Page 26 of Where the Blacktop Ends

He raises a brow.

I sigh. “She’s twenty-eight.”

His eyebrow arches higher and I feel like I’m sixteen-years old again telling him about my high school girlfriend, not forty-two.

“Oh, you got a young one.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re making it sound like I hired a minor. She’s smart, highly qualified, and I’m sure Liam will take to her quickly.”

“And you? Have you taken to her too?”

I shake my head. “I’ve spent maybe seven total hours around her, most of that while locked in my bedroom, packing for this trip.”

I leave out the part about meeting her months ago in a steam room where she accidentally sat on me naked and the fact that I have been unable to stop obsessively thinking about that. The way her body felt against mine, how she stood there—confident but flustered—surrounded by steam.

She might not have seen much at her five-foot-three height, but from where I was sitting, the view was clear. It’s a view I can’t quite shake. And now, she’s going to be sleeping in the bedroom down the hall from mine and bonding with my grandson.

“Mhm. Well maybe try to spend a little more time around her when you get back,” my dad mutters in that all-knowing tone like he thinks there’s more to my relationship with Georgia than I’m letting on.

“She’s an employee, Dad. I’m running for Governor to turn this state’s politics upside down. You think I’m gonna risk all of that for some young woman? Let alone my grandson’s nanny? You’re crazy.”

“Ain’t nothing ever been risked if it’s for the right one...”

Chapter 9 – Troy

Friday?

It smells like hot piss in here and the walls are a dull gray and grimy, matching the somber atmosphere of the people waiting to visit with their loved ones.

No matter how many times I’ve visited Colt over the past four years, this place still feels hauntingly foreign. I can’t imagine how it must feel for him.

I fire off another email to Diane, telling her to reschedule my meeting with New York City’s Mayor Meadows from today to next week. By the time my plane touches down tonight, the Hamptons white party will already be in full swing, and there won’t be time to make it into the city for our meeting. Not that it’ll matter much. With my luck, Mayor Meadows will be at the party anyway—grinning like a shark in a suit, waiting for the perfect moment to corner me and talk shop on his next campaign.

“Troy Marshall visitor for Colt Marshall!” the warden calls out through the crackling intercom inside of the United States Charlotte North Carolina Penitentiary.

After pressing send on the message I smooth down my navy-blue suit and straighten the gray-and-white striped tie. I stride toward the warden, and he nods in silent recognition, leading me through a small, barred door and down a windowless hallway.

The air in here is thick with the scent of bleach and metal as we approach the private visitation room. Inside, Colt is already seated, handcuffed to the metal table like he’s some sort of violent criminal. His eyes are fixed on the wall, his muscles tense as if he’s expecting trouble at any moment. I hate seeing him like this. It guts me thinking about what he’s been through.

“Can we get those off him?” I ask the guard, gesturing to the cuffs and rubbing my cufflinks.

With a quick nod, the guard steps forward, unlocks the cuffs with a clink, and catches the sharp metal as it falls into his hands.

“I’ll be back to check on you in thirty minutes,” he says, before retreating to the door.

I step inside, my eyes meeting Colt’s for the first time in a month. He’s grown harder these past four years, the weight of his time in here etched into every line of his young face. Twenty-eight years young, but he looks much older, worn down by the system that seems determined to break him and his will.

“Colt,” I greet him with a nod. He returns it, though there’s little emotion behind it.

Across from him, his lawyer stands and shakes my hand. Normally, we’d be in the regular visitation room, but since I’m listed as Colt’s secondary contact and his lawyer’s present, we’ve been granted some privacy for this discussion.

“How are you holding up, buddy?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, knowing how much this place has eaten away at him.

For a moment, I’m fourteen again, cradling a tiny newborn Colt in my arms while my dad grieved the loss of our mom—his world shattering even as he held the proof, she’d been carrying more life than anyone had realized. No one knew she was pregnant with twins until the moment they arrived, so small, so fragile. I remember staring into his blue eyes, my own blurred with tears, mourning the mother we’d just lost while silently vowing to protect him and Regan with everything I had left in me.

His shoulders are more tense now, eyes still blue but cold—always on alert. His grunt is the only response I get, but it’s enough. We’ve never been big on words. Even less so lately.

I take a seat beside his lawyer who has a stack of papers laid out on the table, his hands neatly folded atop them. The weight of what needs to be said lingers between us, and I brace myself for whatever is coming next.

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