Fifty crunches and my back hits the wooden floor behind me. Excessive, quick, short breaths escape my lips, and I use the soaked cotton tank I'm wearing to clear my face of the sweat. Week two in this town and I'm bored out of my goddamn mind. There's no gym. What kind of place doesn't have a gym? The closest establishment where I can complete my normal workout is a hundred miles away. Not an option when you don't have a car. Legal fees are no joke. My car didn't cover a fifth of them.

It's not the physical appearance that I'm worried about. Keeping myself busy is good for me. It keeps myself out of my own head—a scary place to be. I can't keep using a 100-square-foot room with a queen-sized bed in the middle of it to do this. I'm going to have to take up running, and I hate running. Where the hell am I going to run to in town that's one square mile in the middle of nowhere?

My head jolts upwards when Courtney throws open the door. Ignoring me, she moves to my closet to begin sifting through my clothes hurriedly, muttering under her breath as she does. Shirt after shirt is tossed to her right, causing wire hangers to sound like nails on a chalkboard as they screech across the metal bar. Everything in this damn house is old.

"May I help you with something?" I ask, leaning myself onto my elbows to sit up.

"Where's your Tom Petty shirt?"

"Probably in the hamper."

Two shirts drop to the floor of the closet when she gives them an extra hard toss. "Rolling Stones?"

"I don't know? The washing machine?"

"The Clash?"

"Probably on the damn floor and dirty by now!"

"Ugh!" She stomps. " I hate everything I own! Why are all the good ones in the wash?"

"Well," I lie myself back to the hard floor, still panting from my workout, "they are my shirts. Therefore, I wear them. Then they need to be washed. You know, for hygiene reasons..."

"I'm taking this one!" A black shirt is yanked hard from its hanger, causing it to hit the shelf above the bar and topple to the floor amongst the other shirts that didn't meet Courtney's standards.

"Stop tying my shirts at the waist!" I yell as she exits the room. The door slams behind her. "You're stretching them all out!"

I'm ignored.

I roll to my side, surveying the damage of storm Courtney. A mound of clean clothes fill the closet floor. I should be pissed after hanging all of those yesterday, but I can't be. So, I take a deep breath—a "coping mechanism"—and drop my chin to my chest to roll my neck until it cracks, relieving little tension. My sister loves to shop more than anyone else I know, has her own closet bursting with clothes—many of which still have tags on them—and has multiple dressers filled to the brim. Yet, she has nothing to wear and needs to wear my clothes.

I will never fully understand the mind of a teenage girl.

***

"Court!" I call out, picking up a stack of magazines from the table and tossing them to an open chair. "Have you seen dad's keys?"

A metallic jingle beside my left ear stops my searching. I swipe for the keys, but she draws her arm back faster than my grab. Sighing, and not needing this childish bullshit today, I pick up the magazine stack and place it back to where I found it.

"I'm taking the car today!" She beams proudly. "He said I could."

Once again, I'm seeing my sister with my Doors tee tied near her exposed midriff. I see our talk this morning went well. Unfortunately, that discussion is on the back burner, because I need those keys if I want to make it to my appointment on time.

"Your school is literally down the street," I argue. "And I have my second probation meeting today in town. That trumps your joyride. I'll go back to jail."

With a sigh, she holds them out. I reach for them, and again she draws them back to where they are out of my reach. "What are you doing with Gabby?"

My eyes narrow. "Nothing. Now, fork them over."

"Not what I heard."

Judging by the look on my little sister's face, she's ready to call me on my shit. She knows about my little game of pool. Either Books has a big mouth, or I seriously underestimated how fast word travels around here. I have a feeling that Gabby kept my offer to herself, not wanting to risk a new friendship—the correct move.

"Don't do it."

"I haven't done anything," I argue, swiping the keys out of her hand.

"She's really nice, Jax." She follows me to the door and puts her body between me and it, blocking my way out. "She's almost too nice for her own good. I have no friends here. Please, please don't mess this up for me. She didn't do anything for you to mess with her head."

