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.
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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 of him.