The Rise Of A Broken Man

Two

Jogging this early was normal for Devon, what wasn’t normal was the open space around him. No walls closing in, or any echo of footsteps bouncing off concrete. Just clean, cool air that burned his lungs in the best way.

The ground beneath his shoes wasn’t polished cement but damp earth and gravel, the crunch of it strange and freeing all at once. For twelve years, his runs had been measured in laps around a cell block; fifty steps one way, fifty back. Now, every stride felt like a small rebellion.

He slowed near the end of the street, hands on his knees, drawing in deep breaths.

Five minutes later, he was back in his apartment, taking a shower. He wanted to get to the shop early to make a good impression. That had been one of the reasons the guards back at the prison liked him, the fact that he was always giving good impressions about himself.

He got dressed and started downstairs after locking the door, and when he got out front, Hector was already waiting.

“Hey, Devon.”

“Hey,” Devon said, tugging his jacket tighter as he approached the truck.

Hector grinned around the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Damn, you’re early. I thought I’d have to come up there and drag your ass outta bed.”

Devon smirked faintly. “Old habits.” he said.

“Yeah, I bet.” Hector flicked the cigarette away and nodded toward the passenger door. “Come on. Shop’s not far, and I want you to meet the boss before he starts thinkin’ I made you up.”

Devon climbed in, the seat squeaking under his weight, but he was already thinking about the work he was going to do. As they pulled out of the lot, Hector said, “So the guy’s name’s Miguel. Ex-Marine, runs a tight ship but he’s fair. Don’t let the gruff talk fool you, he respects people who work hard.”

“Good,” Devon said quietly, watching the morning light crawl across the windshield. “That’s all I plan to do.”

Hector shot him a sideways glance, half a smile tugging his mouth. “That, and maybe learn to breathe again, huh?”

Devon didn’t answer, just stared out at the waking city ahead of him… Ridgefield. The place that had taken everything from him.

Now it was where he was forced to start again. Fate was really cruel to him, honestly, but he had to manage the hands that he was dealt.

By the time they got to the shop, and Devon was introduced to the boss, the sky was already bright and clear.

“I hope you work very hard, that's how you can make things easy for yourself. If you slack off, I'm not taking it lightly.” Miguel said.

Devon nodded, his posture straight. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

Miguel gave him a long, assessing look; the kind of stare that could size a man up in three seconds flat. He was in his late forties, built solid, with a gray-streaked beard and forearms that looked carved from stone. “Hector says you’ve got good hands,” he said finally. “You worked in a shop before?”

“Not exactly,” Devon admitted. “But I did maintenance work… fixed engines, generators, plumbing. Learned fast.” They had a lot of things to do back in prison, so he had a lot of experience with things.

Miguel arched a brow. “Maintenance, huh? That mean what I think it means?”

Devon met his gaze evenly. “Yeah. Prison maintenance.”

The older man didn’t flinch, or even blink. He just nodded once. “Then you already know how to follow orders and show up on time. That’s more than I can say for half the people I’ve hired.”

Hector chuckled from behind them. “See, boss. I told you he’s solid.”

Miguel grunted. “We’ll see. There’s a blue ‘02 Tacoma in Bay Three that’s been giving me hell since yesterday. Starter issue, maybe wiring. You can start there.”

“Got it,” Devon said.

Miguel jerked his chin toward a battered locker near the wall. “Coveralls are in there. Clock in at seven sharp. You need anything, tools, parts… ask first. I don’t like surprises.”

“Understood.” Devon’s tone was quiet but sure.

As Miguel walked off, Hector leaned closer. “See? Not so bad.”

Devon let out a slow breath. “No, he's not bad. Just… real.”

Hector clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the point, kid. Welcome back to real life.”

This was real life, and so far he liked it, but he knew this was one of the too good to be true kind of things. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Devon watched Miguel disappear through the back door, then looked down at the grease-streaked floor and the truck waiting for him in Bay Three.

It was real life all right. He wasn’t sure he remembered how to live it, but he would learn.