Big, green doe-eyes blink up at me, ready for the brink of tears that could be fake or real. She whispers a "please" again. If we were back home, I wouldn't listen to her. But in this damn town, I know she needs someone on her side. We live here for a reason, and I need to let this one go.

"Fine."

"Thank you!" She squeals and opens the front door for the both of us.

"Whatever."

I say that as I walk out just in time to see the one and only Gabby Brooks do the same. Another blonde girl joins her, leaving no doubt that she has a younger sibling. The two could be identical if one wasn't laying on the makeup a bit thick and is standing at least an inch shorter than Gabby. Both carry a weighted backpack, clinging to the shoulder straps with each hand. My sister bolts past me to join them on the sidewalk on the opposite end of the road.

The bar's lighting the other night did nothing to highlight the caramel glow of Gabby's legs, and I'm caught up watching them as the three blondes begin their walk to the school. Even with Courtney's warning, my attraction to her isn't going anywhere. Gabby can pretend she holds no interest of my offer all she wants, but I already know the move she's about to make before she makes it. As the three stroll down the road with Gabby's ponytail swaying as she walks, she glances over her right shoulder. Leaning into the hood of the car, just above the driver's seat, my lips form a smirk. Her attention pivots forward again, but she was too late, I saw the smile.

She is right where I wanted her...already hooked.

It's too bad Courtney ended this one. She could have been fun.

***

Luxberg may be boring, but even the surrounding county holds little interest for me. The drive into town is nothing but endless rows of corn with the smell of cow and pig shit. Not to mention that once you actually get to town, little is open. And when I say things are closed, it means for good. Empty buildings with leasing signs, a mall with barely any stores, and the same fast food places that came in every small-town starter pack—a sub chain, a pizza chain, and a burger chain. It isn't even worth making the trip for it. Unfortunately, I'll be making this trip weekly. As if Monday's weren't daunting enough. Just like everything else in town, the County Sheriff's Office building is beyond old. They may have tried hiding the crumbling brick of the exterior with ivy, but once inside, it's clear the place is stuck in the 1970s. Laminate tile flooring and pale yellow walls lead me to the main lobby where a sitting area lined with olive-colored, pleather chairs await its visitors.

Before I'm even standing in front of the sliding window of the secretary's desk, it slides open with a squeak. The elderly woman—who is still rocking horn-rimmed glasses of which I'm doubting is due to a trend from this era—pops her gum, making me cringe. "You can take a seat, Mr. Parker. Scott will be out in a moment to collect you for urine analysis."

I've been here once, and she already knows who I am. The tattoos covering my skin are not easily forgotten, apparently, because her disgusted stare can't seem to leave them. With an annoyed eyeroll, I drop myself into one of the few seats that doesn't have yellow stuffing protruding out of it. My hands link together on my stomach, and I lean myself back into the seat until my head hits the wall behind it. Since I have no desire to read about golf, or the intricacies of farm life, I know not to bother with the outdated magazine selection on the table beside me. I also have no desire to review the photos and titles of all of the people who work in this place. That leaves me to stare at the drop ceiling and count how many water stains I can find, while listing to the bothersome popping of gum from behind the glass. I'm to thirty-six when the door beside the desk swings open.

"Jackson." Scott motions with his head for me to follow. The man shows little enthusiasm when we both know we are in for a good time.

Scott, a short, round man with a receding hair line and an indent where a wedding band should be, seems to be a man of very few words. I really can't blame him, as the man gets to watch people piss for a living. I stand to follow, leaving the luxurious waiting room behind us for an even more dreary hallway of faded lighting and faux wood paneling. Even though I'm here to see the county sheriff, whose office is to our right, I'm first directed to an unmarked bathroom to our left, and it's unmarked for a very special reason. It's where the trouble-makers go to pee.

"Anything you'd like to tell me before we begin?" Scott asks, applying a pair of blue exam gloves. "Any chance for a positive drug test today?"

"Not a chance," I answer honestly. "If I do good, do I get a sucker when we're done?"

Nothing. I don't even get the hint of a smile from him. He motions to the urinal. Tough crowd.

