CHAPTER FIVE

Undertaker pulled his motorcycle to the curb in front of the office building and stared up at it. Large bronze numbers read 790. “This must be the place.”

Holly didn’t say anything.

“Let’s go.” They climbed off, and he took her hand as they walked up the sidewalk. They found Dr. Carter’s name listed on a directory under Suite 202 then made their way upstairs.

A receptionist greeted them as they entered the office. Undertaker had to hand it to her—her smile barely faltered as her eyes swept him from head to toe, taking in the faded denim shirt, leather cut, jeans, and biker boots, the silver rings on his hands and the tattoos running up his arms. Then her eyes moved to Holly, and she gave a reassuring look. “Miss Randall?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Dr. Carter will be with you in a few minutes. Please, have a seat.”

They were the only two in the small waiting room and took two seats next to each other, facing the wall of smoked glass windows overlooking the street. It made Undertaker feel a little less claustrophobic. He hated doctor’s offices or anything official like this. He crossed his booted foot over his knee, and it wasn’t long before that boot was nervously bouncing up and down. When he realized it, he dropped it to the floor and straightened in his chair, only to have his knee start bouncing a moment later.

Holly, on the other hand, seemed calm as a cucumber, thumbing through one of the old magazines left out on a table.

Undertaker tried to busy himself with studying the diplomas on the wall, but the lettering was too far away for him to read.

The intercom on the desk went off. “Coralee, did I leave my briefcase out there?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s on my desk. Shall I bring it in?”

“No, thanks. I’ll be out in a second.”

Undertaker’s eyes strayed to the item in question, and his body froze. There sat the unmistakable red leather case he remembered from a lifetime ago. And suddenly it all clicked into place. Now he knew just why Dr. AJ Carter seemed so familiar, but the name was wrong.

He frowned. It had to be her. But when he’d known her, she was Allison. He stood and moved to the wall with the diplomas, leaning to read the name. Allison Jane Banks, Tulane University. It was her. Somewhere along the line, she’d become AJ Carter.

The door opened, and he straightened, his head turning to see her standing there, a smile on her face and her eyes on Holly. Then they swung to him, and the smile slid away. For an instant they stood, caught in the moment, recognition dawning on both their faces.

She was the first to falter, taking a slight step back, but she recovered quickly. She cleared her throat and turned to Holly.

“Miss Randall, it’s good to see you again. Please come in, and we’ll get started.” Then she grabbed up her red briefcase.

Holly stood and followed her through the door, completely oblivious to the moment Undertaker and her therapist just shared.

He lowered himself slowly back into his chair, still dumbstruck as his mind drifted back in time to the first time he’d ever laid eyes on little Miss Allison Banks.

Fifteen years ago—

Undertaker sat in the small room at the community treatment center he’d been ordered to attend as part of his parole. He’d had his first meeting yesterday with his parole officer, and he’d been given a printout of the list of requirements and specific terms of his parole. Among them was attending counseling.

They called it anger management and mental health counseling. What a bunch of bullshit. But, hey, he’d attend whatever classes or counseling they required of him.

The last thing he wanted was to be sent back to prison to finish the remainder of his sentence; not when he’d worked so hard to get out early, even if it was by only a year. And not when the club was depending on him.

He stretched in the plastic chair, its metal front legs lifting off the tile floor as he rocked back, his arms folded. He’d already been waiting in this room for twenty minutes, and he wondered how much longer he would have to sit there.

The door suddenly swung open, and a harried-looking guy with a beard and glasses walked in. He was dressed in a pair of tan corduroy pants, a short-sleeved dress shirt, and a tie that looked like it had stains from whatever he’d had for lunch.

The term overworked and underpaid came to mind. It had to be the definition of this guy’s sorry life.

He set down a folder and adjusted his glasses as he took a seat across from Undertaker.

“I’m Allen Gaines. I’ll be handling your case and reporting your attendance, participation and completion of the program to your parole officer. Any missed sessions will be reported immediately. I’m sure all that was explained to you yesterday.”

