For the two years that followed, I worked as a project manager for a construction company. Twelve hours a day was my typical work schedule. After leaving the office at six pm, I would ride my motorcycle until two am. After four hours sleep, I’d eagerly go back to work. In my eyes, I was living life to the fullest.

While on the motorcycle, and only while on the motorcycle, I felt free. The time I spent on the open road was cleansing to my soul. The memories of prison, of the trial – and of the people who I believed had wronged me – all evaporated as the wind rushed past me.

My body’s fuel was coffee. Lots of coffee. On my way home each night, I would stop at a local donut shop that was open twenty-four hours a day. I wasn’t big on sweets, but it was one place I could unwind and get a cup of coffee late at night. Stopping there had become part of my daily routine.

I’d grown to like The Donut Whole more than my former hangouts. If I frequented the predictable places, I was surrounded by people who wanted to hear stories of prison, how I’d fought the ATF, and how I’d miraculously returned to the motorcycle club unscathed.

I wanted to forget my past. Doing so required separating myself from the people in my past. The remote donut shop had become my refuge. Short of my MC brethren, no one knew about it, and I planned on keeping it that way.

On a Monday evening after work, I sat at the worn wooden table I’d claimed as my own and sipped my coffee. Dressed in a pair of tattered jeans, a wife beater, and boots, I didn’t quite fit in with the hipsters and high school kids who sat cross-legged on the floor and ate multi-grain bagels, but I never really fit in anywhere.

I liked it that way.

The little brass bell jingled as the door opened, warning of another patron entering the establishment. I’d developed habits in prison that I feared would always remain with me, one of which was positioning myself with my back to the wall.

Another was being aware of everyone who was in my presence.

With my back to the wall, and my cup of coffee gripped loosely in my hand, I shifted my eyes toward the door. To thwart the approach of any random strangers, my face wore a stern scowl.

A young woman with curly blond hair stepped through the door and glanced around the seating area. Her hair was golden in color and fashioned in a series of curls that bounced with each step she took. Describing her as simply being beautiful would have been an understatement.

She was elegant. She stood as proof of God’s ability to create things of sheer beauty.

In awe, I watched eagerly as she peered into the open seating area. After satisfying herself it was okay to enter, she walked sheepishly toward the corridor that led to the other end of the building.

I possessed an uncanny ability to read people. Watching a person’s eye movements, how they walked, and their manner of interacting with strangers revealed a tremendous amount about their personality – and their past.

Watching her divulged all too much about who she was and what she’d been exposed to. She made eye contact with no one, looking away from those who took so much as a precursory glance in her direction.

She carefully surveyed each passageway before entering, as if assessing the area for threats. Her arms didn’t dangle loosely at her sides, they were cinched tight against her body. Her hands were stuffed deeply into the pockets of her light jacket, which was an unnecessary accessory considering the ninety-degree spring temperature.

In my opinion, she was the victim of some form of abuse.

I sipped my coffee and watched intently as she disappeared into the back room. After a few moments she reappeared, holding a porcelain plate in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

She scanned the room for a place to sit. Upon realizing there wasn’t an open table, her gaze fell to the floor.

I cleared my throat, gathering her attention in the process. When she made eye contact, I gestured toward the opposite side of the table. “You can sit here.”

She lowered her head, walked toward me, and then looked up. “Pardon me?”

I slid my cup to the side, motioned toward the seat across from me, and grinned. “I’m leaving in a few minutes. You can have this table.”

Clutching her coffee in one hand and the plate in the other, she met my gaze. The depth of her brown eyes was bottomless.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

I was lost in admiration. After regaining my composure, I tore my eyes away from hers. “Quite,” I said. “This place is always packed this time of day. You’ll have a hard time finding somewhere to sit until about midnight.”

She pulled out the bench, set down her things, and then lowered herself into the seat. “Do you come here a lot?”

“A few times a day, and then again late at night, on my way back to the house. I’m not normally here this time of day, though.”

She picked at her donut with her thumb and forefinger, eventually tearing a bird-sized bite from the side of the circular pastry. “Do you work nights?”

“I work days,” I responded. “I ride at night.”

She poked the morsel into her mouth. After swallowing it, she gestured toward the parking lot. “Is that your motorcycle? The big one parked on the sidewalk?”

“It is.”

She began picking at the donut again, alternating glances between it and me. “It’s pretty.”

I rested my forearms on the edge of the table and looked right at her. “You’re pretty.”

Her tanned skin quickly blushed. She raked the curls away from her face with the tips of her fingers and grinned a slight smile. “Thank you, but I don’t feel pretty.”

“Why not?”

“I just had a baby,” she said, seeming embarrassed by what she revealed. “I need to lose weight.”

She was just north of five feet tall and might have weighed one hundred and fifty pounds – if she had a brick in each of her jacket pockets. Her hair and DD boobs weighed twenty pounds. The jacket, another five. I loved her hair, and wasn’t about to suggest a breast reduction, so I mentioned the jacket.

“You could start by tossing that jacket. That’ll free up five pounds,” I said with a laugh. “If you lose much more than that, you’ll blow away.”