"I'm going to turn the water off so that you cannot flush." He begins a spiel that I'm sure he knows by heart. "You will urinate in the cup, and I will be the one to cap it. Do not touch any part of the cup other than the exterior. Do you understand?"

"Do people honestly ever answer no to that question?"

The cup is extended to me without an answer. With a sigh, I take it. I never could get used to this, not even back home. After unzipping my pants and taking my dick into my hold for aim, we are both stuck waiting. I can daydream of everything from a waterfall to a goddamn monsoon and not piss on command with someone watching. The water I chugged on the way here doesn't even help.

"Sometime today." He rocks on his heels.

Like he has anything else to do around here. It's not like that waiting room was with other law-breakers waiting for their turn. His paperwork for speeders going two over the limit will have to wait a few minutes longer. When he releases another aggravated breath, it only makes it worse.

"It's not as easy as it looks, pal. You think you could do better with someone staring directly at you and waiting?"

"I wouldn't break the law in the first place. I'm not a criminal, and therefore, I don't need to worry about it. Fill it."

Right, my eyes lift to the ceiling. I'm just the worst of the worst around these parts. Hide the wife and kids—Jackson Parker is on the loose in small-town Iowa. His eagerness isn't exactly helping, and now, I'm just ready to press my luck and hope for some sort of humor to get us both through this.

"What do you guys think about as you watch? Like, do you compare, or are you deciding what's for dinner?"

"Mr. Parker," he pinches the bridge of his nose, as if to relieve a headache, "for the love of God, just fill the cup so we can both leave the room."

He guessed wrong on that whole religious piece. Has he seen my tattoos? I mean, clearly, I'm some sort of devil worshiper. I probably listen to satanic music and drink the blood of the innocent in my spare time—which I seem to have a lot of these days.

"I need to know," I continue. "Will it be Lasagna? Burgers?" I look back to my dick, knowing I'm about to end any patience this guy has left with me today. "Wieners?"

He inhales enough air for the both of us. "I'm thinking about how I'd like to return to my desk. Fill the damn thing!"

My chuckle releases the tension, resulting in a cup filled to the brim with fresh urine—as ordered. I hand it off with a smile to be capped by Scott, because that's the rule. See, I listen.

"Sorry, Scotty. I just needed some foreplay first."

With a shaking head, Scott takes the cup to write my name on the side. "Officer Brooks is in his office. Tell him you already dropped your UA. I'll have it done before you leave."

"It's been a pleasure." My pants are refastened as I walk towards the sink. "See you next Monday."

He doesn't respond, and honestly, I can't blame him. The fun part of this little trip is now over for me. After washing and drying my hands, I renter the hall for the next phase of my day. I know as soon as I'm standing in front of Dan Brooks' office that my humor isn't going to get me through this. It's a probation meeting, and saying one thing wrong could extend my time with having to attend them. There's always a sensation of wanting to hurl when I knock on my probation officer's door. The fact that Dan is also the county Sheriff and my neighbor does not help. After one meeting with him, I'm certain we won't be adding buddies to that list.

"Come in," he instructs unenthusiastically after a few light taps with my knuckles.

My heart pounds so hard that my ears throb as I enter the room. There are two seats—ones that match those in the waiting area—empty and waiting for me in front of an oversized, wooden, L-shaped desk. Dressed in his chocolate brown and tan uniform, Dan sits behind it with reading glasses on the tip of his nose. His fingers dance across the keyboard of his computer while I select the closest seat to the door. It's the best one to make a quick escape when this raps up.

"Mr. Parker." He pushes the keyboard out of his way. A file cabinet is opened and sifted through before a folder is selected. "How are you?"

My knee instantly begins to nervously bounce. "Peachy."

Dan lifts his gaze from the folder to my shaking leg, causing me to link the fingers of both hands around it. I take a deep breath, hoping for it to stop. Last week, I was unprepared for just how hard this guy was going to grill me. He got this incredibly serious look, and then questions started flying at me faster than I could think of the answers. My last probation officer didn't give a shit so long as I stayed out of trouble and showed up, and even that could be anxiety-inducing.

"Nervous today, Jackson?" His pen is clicked open, ready for action.

