically just an overgrown version of that same teenage boy. I lean on the back of the chair, draping my arms over it. "Sure," I say, stuffing my exasperation down. "So when do I start?"

"Just go to the club as soon as you get into town. They’ll give you your schedule." He slides a folder across his desk to me and crosses his arms.

I guess I’m dismissed.