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I seriously love you all! Really, truly, I'm gonna go all sob for a second, but you all give me so much motivation to keep this up. It wouldn't be what it is without you.

next chapter is about half-finished! I should be making lots of progress with 2 days off of work this week!

It's time, it's time!!



Between a Rock and a Hard Place

"Okay, here's how this is gonna work…the judge reads your charges, you plead guilty, and we go to court in a few days and you get your sentence and you serve it." Robson Blair explains, in the most basic way, how Justin's arraignment hearing is going to go in about twenty or so minutes.

The room they're in is small meeting room, off to the side of the court room where Justin and a group of inmates will be escorted to face their charges. Hearings are at 8am, 1pm, and 6pm. It's now a quarter to 1.

"Don't I have another option?" Justin asks, his brow furrowing as he watches Robson pace back and forth in front of him. The swelling has gone down on his nose but the purple beneath his eyes is getting darker, blackening.

"You stand trial." Robson replies simply, glancing at his gold Rolex before he stops pacing and leans against the wall next to the door.

"And what does that mean, exactly?" While Justin knows what it means to be in trouble with the law, he doesn't know all of this court lingo. He isn't a Law and Order geek like someone he knows.

"It means you plead not guilty and we wait around for months and months of preliminary hearings and you go before a jury and I argue your case and we try to lessen your sentence."

"So I should do that, right?" He asks, nodding.

"No." Robson deadpans.

Justin's face screws up. "No? You're saying no to lessening my sentence?"

"You're gonna serve the minimum anyway, you have a squeaky clean record." Justin scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief when the words squeaky clean leave his mouth. That's the last two words he expected anyone to use when speaking of him.

"I'm not goin to PRISON! I don't know if you heard me when I said that the other day!" He raises his voice and Robson leans forward onto the small table, his fat fingers spread wide.

"So you want to be on house arrest bouncing around in the court system for most likely a YEAR at least, wasting your life to get a few months cut off your sentence, when by the time we get you in front of a jury a year of your minimum served time would out of the way."

"I'm sure you can fuckin sit here and say that, you've never spent a day in this place in your life. You don't get it. I'll never make it in prison." Justin grumbles.

Robson shakes his head. "Why not?"

"Cause I'll end up DEAD! I'll run my mouth off to some motherfucker and he'll knife me in my sleep. This place is full of crazy fucks. I was only in this joint for two days and I got my fucking ass kicked. I'll end up in a coffin before that shit is said and done, guaranteed. So do you have anymore bright ideas?" Justin huffs a sigh as he crosses his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes.

"You can go to rehab."

He scoffs. "What?"

"You can go to rehab." Robson repeats slowly, drawing the words out as if Justin is slow. Or deaf.

"No." He says it as if that was the worst idea he'd ever heard.

"Well that's the only other option I've got, kid. So you either go to prison and suck it up, or you skip bail and run from the law and still end up in prison, or you go to rehab. That's about it. Rehab looks like the lesser of the evils." Robson shrugs, standing up straight again and crossing his arms, eyeing Justin warily.

"I'm not ready." He mutters, eyes down and trained on the linoleum floor, tracing the cracks where the squares were laid together.

"What?"

"I said I'm not ready!" Justin barks, his head snapping up. "I'm not, okay! That's….its…it's a HUGE fucking deal." He looks away again to hide the uncertainty in his eyes. His face feels hot. He rubs a hand across his cheek and looks up at the offensive fluorescent lights.

"You get clean, you have a normal life, and you skip out of jail. I'd say it's a good solution." Justin clenches his jaw as he listens to Robson list what seem to be simple reasons to do this whole rehab thing. The whole room is getting hotter by the minute. Or maybe he's just nervous. He finally shakes his head.

"No!" He throws his hands up. "I'm not going to any fucking rehab! I won't! I'll plead guilty, I'll go to fucking prison…" He nods.

"You'll end up dead." Robson quips.

"Stop using my words against me! Fuck! I know what I said." Justin glares at him.

"Justin, think about it…"

"NO! I'm not gonna go changing my whole fucking life around! I'm not ready for that!" He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at the floor, scowling.