“Yes, sir.”

A moment later, the door opened again and a young girl, perhaps just out of college came in. She dropped an old red leather briefcase on the table. It was an unusual bag for a woman like her to carry. It had two straps that buckled and seemed more like something an old time southern lawyer would carry. He studied the initials on it. JRB.

She took the seat next to Allen Gaines.

“Did you bring the forms?” he asked her.

“Yes, sir.” She passed the guy some paperwork, which he immediately shoved across the table at Undertaker. “We’ll need these filled out, and then we’ll go over your re-entry plan and possible problems. This is Allison Banks. She’s doing an internship with us and will be sitting in on all your sessions, at some point she may even take over your case file.”

Undertaker gazed into her pretty green eyes. She barely would hold eye contact with him. He noticed the smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks and watched as a tinge of pink appeared beneath them. His eyes flicked again to the red leather case. Allison Banks. But the initials were JRB. Why? And then it clicked.

Christ, was her father John Ross Banks, the famous trial lawyer whose name was plastered all over every billboard in South Louisiana? And if she was his daughter, what the hell was she doing working here rather than one of the string of offices the man had all over the state?

There was a tap on the door, and another woman stuck her head in. “Allen, the director’s on the phone for you. Says it’s urgent.”

“Of course it is. It always is with him,” Allen muttered under his breath. “I’ll be right there, Judy.” He looked over at Allison. “You know the spiel. Go over everything with him, all right? I may be awhile.”

Undertaker’s gaze swung back to the young woman sitting across from him. She seemed a little taken aback that the meeting was being dumped on her alone, but she covered it well.

“Of course, Mr. Gaines. I’ll go over everything.”

“Thanks.” He made a quick exit.

With the click of the door shutting, Undertaker found himself alone in a room with a strange woman, not related to the club, for the first time in eleven years. His eyes moved over her. She was a pretty little thing, if not a little unsure of herself. Her long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, exposing her slender neck. Her skin was like porcelain, and he longed to touch it. But the thing that got him the most was the light, delicate floral scent she wore that drifted across the table and found his nose. He took a deep breath, and had to stop himself from letting his eyes slide closed.

Her hand reached up to tuck a wisp of loose hair behind her ear, and his eyes tracked every motion. She wore a sleeveless sweater, revealing her bare arms. Goddamn, he’d been away a long time if just that much skin was getting to him, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from trailing down to the feminine watch she wore on her delicate wrist.

She cleared her throat. “So, Mr. Deschaine—”

“Call me, Derek,” he broke in and watched her eyes flick up to him, the pupils dilating slightly, letting him know she was as aware of him as he was of her. He couldn’t help trying to rattle her as the corner of his mouth turned up. “Here we are, alone together with no witnesses.” When her eyes widened, he clarified. “It was a joke, darlin’. Relax.”

She cleared her throat again, her gaze on the paperwork, the table, anywhere but on him. “Yes, well, I have some things to go over with you. There will be meetings you’ll be required to attend once a week for a total of forty sessions. Tuesdays or Thursdays… whichever works best for you will be fine. I’d also like to go over some… challenges that some find especially… hard to deal with after being released from… incarceration, especially those who’ve served a… substantial amount of time, such as yourself.”

“Substantial? That’s an interesting way of putting it.” That brought her gaze up to him for a moment.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive by my word choice.”

“I’d rather you be straight up with what you have to say rather than all this pussy-footing around.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Deschaine, I—”

“Derek.”

“Right. Sorry. Derek. Since you’d like to speak plainly, are you familiar with the term gate fever?”

Finally she met his eyes with her light green orbs, and he lost himself in their expressive depths. He was slow to respond.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

“And did you suffer from its symptoms before your release?”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, watching her lips move. When they stopped, he was so distracted he barely remembered the question.

“You asking did I have any fear of being released into the outside world?”

