Taking Connor Read online

  TAKING CONNOR

  Copyright © 2015 Brandy Toler

  www.bntoler.com

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design: Cover to Cover Designs

  Cover Photo: tverdohlib

  Editing: alchemy and words, LLC.

  Formatting: Integrity Formatting

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the authors, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, to factual events or to businesses is coincidental and unintentional.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To my Gracey:

  You are strong. You are fierce. You are unstoppable.

  I’m honored to be your mother.

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect Online

  Other books by B.N. Toler

  I’ve never met Connor Stevens—at least not in person—yet here I am, picking him up from prison.

  As I wait outside the high chain linked fence rolled with barbed wire, I curse Blake’s name. I admonish myself, then raise my face to the sky and say, “Not really, babe. I love you.” You see, it was a dying man’s wish that I be here today to greet Connor. That dying man just happened to be my husband and Connor Stevens’ younger brother by five years. Well, not his brother, they were cousins both raised by their grandmother, but they’ve always considered themselves brothers. My late husband held his cousin in the highest regard, despite Connor’s circumstances and location. Connor has been a resident at Tent City Prison—a prison that houses its inmates in tents and forces them to wear pink jumpsuits—for the last eight years doing a stint for manslaughter.

  Checking the time on my cell phone, I realize Connor should be walking through those gates in the next two minutes. Climbing out of my car, I run my fingers through my tangled hair. Of course, the air conditioning in my beater of a car crapped out on me halfway here. I had to do the last four hours of the trip sweating my ass off through Arizona and getting wind whipped by my own hair with the windows down.

  Blake was very specific in his instructions. I was to wait outside the gate for Connor and take him home to our small town in Colorado where we live. Connor will be on probation for the next three years, which his attorney had transferred to Colorado. Blake made sure it would be handled in the likely event of his passing. When Blake died, I know he worried about Connor and his release only second to what would happen to me. Blake was counting down the days until Connor’s release and had mapped out Connor’s homecoming to a T. I was hesitant about it all, of course. I mean, the man was in prison for manslaughter and my husband wanted to have him living in the garage apartment behind our house? It was a given I was apprehensive about it.

  “Trust me, Demi,” Blake begged. “I would never put you in harm’s way.”

  Maybe it was foolish to hope; the idea my husband would be one of the lucky transplant recipients to get a heart, and he’d be alive when Connor returned. Despite my apprehensions about Connor Stevens and his return, I never thought I’d be dealing with him solo. I believed in my heart Blake would be here; he’d be the one waiting outside this prison in this unforgivable heat to greet Connor. Not me. My mother used to tell me I should expect the worst and hope for the best, that way when the worst came to be, it wouldn’t sting as much. But when it’s your husband’s life that weighs in the balance, there’s nothing you can do, feel, or think—but hope. My mother was right—though I’d never admit it to her—having all that hope, not allowing the worst of thoughts to creep in, made it sting that much worse when the end came. My husband knew he was going to die. And so, once he’d made sure everything was taken care of, or rather, I’d be taken care of, the only thing left was making sure his cousin would be okay. Blake assured me that Connor was the best man he knows.

  “Promise me you’ll be there for him, Demi. Please. He needs someone dependable, who won’t make him feel like he’s shit.”

  “I promise.” I nodded as I squeezed his cool hand.

  I would’ve promised him anything at that point. He was so ill and tired, and the last thing he needed to worry about was his convict cousin getting a ride to our home. But after Blake left us, his heart having failed before a donor was found, I committed to keeping that promise. Taking Connor home will be my thank you to Blake for loving me and fighting so hard to stay here with me. A lesser man would’ve left this world long before he did, but I asked him to fight, and he did. It was circumstances that weren’t in our favor.

  And so, I’ve swallowed my fears, doubts, and any apprehension—or at least I’m trying to. I trust Blake; I have to. I have no idea what to expect when I see Connor. Blake had very few photos of him, and the ones he had were from when they were younger. They didn’t favor each other much. Blake was a thin man, lean and tall, but his pale coloring cued the world he wasn’t well. Connor appeared just as tall, but broader and while Blake had a softness about him, Connor’s photos portrayed a young man with a face and body language that displayed a no bullshit type of attitude.

  A loud buzz blares from out of nowhere, causing me to jump, and the large gate just before the gate I’m standing in front of begins to slide open, screeching and groaning as it does. Wiping my palms on my jeans, I try to calm my nerves, reminding myself I’m doing this for my late husband who I loved dearly. But even that reasoning isn’t helping me swallow this pill. I’m about to ride twelve hours to Colorado with a released felon who killed a man. When the brown metal door from the processing office flies open, slamming against the brick of the wall behind it, my heart almost stops, and my eyes go wide.