"What is your low gonna be then, Justin?" Robson finally asks, and Justin looks up at him slowly, as if he's speaking a language he doesn't understand.

"What?"

Robson's hands fall to his side in defeat. "Your low…you know, the point where you're desperate enough to do whatever it takes to help yourself. What's it gonna be?" He shrugs.

Justin stands up suddenly, seething, holding his posture as if he's about to fight. "Don't talk to me about shit like you fucking know me! You don't know what I've been through!"

"It's obviously been a lot, to get you here, in this place. And I know you've been through a lot just in the last two days. Do you really want four years of that? Really?" Robson says smartly as he takes a step back, eyeing him. "And think before you answer, because I'll tell you this…when you get out, in four years, life is gonna be different anyway. Prison is gonna scare you straight. And all your drug friends…they're moving on without you. They won't be there when you get out. Hell, they're moving on right now, you've been missing for two days and they've got money to make. So you might as well make the most of your sentence, and get yourself ready to be able to function without all that shit when you get back in the real world. Rehab is the only thing that's gonna help you at this point."

Justin plops back into his chair and folds his hands atop the table. He chews the inside of his cheek absently, eyes trained on his hands, thoughts swimming around in his head. Is this really all he has left?

"So…how are they gonna drop the gun charges with rehab? It has nothing to do with it." He finally asks quietly, not looking up.

"There's a system…called deferred entry of judgment. They charge you with the drug crime, we ask for a DEJ, and they set you up in a program. It's like standing trial, but doing rehab while you're waiting. Then, when you go back, they re-trial you. If you've been on good behavior and completed the program, they drop the drug charges, and I guarantee those gun charge sentences will dwindle away to nothing. You're probably looking at fines and community service."

He sighs heavily, shaking his head. "I dunno."

"It's an option, and the program success rates are high. But you have to be ready for it. If you get bad reports or new arrests, you're out in a split second and you're facing your sentence, no questions." Robson crosses his arms over his chest.

"So what, do I go in there and tell them I'm an addict?" Justin asks, shrugging clueless, feeling trapped, and his eyes finally meeting Robson's again.

Robson takes a seat across from Justin. "They're gonna have to do a work-up, probably a piss test or blood test."

"Does it matter that I was high when I got arrested?"

"You were?" Robson eyes him, leaning in with interest.

"Yeah. I told the medic I was an addict and she did a toxin scan and gave me pills." Justin shrugs and Robson's mouth pulls into a sly grin.

"That's exactly what I needed to know."

-- -- -- -- --

"Justin Timberlake, you are being charged with one felony count of Unlawful Possession of a Firearm, one felony count of Concealed Carry of a Firearm in your vehicle, one misdemeanor count of Carrying a Loaded Firearm, and one misdemeanor count of Possession of a Controlled Substance. The minimum sentence for your charges is four years in state prison and a $122,000 fine, followed by probation. The maximum sentence for your charges is up to 26 years in state prison and a $276,000 fine followed by probation. Do you wish to plead?" The Judge asks, as if doing this all day makes him bored out of his mind.

"I have a question." Justin replies nervously, eyes darting around the room before settling on the Judge again.

"Do you wish to plead, Mr. Timberlake?" The Judge sighs.

"I would like to…formally request…my toxins scan from the medic's center." Justin chooses his words carefully, eyeing Robson who nods at him encouragingly from the seat next to him.

The Judge shakes his head in disbelief. "Mr. Timberlake, do you wish to plead to these charges or not?" Justin wrings his hands when the man raises his voice, and he gives Robson a pleading look.

Robson stands suddenly. "Sir, my client wants thorough provision of all evidence that the DA and the Inmate Reception Center has against him. A toxins scan may provide outside influence which could alter his formal charges."

"Mr. Blair, this is an arraignment hearing, not a trial by jury."

"Trial by jury could be avoided all together if proper charges were held against my client so he could plead with confidence, sir."

The Judge pauses for a moment, pursing his lips before he continues, his voice laced with annoyance. "And just what do you believe that these toxins reports will prove, Mr. Blair?"

