For someone who works in porn, my life has become pretty damn predictable. Part of that is because of the restrictions my parole period has placed on me, of course. Even after Lucky loosened the rules, there’s still a lot I can’t do.

Granted, it’s still a hell of a lot more freedom than I had in the three years before that, so I’ll take it. I still have nightmares about it, about being locked up. Not as often as the first weeks after my release, when I’d wake up screaming from nightmares about being back inside, but every now and then I get these nasty dreams. I’m sure they’ll fade over time, at least, that’s what I’ve read in the online support group for young felons I’m a part of.

The routines I’ve grown accustomed to may be restrictive, but they’re also comforting. I’ve had enough surprises to last me a lifetime, thank you very much. I appreciate knowing what my day is gonna look like when I get up. Like, today, I’ll be working at the senior center again, which I don’t nearly hate as much as I had expected to. It’s a comfortable routine by now, just like my whole life.

That’s why it takes me a few seconds to handle the shock when I see him in the parking lot, hanging against my car, clearly waiting for me.

Terry “Slick” Shaffer.

Also known as my ex, the guy who landed me in prison for three years. I should have known anyone who has “Slick” for a nickname is a no-good motherfucker, but I was sixteen when I met him and so fucking naive.

My blood starts boiling when I see him, and I clench my fists. This is not gonna end well. For him, that is. I’m no longer that naive sixteen-year old I was when I first met him, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned in prison, it’s how to defend myself.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snap at him.

His face lights up as if I sprouted some declaration of love. “Babe! I missed you…”

He’s gotta be kidding me. Three years in prison because of him and that’s what comes out of his mouth? Babe?

“You need to leave,” I tell him between clenched teeth. “I don’t want you here.”

He holds up his hands. “Look, I know things didn’t go as planned…and I’m so sorry for that. You have no idea how much it hurt me to know you were suffering in prison…without me.”

“You set me up, you piece of shit!”

He manages a look of indignance. “Babe, you know that’s not what happened. I’m sorry you got caught, but that was never my intention…”

One of the things I did in those three years—because believe me, time is one thing you have way too much of inside—is try to analyze what happened between Terry and me. How the hell could I have been so fucking dumb? He played me like a fiddle and up till the moment I got sentenced, I somehow believed he would save me. I know, it’s pathetic.

I read tons of stuff about relationships like I had with Terry, and it’s called gaslighting. He’s so fucking good at twisting facts and spinning words, even my own, until the truth becomes a distant memory and you’re left with a sense that it’s all your fault.

Even now, knowing what a self-centered, pathological liar he is, having recognized the abuse he put me through, a part of me still wants to believe him. More than anything, my heart wants to grasp at straws that he didn’t set me up to take the fall for him, that he did love me after all.

And I get so furious with myself, with him for this, so fucking angry that he’s standing there as if nothing happened. I feel this rage fill me, this red-hot, bubbling anger that I can barely contain.

“I will never believe another word out of your lying mouth. Now get the fuck away from my car and fuck off to hell.”

I’m standing there, fists balled, my body trembling, and Terry looks at me and smiles. “Damn it, Gunny, you’re so fucking sexy when you’re angry. You always were. I know you must be angry over what happened… It was bad luck you got caught, babe. But you know there was nothing I could do. They had evidence against you, so what could I do? Turning myself in would’ve solved nothing except land me in prison as well, and I’m sure that’s not what you wanted…”

The rage inside me boils over, and before I know it, I’ve taken a few quick steps forward, and I’ve pinned him against my car, my arm pressing against his throat. For the first time, his reaction is real, and his gasp of shock fills me with a deep satisfaction.

“That’s where you’re wrong, asshole. There’s nothing more I wanted than for you to be in prison…but it’s not too late to get you there. Get the fuck out of my life before I start talking to the cops about what I know about you and your sorry excuse for a criminal operation.”

His eyes harden, and with a hard shove, he pushes me off him. “Don’t forget that everything you tell them about me incriminates you as well.”

“Dude, I just did three years. I served my time. There ain’t nothing else you can pin on me.”

Terry brushes himself off and takes a step back. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he says. He turns around and heads over to what I assume is his car. Then he looks over his shoulder and says, “I managed to do it last time.”

My legs go weak on me, and I crumble to the ground even before his car flies off the lot. He did set me up. I’ve known it since I had my eyes opened in prison, but to hear him admit it? It’s liberating and painful as fuck at the same time.

See? This is why I won’t ever do relationships again. He fucking betrayed me, and I don’t think I’ll ever lose the pain inside me over this.

My hands shake as I find my phone, because I need to call this in before I lose the courage, before someone else does and fucks me over. I wouldn’t put it past Terry to screw me over like that.

His voice is reassuring, even as he simply answers the phone. “Stone.”

I breathe shakily. “It’s me…Heart. Gunner, I mean. I need…”

God, why am I crying? This is absurd. I can’t be crying in a parking lot just because my asshole ex showed up.

“Heart, are you okay?”

Of course, the concern in his voice breaks my last bit of hold on my emotions. “Could you… I’m sorry. I need… My ex showed up.”

The man is a fucking genius for making sense of that, because he asks, “Are you at home?”

“Yeah. Parking lot.”

“Okay, Heart. Go back inside. I’ll call the senior center to let them know you won’t be coming in, and I’ll be there in an hour, okay? I need to finish this up and I’ll be over.”

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Stone.”

If that’s not the most ridiculous and pathetic thing ever, to be this comforted my PO is coming over—a man I still address as Mr. Stone—I don’t know what is. Yet I know one thing: even if he hadn’t been my PO, I would’ve still called him, simply because he’s like a rock. He’s solid and dependable, and for some reason, I just know I can lean on him.