Free Wound Up by Kelli Ireland Page B

late.”
    “You wouldn’t be late if you’d gotten up when your alarm went off.”
    “I
did
get up, but
someone
was already in the shower using up all the hot water.”
    “I couldn’t sleep.” She slid past him and into the bathroom. “Leave already. No one can stand you when you’re in a mood.”
    “I’m not in a—”
    Evelyn slammed the door in his face, clicking the lock in place with force. “Yeah, you are.”
    Irritated, Justin stalked to the sofa, dug out the only pair of oxfords he owned from his overnight bag, slipped them on and scanned the room. “Briefcase. Where the hell is my briefcase?” A quick search found it tucked behind the television stand. He jogged to the front door, surprised when his mother beat him there.
    She smiled. “How could I send you off to your first day of work without wishing you well?” Looking him over, she nodded. “Don’t you cut a fine image?”
    “No pictures, Mom.”
    “You’re no fun.” On tiptoe, she gripped his shoulders and pulled him down for a quick kiss. “Knock ’em dead.”
    “I’ll settle for grievous wounding on my first day.”
    “Glad to hear your nerves haven’t killed your sense of humor.”
    “I really do have to go.”
    “You wouldn’t be late if you’d given up preening twenty minutes ago,” Evelyn shouted from the bathroom.
    “Your day’s only a couple of years off, child,” Darcy called out.
    “I’m leaving, Mom. I’m going home tonight, so don’t wait dinner on me.” He bussed his mom’s cheek and was quickly out the door. He jogged down the sidewalk and caught the metro seconds before the driver closed the door. Inside, it was standing room only. Naturally. After two transfers and then three blocks on foot, he stood outside Second Chances with three minutes to spare. On a deep breath, he walked in.
    The lobby smelled the same as it had fourteen years ago when he’d first walked through the doors to complete his community-service sentence. He’d been convicted of vandalism of public property, but only because the cops hadn’t caught him earlier that night. Had they nicked him then, they’d have charged him with a hell of a lot more.
    Relegating dark memories into the small mental compartment he kept just for that purpose, he squared his shoulders and forced himself to breathe slower. He wasn’t that kid anymore and hadn’t been for a long, long while. He’d proven it by taking the counselors’ help in breaking free of his involvement in Deuce-8 as a messed up teen. He’d reinforced it by going to school. And starting now, he’d spend every day doing his best to make a difference in the lives of the kids who passed through the front doors. Second Chances. It was this place, and the people inside these walls, that had made the difference in his life. The biggest reason he was alive instead of a violent crime statistic lay in these halls, under this roof and on these grounds.
    “May I help you?”
    The feminine voice startled Justin, kicking him out of his Memory Lane waltz and landing him in the now. Years on stage at Beaux Hommes helped him put on his best smile as he faced the voice. “Justin Maxwell here to see Mark Sanders.”
    The woman—Mallory according to her name tag—stared for a full ten seconds before catching herself. “Mr. Sanders is expecting you, Dr. Maxwell. His office is down this first hallway, fifth door on the left. I’ll buzz his assistant and let her know you’re on your way.”
    Unease skittered along his spine. She’d stared so long he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever been to the club, maybe recognized him as a dancer. He couldn’t indulge his discomfort and worry about it now, though, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to ask. That part of his life was, for all intents and purposes, nearly over. Trying to control his heart rate, he held out a hand. “Thanks, Mallory. I appreciate it.”
    She shook it, her grip limp, palm slightly sweaty. “You’re welcome, Dr.