I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(13)

So I was being kind of a dick, but I just wanted Missy to leave. No such luck. The head of the bake committee’s indignation was matched only by her blatant attempt to draw my attention back to her huge tits. It pretty much worked too. But the more I saw of those enormous things the more convinced I became they were fake. No way could someone so skinny have tits that big.

Missy crossed her arms across her chest, not to hide, but to emphasize. She leaned forward and feigned a pout. “I think you at least owe me a drink for being so harsh, Chase Gartner.”

Harsh? Oh, please.

But lest I sound harsh, I muttered a soft and tender “sure,” while I signaled the bartender to bring another beer for me and one of whatever frothy-shit drink Missy was imbibing.

My T-shirt sleeve rode up when I raised my right arm, thus exposing a tat I had inked in prison—the number 72. Missy’s heavily lined eyes zoomed in on my bicep, like a laser beam. She squinted and pursed her lips.

Let her look, I thought.

I was just thankful it wasn’t the words that reminded me of the last night with my father that had drawn her attention. Those words are inked around my left bicep, not my right.

The 72, though, sure had captured Missy’s attention. She stared and stared. I had a feeling she’d muster up the nerve and ask me what the meaning was behind the number. I wasn’t about to tell her the number seventy-two is an homage, of sorts, to the cell block I called home for four long years. I had the seventy-two tattoo done shortly before I left prison. It was like that place had gotten so into me that I needed a permanent reminder. And there was a guy there who did some really nice work. He’d done another piece for me back when I’d first been incarcerated.

That early ink was just a revision of the wings on my back. The wings now rain feathers—just a few—down and around the angel. A couple feathers fall all the way to my lower back. The falling feathers are there to remind me every day that my wings are damaged and broken.

Sorry, Dad, I’ll never soar.

I don’t make it a habit to discuss the meaning behind my tats with anyone. Ever. The number, the words, the angel, the wings, the falling feathers—these are mine, all mine. I hold the meanings behind each piece close to my heart. And I sure as shit don’t ever plan on sharing any of it with the head of some f*cking bake committee.

Missy must have felt my angry gaze boring into her last night, as I thought these same exact things. She wisely diverted her eyes away from my bicep and asked no more questions, choosing instead to focus on the rest of me.

“You have an amazing body, Chase,” she cooed, switching up her pick-up strategy. “Look at you.” She squeezed my shoulder as her eyes traveled over my back, then returned to my chest. “Don’t you look and feel all hard and ripped. Wow, you must work out. Like, a lot.”

It was a lame come-on, and I’d heard it before, so I mumbled “whatever,” while I turned my head to roll my eyes. Mercifully, the arrival of our drinks brought an end to that line of conversation.

As we drank, Missy switched gears yet again and began to go on and on about the church, singing the praises of Father Maridale. In that assessment, I had no argument. The kindly priest with the shock of white hair who shepherds the flock at Holy Trinity is giving me a chance, something no one else was willing to do.

Father Maridale knew my grandmother for over thirty years, and during the past few, while I was in prison, she must’ve somehow convinced him I wasn’t a completely lost cause. How she did it, I’ll never know. But I know Gram never stopped believing in me…even after I let her down…time and time again. If only she had lived long enough to see me walk out of those prison gates, two years earlier than I was supposed to. That would have made her happy, joyous even, especially since it was my mother who made it all happen.

Yeah, that’s right. My mother, who’d given up on me six years earlier, finally came through in the end. I know part of it was because Abby had finally hit the jackpot, but I like to think she helped me because she loves me, despite the fact we still butt heads.

Anyway, my mother didn’t come into all her newly found wealth at some casino. Nope, not even with all that trying. Remember, the house always wins in the end. But the house had nothing to do with my mother’s fortunes. It was steady boyfriend number eight, a man named Greg, who turned out to be Mom’s winning ticket. And, in a way, I guess he ended up being mine too.

See, Greg has a ton of cash, and for my mother he was willing to share, especially after they got married. A week to the day after steady boyfriend number eight became husband number two my mother hired a big-shot attorney. She called me up, told me about him, and said he was going to get me out of prison. I thought she was bluffing, a true Vegas gal. But, to my surprise, she was telling the truth.

The attorney she hired was good, and he got right to work. His strategy was to appeal to the governor and convince the court I’d been deprived of due process. Mr. Big Shot Attorney came to see me in prison the day after I talked to Mom. He arrived armed with a stack of legal pads and enough righteous indignation for the both of us.

He asked a shitload of questions…

Was I ever read my rights? I didn’t recall.

Did the court-appointed psychiatrists overprescribe medications, turning me into a zombie who had no way of comprehending the charges I so willingly pled to? Yeah, pretty much.

And that was just the start.