"My client is a drug addict, Judge, and the toxins scan administered upon his entry to Men's Central Jail would surely support this notion. I do not believe that incarceration will benefit him in the same way that a deferred entry of judgment program might."

"You're requesting DEJ, councilman?" A few inmates in the back of the room whisper.

"Yes." Robson nods.

"I'm afraid your client will have to stand trial today and wait for a re-trial, Mr. Blair." The Judge says quickly, trying to move on.

"I don't believe my client has that kind of time, Judge. I'm requesting permission to plead guilty and provide a complete file for DEJ at his sentencing hearing." Justin swallows hard when Robson says this, because it's true. At this rate, in his condition, he doesn't have a lot of time to sit around and wait. If something is going to be done, it needs to be done fast.

"Pleading guilty today will only make his sentencing trial for that specific purpose…to sentence him of the charges to which he pled." The Judge gives Robson a look of disdain.

"I'm sure you could work something out." Robson challenges coolly, and Justin's eyebrows raise a bit. This guy has balls.

The Judge eyes him warily before turning his attention to Justin. "Mr. Timberlake, you understand that your attorney is requesting a deferred entry of judgment, which will require you to complete a rehabilitation, job-training, counseling, and community service program in the length of 18 months to 3 years?"

"Yes sir." He fidgets under the intense gaze.

"You are aware that a denial of his request will send you into sentencing with a guilty plea of the crimes with which you were formally charged today?"

He swallows hard. "Yes."

"Should your attorney's request be approved, are you prepared to re-enter court after a six-week screening and preparation period to plead guilty pursuant to DEJ, through which your sentencing will be postponed for the remaining time of your designated program?"

"Yes."

"You realize that any new drug case charges during your deferred entry of judgment will terminate you immediately from the program and you will go directly into sentencing for your charges along with your former charges and face a maximum penalty?" The Judge raises an eyebrow to him, almost smirking.

"Yes." Justin steels himself.

"A guilty plea today will set a sentencing date for Monday, January 8, 2008, at which time your attorney will provide a full report requesting your DEJ, and your toxins scan from the Inmate Reception Center will be analyzed to support this request. Do you wish to plead?"

"Yes."

"What is your plea today, Mr. Timberlake?"

He takes a deep breath and releases it.

"Guilty."

-- -- -- -- --

I park Justin's truck down the street at my old apartments and start to make the walk to his house, a journey which I know with my eyes closed. I've been keeping his truck in the back of the lot at my new apartments because I figure it and his house are safer with it there. I don't want to think about what would happen if a fiend showed up at Justin's house and saw his truck parked there, but when he knocked on the door no one answered. People get mad about their drugs.

I stop when I get past the first street, a familiar feeling settling in my gut. I wipe at my nose and my palms start to itch. I get that anticipation that I used to get making this walk, everything down to my scalp starts itching. I look back. I can barely see his truck from here. My feet want to run back to it, my heart pounds. But I know that money is in his house.

He used to keep 40% of his safe total in a locked toolbox at my old apartment. That way if he was ever robbed he wouldn't be totally and utterly screwed. He did a weekly count and calculation, and kept running inventories of his supplies and product. He was a fucking accountant and scientist at the same time. He even weighed out the amounts of drugs he kept for personal use, and deducted it. He ran his shit like the business that it was, right down to the paperwork.

Once I sold the old place I gave him the toolbox and keys and cut all ties with that bullshit, and lord only knows what he did with it. It probably ended up at Kyle's, or hell it might even be in the house somewhere. I could see his crazy ass cutting a hole in the floorboard under the living room rug or something equally insane. Whatever. I'll search for the toolbox and if I can't find it, I'm gonna have to go into the safe.

I try not to think about what I'm going to see before I can get to that safe.

I look forward again, toward his house. I shiver hard before I steel myself and keep walking.

When that Robson guy called me earlier and told me Justin's bail was $125,000 I couldn't believe that shit! Thank god he got bond option or he'd be fucked. I love the kid, but gathering up 125 grand would've been a pain in the ass. Ten percent is still a pretty penny though. And of course I have to be the one to do this shit. As if the fucking arrest wasn't bad enough, not to mention embarrassing, now he sends me into the drug dungeon to get bail money out of his safe. Doesn't he know what recovery means? Great idea Justin, send me into the down-sized crack house room. Like giving a five year old a Christmas present wrapped in clear wrapping and telling them they can never open it. What an asshole.

