The black Sharpie in my hand slashes through the square on the calendar, and I step back to admire my handiwork.

“Well, would you look at that?” Skip mutters from behind me. “Thirty more days, huh?”

“Yup,” I echo. “Thirty more days to freedom.”

Skip chuckles and shakes his head as I wheel around and retrieve my mug of coffee from the desk. A dusty little shack in the back of his shop, his shop has collected enough parts and pieces over the years to bury all but one corner of his desk where he leaves an empty spot for me. The smell of oil and grease saturate everything around us, including my shirt, but there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be. Skip took a chance on me, and as long as he’s happy to keep me around, I’m here to stay.

The old man peers at me from beneath his bushy gray brows. “So what does freedom look like, exactly?”

I shrug. “Not having that dickhead of a parole officer showing up at my door whenever he feels like it.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” He smirks. “Or maybe finding a woman to warm your bed? I’d say it’s about time.”

“Not gonna happen,” I grunt. “That’s the last thing I need. I’m supposed to be staying out of trouble, remember?”

The old man snorts and pulls a faded ball cap over his balding head. “Well, one of these days. You never know. You’re too young to be celibate for the rest of your life.”

“I’m not that young. I’ve had thirty-five years to have my fun.”

Skip heads for the door. “Yeah, and five of ’em in prison. But who am I to argue? I suppose if you don’t have a woman to tie you down, I can keep on fishing every weekend and enjoying my retirement.”

“Retirement, my ass.” I shake my head. “Go enjoy your weekend, old man. I’ll hold down the fort until you get back.”

“Okie dokie.” He whistles as he walks away. “I’ll bring you back a fish.”

The shop door slams shut behind him, and I look over the workload for this weekend. I only have two cars in the shop, but one needs a new tranny, and being that it’s a late model, I already know it’s going to be labor intensive. On top of that, the owner demands we do a four-day job in two. It’s a good thing I don’t have much of a life outside this place.

Being an ex-con tends to do that to a man. Since I got out of the can almost two years ago, I’ve had my nose to the grindstone. My parole came with a few requirements that should have been simple. Hold down a job and find a place to live. A lot easier said than done when you have a criminal record. I had money saved up, and I already owned a house but finding gainful employment was another matter. Being an ex-marine, I wasn’t used to people looking at me as though I was the scum on the bottom of their shoe. One mistake changed all that. Now I’m just the guy with the record.

Regardless of what Skip says, I don’t need anything else in my life. I’m okay with the quiet. Leading a simple life is just fine by me. Yeah, it might get lonely sometimes, but the last time I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgment, I wound up in prison. So even if my dick aches with need, that’s one surefire way to keep any wayward thoughts at bay. Besides, putting in long hours at the shop seems to do the trick. By the time I get home from here, I’m so tired I can barely nuke a microwave dinner before I pass out.

Still, as I walk over to the stereo and tune in to the hard rock station, I can’t help thinking about what Skip said. The warmth of a woman sounds like a nice change of pace, and I can’t deny that lately, I’ve been thinking about it more often. Only, I’m so close to completing my parole obligations that I don’t want to fuck it up. And all relationships have ever done for me is fuck up my life.

I shake my head and crank the volume knob until the music is so loud, I can’t hear myself think anymore. Just the way I prefer it.