She smiled, revealing whiter teeth than I’d ever seen. “I needed to hear that.”

“Well, it’s true,” I said matter-of-factly. “You look fabulous.”

Still wearing the smile, she flipped her blond locks over her shoulder. “I’m Jessica.”

I extended my arm over the table and offered her my hand. “Scott. Pleasure to meet you.”

She shook my hand. Her smile faded. “Do you have to leave?”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“Can you stay for a while?” she asked, her voice filled with hope. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

The last thing I needed was for her husband or boyfriend to wander in and see us sitting together. I had no ill intentions, but I was quite sure a confrontation of any kind wouldn’t end well. With me, they never seemed to.

I reached for my coffee cup. “I doubt that’d go over well with your husband.”

“I’m not married.”

“Husband, boyfriend, they’re both the same as far as I’m concerned.”

“I don’t have one of either. I’m single.”

I released the cup and leaned away from the table. “What about the father of your child? The baby you mentioned?”

She went back to picking at the edge of the donut. “He’s not in the picture. It’s a long story.”

“Unless that long story ends with him being dead, he’s still in the picture.”

After I spoke, I regretted it. The war in Iraq was coming to a close, but it was far from over. A strong possibility existed that the father of her child was a war veteran who had lost his life defending our country’s freedoms. I felt like an inconsiderate jerk.

“I wish he was dead,” she said. “Life would be a lot easier if he was.”

Relief washed over me. “Want to talk about it?”

She let out a sigh and pushed the donut aside. “He was an abusive jerk. We’ve been apart for a few years. After I left him the last time – the final time – I found out I was pregnant. I had the baby alone, and I’ve been alone ever since. He still comes around every now and again to threaten me, but that’s about it.”

Without consciously doing so, I sat up straight. “He threatens you?”

She stared beyond me, blankly. After a long pause, she shook her head lightly. She then met my gaze with watery eyes.

“On our first date, he put a gun in my mouth.” Her eyes welled with tears, but she continued, nonetheless. “He told me if I ever left him, he’d kill me. I could go on and on about him stabbing me, beating me, and tell you about the cops constantly coming over and doing nothing, but I won’t. I’ll start crying if I do.”

She was already crying, she simply didn’t realize it.

My blood began to boil.

She forced a heavy exhale and looked me in the eyes. “Now, I’m twenty-four, have two kids by him, and wonder every night if it’s going to be the night he shows up to kill us.”

My hands began to shake. My jaw tightened. Abusing women was one thing I couldn’t tolerate. I drew a long breath, said a silent prayer, and then reached for her hand.

“I’m going to need you to tell me what his name is and where he lives. Maybe show me a picture of him.”

Her face washed with worry. “I don’t know what good that’ll do.”

“It’ll be the first step in solving your problem.”

She pushed herself away from the table and looked at me as if I was a lunatic. “You don’t understand. He’s mean.”

I flashed a crooked smile. “I know someone meaner.”

She wiped her tears and coughed a laugh. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“If he comes around again, I’ll let you know.” She reached for her purse and pulled out a tissue. “How’s that?”

I wasn’t going to press the issue. She was uncomfortable with the thought of anything happening to him, that much was clear. I doubted it was a result of her having feelings for him. More than likely it was from fear of repercussion.

If we kept in touch, in time, she’d eventually tell me.

“You’ve got a deal,” I said. “Before I go any further, I need to ask you three questions.”

She wiped the trails of mascara from her cheeks. “Okay.”

“Ready?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Can you use chop sticks for their intended purpose?”

She squinted. “What?”

“Can you use chop sticks for their intended purpose? Can you eat with them?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Have you ever eaten a grapefruit?” I asked. “If the answer’s yes, did you like it?”

“I have.” She smiled. “I love grapefruit.”

“Last question,” I said. “If the opportunity presented itself, would you consider dating a black man?”

She cringed, apparently afraid to answer the question.

“There’s not a wrong answer,” I assured her.

“I have dated a black man,” she whispered. “A black cowboy.”

I laughed. “Really? A cowboy?”

“He was nice. Had a hat, and everything. He even had a ranch. We didn’t hit it off, though. It didn’t last long. What’s with the weird questions?”

“Your answers tell me a lot about your personality,” I said.

The questions gave a hint as to whether she was determined, open to trying things, and if she was open-minded. Without asking those specific questions, and then being given a canned response, I could obtain answers that were truthful without her knowing what I was truly seeking.

“What do they tell you?”

“They tell me you’re a pretty remarkable woman.”

Her eyes glistened. Then, the corners of her mouth curled up slightly. “Thank you.”

“I need to tell you something,” I said.

She shrugged one shoulder. “Okay.”

“I’m a convicted felon,” I said. “I’ve been out of prison for just under two years now. In being honest, I thought I’d tell you.”

“Can I ask why?” She dabbed her eyes with the corner of the tissue. “Will you tell me what you did?”

“Sure,” I said. “Possession of a machinegun.”

She scrunched her nose. “Why did you have a machinegun?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “I’m hungry. Care to discuss it over dinner?”

She dropped the tissue into her purse and grinned the best she was able. “I’d love to.”