I just hope he doesn't go to prison. I just…I don't know what I'd do. Four year minimum sentence? God. Robson said it was still an option, even though he had some plan that he wouldn't really explain to me because he was trying to get off the phone, I could tell. But basically he was in the process of trying to get Justin's sentence reduced, which would be awesome. I'd buy him dinner or something.

Mostly, I just want Justin clean. I want him clean and out of this house and out of this business, because it's too much trouble. I don't know how much fucked up shit has to happen to him for him to realize that. If today was the last day I came here, I'd be perfectly happy, I think to myself as I stop in front of his house, looking around to make sure no one is parked down the streets watching it or something. I only think this because Justin and I have done it, a stake-out, watching some of Thomas' operations because we thought he was doing under the table deals with some of Justin's biggest buyers. This business really is fucking ridiculous among other things. The last thing I need is someone spying on me going in here, and coming up wanting some shit. God what the fuck am I doing here? Always cleaning up his fucking messes, even if it means trouble for me. It never fails.

Once I see the coast is clear, I hurry to the front door and my heart is beating out of my chest as I let myself inside, using the spare key inside the mailbox hanging on the side of the house, which you'd think is the most obvious place to put the fucking thing, but no one has ever touched it except me, and Justin one time when his dumbass locked the door and shut it before he realized he had my keys in his hand and not his. I never had a spare key to the house. I didn't think things were like that with me and him. Funny, we've done a lot of shit that married people never even do in their entire lifetime together, but we never call ourselves together and I don't have a key to a house that I practically lived in. We're fuckin weirdos.

"Honey, I'm home." I mutter sarcastically under my breath as I shut the door and lock it quickly.

Here goes nothing.

-- -- -- -- --

The warmth of the late afternoon sun gives way to cool damp air as I pull open the large white metal door with a small viewing window in the upper center, and a chill runs through me as I step up to another door which opens to a small desk. I hand my keys, cellphone, Justin's clothes, and the envelope with his bond to a short stocky security guard before I pass through the metal detector just inside the entrance. He takes a peek inside the envelope and hands it to me, along with my other belongings, on the other side of the security gadget, and asks for some form of identification. I reach into my back pocket and pluck out my driver's license, and he takes a look at it before glancing up at me and back down at my ID again. I feel like I'm 21 and trying to get into a bar. I used to get carded all the fucking time; it annoyed the shit out of me. Bartenders told me I didn't look a day over 18. Whatever.

"Inmate reception is gonna be on the second floor. Make sure you go to the window to your left. There's elevators right over there." He hands me back my ID and gestures emptily toward a small alcove just a few feet ahead with a narrow recessed elevator, doors shiny and metallic. I glance just to the left and see a short set of stairs leading up.

"Can I take those stairs?"

"Sure, but there's an elevator…"

It's one flight of fucking stairs, how lazy does he think I am? "Thanks."

I take the stairs. They're an awkward pace, sticking out more forward than they are tall, and I find myself taking short rapid steps and my legs are tired and I'm rethinking the elevator as I reach the second floor finally. Chairs are lining the small hallway that leads to a large open room with two windows like bank teller stations. More chairs are set up in rows in square blocks around the room and it's like a cross between a doctor's waiting room and the DMV. The floors are laminate and the walls are white and it's still damp and cold and there's something disturbingly clinical about this place. I don't like it. I shake my fear as I sidle up to the window…to the left? Yes, to the left.

"Hi I'm here to pick up-"

"Can I see your ID please?" The lady behind the half-glass covering the top of the window has a double-chin and jet black hair. Her accent is thick and northern, somewhere in New York, she barks more than talks. I slide my license to her.

"Um, I'm here to pick up an inmate…I uh, I brought these…" I set the clothes on the flat desktop of the window. Clean boxers, socks, two white tshirts and a pair of faded jeans all folded neatly into a stack. "I know you have his other clothes, but I figured he'd want something clean…"

"Do you know which pod your husband is in, ma'am?" She sounds like she's been smoking for 45 years. She eyes the clothes but doesn't touch them. She doesn't even look at me.

