RISEN
“Yes, sir. Yes, I’m here. Thank you for the call,” I say to the court-appointed officer that had to check in on my arrival. They added a ‘find my phone’ app to my cell so that they can confirm my whereabouts daily. I must call in every six hours, whether it’s needed or not, and I have to have my cell on me at all times. Fucking rots to be imprisoned when I’m the good guy. This time, at least, I am the good guy.
After I’d settled my things in and wandering the vacant halls, I’d found the saunas, as well as the expansive and well equipped gym. With its heavy bag, free weights, TRX systems, and elliptical machines, I left to study the rest of the wing. Finding the laundry facilities, an elevator, and two reading rooms, that were both full of books. Each utterly opposite in design and volumes, it was wild to see one that was setup like a nineteen-twenties smoking den, stuffed to the brim with first editions, wooden upholstered armchairs, a two-story hearth, and a massive set of animal antlers. Definitely manly. The second room was more modern, housing newer books like mysteries, teen books, and two overstuffed beanbag chairs. Personally, I liked the modern one for the bean bag chairs, but I’d move it over to the darker, more mysterious room where I could curl up by the fire with a whiskey and a Donnie Darko comic book. Scouring the shelves in the modern one, looking for them on the off chance that they might be there, the only things I found were a few hidden porno mags at least ten years old.
Later, I’ll be back to pull down a book or two to enjoy and soak up. This is so different from my parents’ house. Dusty old books aren’t modern or clean. Therefore, not allowed.
After my little excursion, I headed for the kitchen, looking into the selection of protein available. Fuel is needed to keep up this size. Eating frequently and high in nutrients is what keeps me going without headaches and muscle loss. A month without it would mean months of work to build it back up.
Entering the massive kitchen, I find an older woman stirring a pot of something that smells like heaven should. My mother never cooks, so there’s no need for pots and pans. I’d learned over the years to accept the lack of scents that cloyed at your nose. My childhood memories were of home cooked meals and baking. Well, to a point they were.
I step heavily, so as not to surprise her. “That smells amazing, whatever it is you’re making,” I say as I walk further into the room.
Turning, the woman gives me a warm and caring smile. “Have a seat. You can be the first to try it if you’d like, Officer.”
“Risen will be fine.” Pulling the heavy metal chair away from the expansive center island, I take a seat.
“Well, Risen, I’m Cassidy. Do you like curry?” Turning back to the cupboards, she takes a bone white bowl from the shelf.
“To be honest, I’ve never tried it. What’s it like?”
“Sweet, spicy, tangy, and full of love.” Opening one of the pots, spooning out sticky rice, she recovers it, lifting the lid off a large pot that smells scrumptious. Pouring a ladle full of the creamy pumpkin colored mix overtop of the rice, she walks the filled bowl toward me, as I sit patiently, waiting to try it. “Careful now, it’s a bit thick if you aren’t used to hot things. Take it slow.”
Smiling, I pull the bowl closer and inspect it. There’s plump chicken pieces floating within flowery scents. Tight racy spices make the inside of my nose burn a bit, but that houses a soft coconut back. Lifting a spoonful up, I blow on it. Taking it to my lips, I test the heat before pulling the full amount in. “Mmm, this is amazing,” I say through a mouthful of the delicious concoction.
“Go slowly. There’s fire in the back, son.” I feel the zesty sensation right as she finishes the sentence. It’s not steaming, though it’s flavorful.
Enveloping spoonful after spoonful, I watch as Cassidy works around the space with the glee of a person who enjoys cooking and caring for people. Her accent is most definitely from the Caribbean. More than likely Jamaica or one of the West Indies Islands, but her style doesn’t reflect the same. Her long, weaved braids hang low beyond her ample bottom. Her makeup is understated. Her Gucci beige slacks and blue Copper Beans wispy shirt put her look in total contradiction. But it works. Or, at least, I’ll never say otherwise if she cooks like this for me over the next month.
“This is fantastic. Thank you.”
“No problem at all.” She waves off the compliment. “You’re looking after my little girl. If feeding you is what I can do to assist in your stay, I’ll make you your favorites in every meal.”
Grinning, she wipes her hands on her pristine apron and turns back to her pots as I continue to eat. Before I know it, I’ve eaten it all, the bowl almost sparkling white once more.
“That was fabulous. Thank you, Cassidy,” I say, setting the spoon and napkin down on the counter. Without a break, she pulls it close, rinses it, and places it in the industrial-sized dishwasher.
As she works around the room, I ask the question that’s burning in my mouth. “Will I be alone all the time?”
“Sadly, I believe so. Miss has been very quiet, pulling away from everyone since her father and mother passed. It’s been difficult. I understand it and I...” She pauses and closes her mouth into a tight thin line, thinking before she speaks again. “Miss will be fine, I’m sure. Do you have any requirements or requests for meals?”
“If all are like that, I won’t starve. Honestly, I’ll gain weight and it won’t be pretty.”
“I doubt that a bit of good food would cause you issues, sir.”
“Risen,” he corrects her with a smile.
“Risen,” Cassidy says, smirking into her hand, rubbing her forearm across her forehead. “Now scoot, I have work to do.”
“Yes ma’am.” Rising up, I turn and walk away toward the rearmost area of the house that I’ve yet to venture near. Even though there’s two floors up and one down, this side is technically only one floor.
The vaulted ceilings in the grand room, hallway, staircase and kitchen are expansive, but built with comfort in mind. Just like the differences in the two reading rooms, the independent styles are melded in every surface with an oversized black leather sectional, dark woods, industrial lamps, plush rugs, deep russet flooring, and all with burnished concrete accents.
There are pictures of the Crown family, of kids growing up, trophies and past accomplishments. The walls are floor to ceiling glass, with sliding sections that open to allow the outside in. One is slightly open, allowing the soft sea breeze to enter and it calls to me.
Just outside that door rests the life-threatening concrete and asphalt concourse, waiting for its next contestant. What I wouldn’t give to tear that shit up. Maybe while I’m here, I might get a chance to give it a shot, but not without permission from the absent Miss Crown. There’s no way I’d step on her track without consent. Sure, I’ve never been one to follow all the rules, hence the suspension, but I’m still not an asshole. This track holds memories that I must tread lightly around. That doesn’t mean I won’t go near it. It just means I won’t drive a motorized devil on it.
What’s that saying? Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned? I’ll keep that in mind at all times, considering this is her domain.
Stepping out into the sweltering afternoon sun, I take in the heat as it pressurizes my lungs. Stepping down the long steps, advancing on the track, the heat rises off the blacktop in swirling tense auras. Gripping the heated edge where the concrete of the track meets asphalt, it sends shivers up my spine. It’s funny, really. You can feel the tension. The track wants its family back. I understand that.
Jax, Casper, and Doll Crown have all rode on this, tearing it to pieces or breaking bones on the curves, but now the grounds are devoid of its inhabitants, and it’s both spectacular and saddening all at once.
Hopping over the stanchion, the heat licks the bare skin of my legs, exciting me. The pavement begs to be used in any way. Pulling back on my left, then right, I stretch out the muscles and enjoy the burning sensation of my quads elongating. Once I’ve adequately pulled out every knot and tense angle, I begin to jog the track. Lightly at first, then getting into a rhythm, I step comfortably until my breathing settles into a happy beat. Before speeding up to my usual pace of a five-minute mile, I’m gleeful. To have a track like this to beat on every day, I think I’ll definitely feel despondent when it’s gone.
For now, I’ll use this up like a slowly emptying beer.