Devon crouched beside the Tacoma, his sleeves rolled up, grease smudging the edge of his wrist. The hum of the socket wrench and faint clang of tools were the only sounds in the shop. It was the kind of rhythm he liked because it was predictable.

Unlike back in prison when anything could have happened, like a fight breaking out.

He leaned over the open hood, tracing the wiring harness with practiced fingers. Whoever had worked on this thing before hadn’t known what they were doing. “Starter’s fine,” he muttered under his breath. “Ground’s the problem.”

The thought of fixing something broken; something that could actually be repaired, brought a strange calm to him. A car didn’t lie. It didn’t betray you, or ask you to take the fall for someone else. It just broke, and you fixed it. Simple.

He was so focused on the job at hand that he almost didn't hear the sharp growl of tires outside as it cut through the quiet. Devon straightened, wiping his hands on a rag just as the sound of an engine idling low filled the bay. A sleek black SUV rolled up to the open garage door, too shiny, and too expensive for this part of town.

Miguel looked up from the clipboard he had been studying. “Who the hell…” he began, but the driver’s door opened before he could finish.

A man stepped out. He was a middle-aged man, dressed in a tailored navy suit that didn’t belong anywhere near an auto shop. He walked with the confidence of someone who had never been told no before in his life.

And just like that, Devon froze. That walk, that face, he couldn't mistake it anywhere, could he?

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

“Mr. Curtis,” Miguel greeted, wiping his hands on a rag, his tone neutral but polite. “Didn’t expect to see you down here yourself.”

Ethan Curtis’s hair had gone a little grayer, but the arrogance was still there, that “I’m better than everyone else” kind. “My assistant said the service was taking too long. I decided to handle it personally.”

His voice hadn’t changed either. It was still the same deep, commanding, and cold one Devon remembered, causing his gut to twist.

And then the passenger door opened.

Devon turned automatically at the sound, and for a heartbeat, just one, he forgot to breathe.

A woman stepped out, slim and graceful, her blonde hair catching the light as she brushed it behind her ear. She was older now, mid-twenties maybe, but her face… he knew that face. Those eyes.

Diana.

He gripped the wrench tighter, knuckles whitening.

“Diana,” Ethan said, glancing over his shoulder. “Get my phone, please.”

Her voice drifted across the bay when she answered, soft and familiar. “Sure, Dad.”

Dad. Of course, he had guessed it, but hearing the word as confirmation hit him harder than a punch.

Devon’s stomach turned. He looked away fast, ducking his head under the hood of the Tacoma, pretending to be busy. His hands moved, but his mind was spinning.

Twelve years. Twelve goddamn years, and here they were; walking, breathing, thriving.

Ethan Curtis, the man who had destroyed his life, standing ten feet away like nothing had ever happened. The man who had handed him over to the cops like he was nothing but spare change.

And Diana…

Sweet, innocent Diana. The girl who had cried that night while her father sold him out. He used to think of her in the quiet hours of his sentence, wondering if she ever thought of him. If she ever asked what happened. If she even cared.

Apparently not. She was still with them. Still part of that perfect little family while he rotted behind bars.

What was he expecting anyway? That their lives would be miserable? That she would have left her family behind for what they did to him? They never even came to visit him in jail, not even once.

He felt his chest tighten, heat crawling up his neck.

“They took everything from me. My life. My youth. My future.”

And they were standing in front of him now, untouched.

He wanted to laugh; how small the world really was. How cruel fate could be.

Miguel’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Devon, you mind checking the filter on this one when you’re done?”

“Yeah,” Devon said, surprised he didn't answer with a shaky voice. His pulse fluttered violently but he didn’t look up again.

Actually, it was more like he couldn’t.

All he knew was that if Ethan Curtis turned even slightly, if those cold blue eyes met his, he wasn’t sure what he would do. So he just kept his head down with his jaw tight, as the sound of Diana’s voice floated again across the shop.

One stolen glance at them told him what he feared, they didn't even check to see who Miguel had spoken too, even though the name was once a name they knew. They had forgotten all about him.

Good.

That was good enough, because he wouldn't want them to see him coming when he came at them. He swore right then, the promise burning in his chest like fire, he wasn’t done with them.