"Oh…oh, he's not my…my husband." Is that what bringing clean clothes implies? She's clicking the computer mouse, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Brother?"

"Um…no." For all I know she could be playing fucking solitaire.

"What's the last name?"

"Timberlake." She types something.

"Justin?"

"Yes."

"He's in A-261…what's your name?"

"Leala. L-e-a-l-a…Kearsten. K-e-a-r-s-t-e-n." She types as I speak.

"We'll have someone call for him. You can have a seat." She grabs the clothes suddenly and tears a marked strip of paper from what looks like a receipt printer and puts a rubber band around the stack, tucking the paper underneath before tossing it somewhere in the room. I scowl and try to look in but the desk impairs my view.

She finally looks at me with a questioning gaze, raising one overly-plucked eyebrow.

I swallow hard. "Will you make sure he gets the clothes?" God I am my mother sometimes.

"Yes ma'am…please have a seat." She's annoyed. I sigh, feeling foolish for a moment before looking over my shoulder to find a place to sit. I turn and tuck myself back into the corner of the room, making sure my back is to the wall. At least I can people-watch my way through this whole waiting thing.

I cross my feet at the ankles and fold my hands in my lap on top of my keys and the envelope. A row of chairs faces toward me and they are all occupied but for the one directly across from mine. I stare at it until suddenly someone is in it. My eyes fall on dark naked thighs before my gaze snaps up to the woman's face, lips rouged bright red and eyes lined with blue, flecks of glitter flickering around her lashes. Her eyes are hard and tired, as tired as I'm sure her feet are in those five-inch heels.

"You here to bail ya old man out?" She speaks and I realize I'm staring. I fidget nervously, eyes breaking away from hers and flitting back again, back to the heavy makeup and barely-there dress, the heels. I take it all in. "What's his name?"

I realize she's speaking again because I still haven't said a word.

"Justin." I clear my throat. She nods.

"Same story. Guys fuck up and look at us women comin' to save they asses." When she says this I look around the room and its inhabitants are indeed female for the large majority. Women sitting close nod as they overhear her comment. "I'm Cherry."

I blink once and I know that's not her real name, but she's probably well-known by it regardless. I shake her hand anyway, her long neon-lacquered nails reaching around to touch the back of my hand. Rings filled with brightly colored fake jewels glitter on her skeletal fingers. I know her kind; I've probably even seen her around before. She's probably here to bail her pimp out. Or her dealer. I take a curious moment looking into her eyes to imagine what my life would be like if I'd went as far as her. I release her hand abruptly. I want to vomit.

"Miss Kearsten?" I'm being summoned to the window on the right now by a dark-haired man. I fidget awkwardly to get up, scooting sideways between a few narrow rows of chairs before approaching the window.

"Mister Timberlake has just arrived and been placed into a holding cell in this facility. If you have his bond payment we can go ahead and post that and we'll send someone back to release him as we process his paperwork." I just nod.

I hand him the envelope and my chest tightens. He's here. He's in this building just a few walls away.

He sifts through the envelope and enters things into the computer. A receipt prints out and I sign and who knew this would be so easy.

"If you'll go through this door to the right and have a seat it'll be just a few minutes."

"Can I see him?" Just a few minutes.

"Just have a seat, ma'am. It won't be too long."

I nod and turn to the door. I hear it click unlocked and I pull back on the metal handle and glance back at Cherry before I slip inside. I take a few steps down a short hall and this room looks exactly like the last one but it is about half the size. There's a window to the left where a man is standing signing papers and a large Hispanic woman hands him a plastic bag full of miscellaneous items which I'm assuming were seized from him upon his entry. He turns and steps into the room and a petite woman with mousy brown hair wraps her arm around his waist and they come toward me down the hall. I step to the side. She has tears in her eyes.