"I'm always nervous coming in here," I answer honestly. I'd rather he knew that than thinking I was hopped up on some sort of drug or wired on caffeine. "If someone tells you they aren't nervous when sitting here, they are lying."

Dan smiles—not in a way that what I said was funny, but in a way that says he gets off in making people nervous. He seems proud that he's the reason I have no control over my lower limbs at the moment. Typical, self-righteous, big-headed cop. He fits the egotistical profile of one perfectly. Eventually his smile fades and the look that I'm fearing appears. I sit up straighter, ready for today's lightning round of questions that he's hoping I'll slip up on.

"Drugs?"

"No."

"Alcohol?"

"No."

"How's the anger?"

"I'm feeling jolly."

"Have you had suicidal thoughts?"

"Not this week."

"Where are you living?"

"Is this a rhetorical question?" I ask, lifting up my palms. "I'm your neighbor, dude. You have literally seen me every day since we moved in."

He doesn't answer my question, just continues writing his notes while I pull my opposite foot up to place on my bouncing knee, hoping the added weight will stop it from doing what it wants. Gum on the bottom of my chucks wasn't what I needed to see right now. I scowl at it, knowing it's probably from the secretary that finds me scary. No matter, I can barely focus on it with Dan's pen flying across the paper. He seems more pissy today than he did last week, and I'm not sure if questioning him back was the right move to make.

"Have you found employment yet?"

"There are not many options." My head shakes no. "I've tried everywhere in town and haven't received a response."

"Relationship status?" he continues.

Easy. "Forever single."

"Did you drop a UA today?"

"Ask Scott. I think he enjoyed the show today. I flexed a bit."

"Been to any bars lately?"

My eyes slowly lift from my shoes to meet his own. Leaning back in my seat, now annoyed that I didn't realize the issue before, I can't help but to become agitated. Courtney was not the only one who heard about my game of pool with Gabby. I also have a pretty good guess as to who his source was when it comes to this.

"I didn't drink."

"Was that the question?" His pen is tossed to the desk. There's obviously no need for it, because this is not a question asked by the state of Iowa for probation meetings. This is a question that's been on the mind of a dad.

"There is nothing that says I can't pick up food from a bar—especially when the only two places in town to get food are bars. I bought a burger and ate it at home."

"That's not the part of the night I'm referring to, Jackson."

"Okay. Got it." I nod heatedly. He asked about my anger earlier, and he's likely going to have to change the answer to the question. "You aren't Deputy Dan right now. You're Daddy Dan. I didn't have a meeting with him on my schedule."

"I'm the County Sheriff!" His voice raises authoritatively.

"No, right now you're a dad—one who obviously knows I played a single game of pool with his daughter in a bar last week." Holding up my pointer finger, I motion with it towards him with my epiphany. "I'm going to guess the bartender who looked like he was going to kill me with a single glare is the Deep Throat of Luxberg. Excellent spy, sir. Although, he appears to have missed his calling. You should get him on the payroll. I also think he has a thing for your daughter. Perhaps you should worry more about him."

"Jackson," his glasses are pulled from his face to be tossed to the desk, "I have nothing against you."

"Really? You told her to stay away from my sister because of me. How is that having nothing against me? Courtney isn't a problem, and neither am I."

"I don't know you personally. I know what I read in this file." His pointer finger hits the file with a thud. "This file tells me you are someone I don't want around my family."

"And that comment tells me that you are someone who has been doing some selective reading." I glare at him, no longer feeling anxious, just irate. "I don't regret what I did."

"You broke the law. We have those for a reason. I do not want to see a repeat of this incident around my baby girl."

"Your baby girl is an eighteen-year-old. She can vote. She was in a bar. I think she can make her own mind up about people. As for that bar, we were both waiting for food. The tattle-tale behind the counter wouldn't let her sit, and there were no other spots available. So, I played a game of pool with my little sister's friend—her only friend here. She kicked my ass and went home. You've got nothing to worry about. There's no need to punish my sister, or Gabby, for what I did. Get over it."

"We're done here." His glasses are reapplied to his face, turning back to his computer to end the discussion by having the last word.