  A black, heavy-set security guard emerges first, his eyes squinting from the sunlight. Connor follows, and I have to blink a few times to make sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing. The man walking toward me is not the young man in the photos Blake showed me. The man walking toward me is someone else entirely. Gone is the shaggy blonde hair and lean body of the former Connor Stevens. Now . . . he’s huge. Wide shoulders and chest and arms so big I’m not sure I could wrap both hands around them. His head is shaved, cut close and tattoos cover almost every visible part of his skin. If there’s a stereotype for convicts, he fits the bill. A cigarette hangs from his mouth as he smiles and shakes hands with the guard that walked out ahead o
f him.

  With a pat on the back, the guard sends him on his way and Connor nods as he heads in my direction. Once he passes through the first gate, his gaze meets mine.

  He doesn’t smile.

  He doesn’t grimace.

  In fact, he does nothing.

  He just . . . looks at me.

  It occurs to me maybe he had no idea that I’d be here. Maybe he didn’t get my letter. But when the final gate is opened and he steps through, he heads straight for me and I realize that I seriously underestimated his size from a distance. He’s much bigger than I originally thought; the closer he gets, the smaller I feel.

  I don’t move as he approaches. Instead, I battle with what to do once he reaches me. I’m not sure what the proper protocol is in this situation. I mean, we’re in-laws—sort of. The man he thought of as his brother was my husband. Should I hug him?

  No.

  Definitely not.

  He doesn’t quite strike me as a hugger.

  When he’s four feet in front of me, he stops, and I give him an awkward smile.

  “Demi,” he says my name and I’m stunned silent. He’s attractive; incredibly attractive. Flicking his cigarette away, letting the last drag of smoke roll out of his mouth in a smooth exhale, he takes another step toward me and smiles.

  “Those things will kill you, ya know?” I blurt out. Smooth. Real smooth, Demi.

  His smile widens until I see his teeth and the little canine on the lower left of his mouth that’s a bit crooked. It’s an imperfection, yet it only amplifies his attractiveness. “That was my last one,” he replies, his voice husky. “Promised myself I’d quit the day I got out.”

  “Oh,” I reply, not sure what to add.

  Luckily Connor doesn’t allow me time to find something else stupid to say. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he tells me.

  “You too,” I manage, finding my voice as I step forward.

  Okay, I’m going to hug him. Just a friendly, nice-to-meet-you, hug. I only mean to do that loose hug, the one where your bodies don’t touch, but you somehow embrace, but that doesn’t happen. Connor pulls me in, slamming my body into his, nearly knocking all the air out of my lungs—I’ve never felt so dainty in a man’s arms before.

  When he releases me, we stand awkwardly for a moment, him in his tight black T-shirt and jeans, me in my frumpy, wrinkled, white cotton top and blue jeans, damp with sweat.

  “Are you ready to get out of here?”

  His mouth curves slightly. “Have been since day one.”

  We climb in the car, and as I start it I explain apologetically, “Air conditioning went out on me halfway here. It’s going to be a hot ride.”

  He chuckles lightly, “Haven’t had air conditioning in eight years. I think I’ll survive.”

  I cringe. Tent City prison makes inmates work and sleep outside. Connor is probably used to this insane heat.

  “Your compressor might just need a charge,” he continues. “I can check it out, and we can stop at an auto parts store if I can figure out what you need.”

  “That’s right.” I nod as I put the car in reverse. “Blake said you were some kind of badass mechanic.”

  Connor smiles faintly and shrugs. “Only thing I was ever good at. I think he got all the brains out of our gene pool.” Moments pass with only the sound of the wind coming in through the windows. I’ve never been great with silence. I have some undiscovered disorder where I’m compelled to fill it.

  “I got us rooms at a hotel not too far from here. It’s a long drive back to Colorado, and it’s already late so I figured it would be best to stay the night and head out first thing tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” he agrees.

  “You wanna settle in and maybe shower? We can go to dinner afterward if you want.” I have no idea how dinner would go with him or what we would talk about, but I don’t want to be rude. Of course, maybe he wants to be alone. Maybe he doesn’t want an awkward dinner with me either. “No pressure,” I add.

  “Sounds good, Demi. I appreciate all of this. Blake said you were too good to be true.”

  My heart sinks with his words. Blake always put me up on a pedestal. “What is family for?” I finally manage.

  The ride to the hotel is filled with awkward small talk; the weather, sports, and Connor asks me about my job. When we check in, I hand Connor the key to his room that is located right beside mine. We agree to meet up in an hour for dinner, then part ways to go to our separate rooms. I call my mother and let her know I’m okay and that no, Blake’s jailhouse cousin has not chopped me up and left me on the side of the road in little pieces.

  “I know, Mom. I gotta go.”

  “Text me every hour. I want to know you’re safe.”

  “Mom. Chill. Seriously,” I grumble. “I’ll call you when I get home. We’re headed out first thing tomorrow. Love you. Bye,” I hang up quickly before she has time to argue.