My eyes survey the room before my feet lead me across to the far wall and I see that there are two long hallways stretching away from this waiting room of sorts, one leading straight back deep into the building and another leading off to my right. Rooms line those halls and doors open and shut all around, muffled shouts echoing and spilling in to the large room. I sit between a young pale-skinned girl with jet-black hair and an older Hispanic woman. The young girl's hair is parted in the middle and her light-brown roots are showing against her pale scalp, the hair dye obviously beginning to grown out. I wonder if she's here to bail out her older dead-beat boyfriend, or even worse her father. My mind wanders to perverse places sometimes to escape my own situations. I sit and wait.

The longer I sit, the more I can't believe I'm fucking here, waiting to bail his ass out of jail. What an idiot. He's an idiot, and I'm an idiot. But I'm sitting here, aren't I? Seriously, sometimes I wonder if I have a spine.

I hear the clink of metal and the sound of heavy steps echoing down the hall and I look up expectantly, but sigh when I see an officer bringing around a tall skinny Hispanic man, holding him at the elbow. The older woman to my right leaps up and starts mumbling things in Spanish and I look at the floor. The officer takes the shackles from the man's ankles and wrists and the woman kisses all over his face

"¡Mamá! ¡Pararlo!" He grunts, pushing at her, and I smirk remembering nights in the diner kitchen learning enough basic Spanish to carry on conversations with the cooks, and enough insults to get my ass kicked in the streets.

When I see Justin come around the corner, I remember what a long time ago that was.

I gasp. His nose is swollen and both eyes are bruised underneath and he has cuts on his face and god he looks exhausted. He's still in his blue jumpsuit and he gives me a weary look and I start to get up but he looks at the floor again, his hands cuffed behind his back. The officer with him says something into his ear.

"Justin." I call his name across the room and a few people look at me but I don't care. He looks at me and then at the officer and shakes his head, and he's escorted into another room and I hear the door snap shut. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

I count the seconds, the hours, the years he's in that room before the door swings open and he steps out in the clothes I brought him, his expression more relieved. I gasp again. I really need to remember how to breathe. The officer claps him on the shoulder and they shake hands before parting ways, Justin stepping into the room and the officer disappearing down the hall.

He looks at me and throws his head in a beckoning gesture, and I stand instantly, as if I'm not even in control of my movements. He moves to the window and the woman with a round face asks his name and pod assignment. She clicks a few things on the computer and I cross the room to stand behind him, making sure not to stand too close because I'm tempted to throw my arms around him and squeeze the life out of him, or punch him in the back of the head. I'm sort of torn at the moment.

She hands him a large plastic bag through the window and he sorts through the contents, signing the slip of paper inside and she bids him goodbye and he nods. When he turns to me he looks frightened for a moment, as if he didn't expect me there, but he shrugs it off, moving to a chair on the end of a row close to him, sitting down to slip his white Nikes back onto his feet. He stands and slips his phone and wallet into his pockets and I'm just staring at him.

I swallow hard as he stands over me, and when I reach up a hand to his face he shrinks back instinctively, spooked a little, and by the looks of his face I'm sure anyone who has raised a hand to him in the past two days has smacked him with it. I touch his cheek with my fingertips and run my thumb across his bottom lip, careful not to touch where it's split and swollen. He swallows hard and I see his features relax.

"C'mere." I cup the back of his neck and pull his face down into my shoulder, wrapping my other arm around his back and he's resistant at first, but he finally relaxes into me, hands coming up against my back to hug me against him. "You're okay." I whisper against his neck, burying my face there and I feel him breathe deep and let it out slow, arms circling me tighter. I say it again and he hugs me hard, so hard it's a little uncomfortable and I grunt against his shoulder. My back pops and I don't know if he notices, but he finally lets me go.

"Let's get the fuck out of here." He breathes a sigh of relief and I smile, nodding.

We take the stairs because he's too impatient for the elevator. I would be too. I'd be running out of this fucking place if I were him. People glance at him as we walk past and I know they're wondering what in the hell happened to his face. I'm wondering myself, but I won't dare ask. At least not now.

When we step outside through the last set of doors the sun is getting ready to set, and he just stops in front of the building, looking around sort of confused.