“Yes. Fear, anxiety, insecurities about what was to come?”

His eyes flashed up to hers. “No. I couldn’t wait.”

“Most prisoners seem to feel or believe, that is to say… they expect that the reintegration process is going to be relatively easy. I’m afraid it rarely is.”

“Most prisoners, huh? How old are you?”

She reached up to play with the pearl stud in her ear. “I’m not sure how that is relevant.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“And what would a twenty-one-year-old girl like you know about what men who’ve been locked up in prison for years think or believe or feel?” He watched her swallow, and he knew he’d made her uncomfortable. But, hell, what could she possibly tell him about what it was like to get released from prison? She had nothing she could teach him in that regard, no great piece of advice.

It only took her a moment to recover. “What I’m trying to say is that it takes time to adjust to life in the outside world. I’m sure many things have changed since you’ve been gone. Neighborhoods will look different. Prices will have gone up. Technology will have advanced…”

It was like she was reading from a rehearsed list, and for some reason that pissed him off. He rubbed his hand over his jaw, taking in a deep breath and exhaling loudly.

She paused for a moment, noting his body language, then continued on. “Nothing will be the same as it was when you went in. Perhaps most trying will be the fact that friends and even lovers will have moved on with their lives.”

“Nothing’s the same. I got it.”

“You needn’t be flippant. I’m here to help you.”

“Right.”

She grit her teeth, but kept on, relishing every word, it seemed. “For years decisions were made for you by the Department of Corrections. You were told what to wear, what to eat, where to go, and what to do. Now, you’ll have to make a myriad of decisions about life out here in the free world, a place that may no longer feel like home, but more like a foreign country.”

Undertaker listened, but said nothing.

“There are three things I need to go over briefly today. We’ll dive more deeply into them in future sessions.”

At her words, Undertaker couldn’t stop the thought that the only thing he wanted to dive more deeply into was her.

She scanned down a sheet. “The first thing is resisting negative influences. You need to be aware of them and steer clear.”

The corner of his mouth crept up, and he fought it, even though on the inside he was dying laughing. If she only knew that those negative influences she referred to, he called brothers.

“The second thing is dealing with rejection. Whether it’s from employers, former friends, or girlfriends, there will be some rejections you’ll face due to the stigma of incarceration. You’ll need to learn how to accept that rejection, move on, and focus on working on yourself. Be easy on yourself and remember you’re not a failure. Stay focused, and give yourself some credit for any progress you make toward your goals, whether it be getting a job, a bank account, or just making it through another day. I want to encourage you to focus on your ultimate desired outcome rather than your past failures.”

“Anything else?” He could see on her face, she thought he was being dismissive, and maybe he was.

“Anger management. When you feel angry, I want you to take a step back and focus on slow breathing for ten seconds. Try to isolate the cause of your anger and learn how to deal with that cause in a more effective way.”

“We done?”

Her eyes flared with annoyance. “In a hurry?”

“Been locked up eleven years, so, what do you think?”

There was ice in her words when she snapped back. “Two-thirds of all parolees will return to prison within three years. Not because they committed a crime, Mr. Deschaine, but because they violated the terms of their parole. I’d remember that.”

***

The phone rang on the receptionist desk, breaking Undertaker from his memories. He glanced around the office. It was upscale and high rent. She’d sure come a long way. So, she must be good at what she does. Back then he’d thought little of her advice, but as it turned out, her suggestion about slow breathing and counting to ten had actually saved his life a time or two. Who would have thought little Miss Allie Banks would have been right?

The door to Dr. Carter’s office opened, and Holly came out, followed by the doctor herself.

She looked at him. “I’d like a few minutes with you, if I could.”

Undertaker frowned, and his eyes moved to Holly. She seemed… perhaps happy was not the right word, but content at least. She sat in a chair and picked up a magazine.

He turned back to Allison. “All right.”

He followed her into her office, glancing around. It was modern with a lot of black and chrome.

“Please, have a seat.”