  I toss my phone on the bed and stand, but when my cell rings again, I groan. I know it’s my over-bearing mother calling me back, so I flip it open and snap, “Mom! I can’t stay on the phone with you all night.”

  “Well hello to you, too, sunshine,” my cousin and best friend Wendy snarks at me from the other end.

  “Oh, hey,” I laugh embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

  “I take it Gladys has been calling?”

  “You know it,” I gripe as I plop back down on the bed.

  “Grayson, get out of my drawers!” Wendy yells to her three-year-old son before returning to me. “I swear he’s always getting into everything,” she complains. “So . . . how is Blake’s cousin?”

  I roll my eyes. Married for going on sixteen years and saddled with five children, Wendy hangs on every detail of my life. I guess she likes to live vicariously through me. Not that I’ve offered much in the way of excitement lately. Me picking up Connor is the first time I’ve left Colorado in two years since Blake passed away, and she’s foaming at the mouth for details.

  “Not much to report. He seems nice.”

  “Come on, Demi,” she pleads. “Is he ugly or missing teeth? You know gang rape is prevalent in prisons, and some guys get their teeth knocked out so they can give better—”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that,” I interrupt her. “Sorry cuz. I’ve got nothing.”

  “Well . . . I’ve been looking forward to this call all day,” she clucks, grumpily, clearly disappointed in my details . . . or lack thereof. Realizing begging is not producing the outcome she is desperately seeking, she moves on to a new tactic: manipulation. “You know, J.J. was tossing Mary-Anne’s baton around this morning and ended up hitting himself in the face with it. He chipped a tooth and busted his lip wide open, screaming bloody murder for an hour. And as I held him,” she drones on dramatically, “bleeding all over my shirt, and simultaneously packed four school lunches, I thought to myself, I’m going to talk to Demi tonight, and she’s going to give me an amazingly detailed play-by-play of her day. And with that thought, I smiled all day long. But, apparently,” she heaves a theatric sigh, “you have nothing,” she finishes morosely.

  “Okay, Wendy,” I huff, rolling my eyes. “I’ll give you a play-by-play, but can I tell it in third person point of view? You know, like I’m narrating?”

  After a small pause, she states simply, “I’ll allow it.”

  Standing up, I head over to the mirror just above the dresser and grab my hairbrush. Just to be a smartass I muster up my best imitation of a sultry southern accent and begin. “Demi Stevens, the poor lonely widow, was embarking on a journey across states. Her destination was far from glamorous, but she had no choice. She had made a promise to her husband before he passed. And she’d keep that promise.”

  “I really like your narration voice,” she jeers sarcastically. “Keep going.”

  “When Connor Stevens exited the prison gates and laid eyes on Demi, his deceased cousin’s wife, he had to work hard to hide his attraction to her. There aren’t many women that can pull of
f windblown hair and sweat-soaked, wrinkled clothing, but Demi could.”

  “What does he look like?” Wendy asks, her kids yelping and hollering in the background. I imagine she’s contemplating locking herself in the bathroom or closet, desperate to hear me over the noise being made by her loud clan.

  Brushing my hair, I continue. “Connor was a large man with bulging biceps and tattoos everywhere. Heat immediately blanketed Demi’s skin as she drank him in. It only took minutes before the two were hot and sweaty . . .” I let the last word drag, for dramatic effect, “in Demi’s car. The ride to the hotel was a hot one as the air conditioning in the car was broken, and Arizona heat is unforgiving.”

  “Mary-Anne, stop picking your nose!” Wendy shouts.

  “As they reached the door to Demi’s room, she asked, ‘How about dinner?’ To which Connor replied, ‘Sounds good.’”

  “There. You happy now?” I snip.

  “Yeah. Riveted,” Wendy says, dryly. “You’re mean for the hot and sweaty part.”

  “What did you think would happen?” I ask, laughing. “We’d meet, and I’d bang my husband’s cousin in my car outside the prison?”

  “No,” she argues, the word dragging slightly, as if she thought exactly that. “But it would have been a cool story.”

  “He’s Blake’s cousin, Wendy,” I point out.

  “So,” she replies.

  “And he just got out of prison for murder,” I add.

  “Manslaughter,” she counters. “Which means it was kind of justified murder.”

  “That is not what it means,” I laugh.

  “Well, what does it mean?” she sasses.

  I toss my brush on the dresser and start rummaging through my purse in search of gum. “It means he murdered someone and most likely got a lesser charge because the prosecutor mishandled evidence or something.”

  “You don’t know that, Demi,” she murmurs. “Maybe it was justified.”

  “And you don’t know that it was.”

  “I can’t believe Blake never told you what happened.”

  Blake didn’t want to touch the subject of Connor’s conviction—at least not with me anyway. He said it was complicated, whatever that meant. Complicated does not mean justified.