"Damn, I was sure it was earlier in the day than this." He reaches up and scratches the back of his head and lets his hand fall to his side again. I look down at it, brush it gently with the back of mine, seeing if he'll take it in his but he doesn't seem to notice. When I look up at him I see it's because he's taking a deep breath and letting it out slow, eyes almost closing, and it's funny how I take things like breathing the outside air for granted. I take a deep breath myself. Sometimes you have to be reminded of things like this, and part of me starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he's ready to change now.

We walk to his truck in silence and for just a moment in my head we're in Santa Monica, and he's pouting and dragging his feet and I can see my breath in the cold and he wants to kiss me…which is fucking stupid because I just bailed him out of jail and I'm taking him home with his tail between his legs. And I doubt he wants to kiss me right now. I can't believe that was only a few days ago…

"I need you to do me a favor." He finally says as we reach the truck and he stops and turns to me but doesn't look at me.

"What?" I put my hands in my pockets because the sun is disappearing more and more and it's getting cool out. He mimics me.

"Can I…I need to stay at your place. Just until my hearing, you know, to like…stay out of trouble and shit." He's looking at the ground and he kicks the gravel a little and something is weird and it makes my insides clench. Justin and I haven't lived in the same space since….god it's been so long. Maybe too long. I don't know if this is the best idea…for me or for him. "Is that cool? I won't make a mess or anything. I'll sleep on the couch and I-"

"Justin." I cut him off because he's rambling, and because he isn't even…

"What?" He looks off over my shoulder.

"Look at me." I say, and I realize he hasn't looked me in the eyes since he glanced at me briefly in the waiting room a while ago, still in his blue jumpsuit, holding my gaze for only a moment before he looked at the floor.

"What?" He blinks once and his eyes finally focus on mine and something strange is there. Something isn't right.

"You don't look at me when you talk." I tell him softly, and he shrugs.

"Oh…sorry. Habit I guess." He swallows hard and sighs, running a hand over his face. "Fuck, now I don't even remember what I was sayin. I just need to crash at your place. Just until Monday." That thing in his eyes eases a little, and I shrug it off.

No. My brain says. No. No. No. You've done enough.

But part of me just can't say no to him. Maybe if I do this, he'll see. Maybe if I help him, if I keep him away from all those things, it'll get better. That's what he wants, right? To stay with me and keep himself away from everything else. If he wants to hide out, I'll be damned if I'm not there for him to turn to. He was there for me when shit got bad. He always has been. I want to tell him no, I need to tell him no, but I just can't. This could be good for him…for us.

Tell him no. My brain says. I tell my brain to fuck off, just like I always have when it comes to him. My brain made it through rehab okay, it knows what to do in the face of danger.

"Yeah. That's fine."

But my heart just isn't ready to give up on him.

sooooo....what do we thiiiiiink??

laura0985 wrote:

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Also, have you BEEN to jail or something? For real, the details are awesome!

while being locked up may have been beneficial only for the purpose of writing this scene, no I haven't been to the slammer the internet is a wonderful thing and my dearest friend when it comes to stuff like this, you can find just about anything that you're curious about not to mention a few of my friends...may or may not have...been locked up

glowbug narking tony wrote:

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Ladylove, you've got an email comin' your way. Soon. Probably tomorrow when I'm procrastinating at work and pretending not to flirt with the pretty boy who's technically a client.

where can I get a job like THAT? looking forward to hearing from you, hon.

I'm glad you all seem to be enjoying the update...and I know I always promise not to make you wait very long and then it's like...ooooh a month or so before I update again, but seriously these next few chapters are all pretty dynamic and fast-paced and need to be posted relatively close in order to get the effect. Soooo, at the risk of not butchering this crucial point in my own story, you can expect quicker updates

okay besides the fact that you all hate me for not updating I have a question that is just making me go right now:


when you all read "Leala"s name...how do you pronounce it in your head??
Like "Layla" or "Leela"?

it has just come to my attention that my whole story feels different because people are reading differently than I pronounce it in my own head...if that makes sense

anyhow, good news is I just miraculously acquired FOUR DAYS off from work IN A ROW so an update will be here by Friday

but yeah, let me know about the Layla/Leela thing...cause it's bugging the shit outta me

love to all