Page 8 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

“Driver’s license, sir.”

I nod and fish my wallet from the back pocket of my dirt-streaked jeans.

Sliding my expired license through the glass partition, I pass it to the woman seated at the table in front of the Boys and Girls Club.

She’s wearing bright green, oversized glasses, her expression a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

“Colton Marshall?” she asks, glancing between the ID and my face. Her brow furrows as she studies the picture again.

I can’t blame her. The photo is from when I was twenty-two, nearly unrecognizable to how I look now. My hair back then was longer, shaved on the sides in a style I thought was edgy but now realize looked just plain dumb. I was forty pounds lighter and free of tattoos. A lot has changed since then.

“You can call me Colt,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.

She arches a brow. “I won’t be calling you nothing, but you can tell your Little to call you whatever you want when you meet him.”

I give her a nod because I can tell this woman doesn’t mess around.

“Okay, Colton . Looks like it’s your first day with us here at the Boys and Girls Club of Whitewood Creek.

Normally, I’d give you a full tour of the facilities, but…

” She gestures to the long line of volunteers who are waiting to check-in behind me.

“I’ve got thirty more volunteers to register.

So, let’s skip to the important part. Your little is…

” She flips through a clipboard, scanning the pages until she finds my assignment.

“Malachi Richardson. He’s the boy with red hair sitting by himself at the green table. ”

Following her gesture, I look over to the far corner of the room.

A kid who looks no older than my nephew, is hunched over at a table.

His red hair is messy, sticking out at odd angles like his barber cut it wrong, and he’s wearing thick, coke-bottle glasses that magnify his eyes.

His Avenger’s T-shirt is a size too big, swallowing his frame.

And the expression on his face mirrors mine: not thrilled to be here .

Great.

Neither of us wants to do this.

Eight weeks of mandatory volunteer work with the Boys and Girls Club as part of my parole, and I’ve been paired with the human embodiment of me.

“Awesome,” I mutter under my breath, nodding to the woman as I head toward my new pain in the ass.

This is going to be just great.

Kids are bouncing off the walls, literally, trying to run up a straight wall.

I don’t get it. Is this what kids do these days instead of going creeking and tipping cows?

Even in prison where guys knew they were doing time for years, sometimes decades, they weren’t this wound up.

There’s pizza on a folding table in the corner and board games that are untouched on another.

I scan the space, always searching for threats and thankfully finding none except for the threat to my already frayed sanity.

The volunteers look like a mixed group. Some women and some men. A few of them look like they’re here just for the kids and because they enjoy this chaotic energy, where others look about as thrilled as I do to be enduring their punishment with children.

“Hey,” I grunt out when I reach the green table. Malachi’s eyes lift to meet mine as his brows bunch and his nose scrunches like my smell offends him. I lift my shirt to take a whiff of my armpits and get nothing but my cologne and aftershave.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks.

Oh great. The quiet, broody kid has a smart mouth on him.

“Your new big brother,” I spread my arms wide, trying to be funny but instead, must come off as creepy since a little, blonde girl standing a few feet away lets out an ear piercing scream.

Her big sister glares at me with a warning, “Did you even read the instructions? No loud, quick movements around the kids. Some of them startle easily.”

I look around the space where one kid is now hanging upside down off a table while beating his chest and another is jumping up and down screaming More! More! It’s pure chaos filled with loud sounds and overstimulation.

“Oh… sorry,” I respond, because I hadn’t read the damn pamphlet and didn’t realize a forced smile and an open arm gesture would be considered more threatening than this mad house.

She stalks away, little girl in tow as I look back at Malachi who’s now smiling in a way that I can only assume is his impression of The Joker .

“Hey, at least you’re smiling now,” I grunt out then move to sit down in one of the chairs and fail miserably. My thighs squeeze painfully against the tight plastic, so I give up quickly and decide I’ll be standing for the next hour instead.

Malachi’s smile is quickly replaced with a hard scowl. “My last big brother tried to be a funny guy and wasn’t. I just think you might actually be funny.”

Well, you're the first person who’s ever thought that kid.

“What happened to your last big brother?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Dead. Shot in a drive by on Tenth street.”

Well, damn. Who told this kid the truth about what happened to him?

“Okay, kid, well, I don’t plan on getting shot anytime soon so you’re stuck with me until my time’s up. What do you usually do during this hour after school?”

“Did you even read the pamphlet?” he asks.

If one more person asks me about this mother-fucking pamphlet.

“No,” I deadpan because there’s no point in lying to this kid. I get the sense that he can see through people’s bullshit, and I have nothing to gain by trying to hide my lack of preparedness.

He smirks. “I eat pizza, sometimes play card games and if I have homework, I try to get it done.”

“Okay, and what’s your big brother do while you do all of that?”

“Look at nude photos of women on his phone.”

My mouth drops open as I gape at him. Well color me shocked because I wasn’t expecting him to say that. “Alright, well I don’t have any of those on my phone, so I guess I’ll just sit here then and watch you eat.”

“Why? You don’t got a girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

He raises a brow. “That makes sense.”

Can’t wait to hear his logic behind why that makes sense.

“Alright,” I slap my palms on my thighs loudly which elicits another angry glare from the big sister at the table next to us. “Well, this is off to a good start. I’m going to go grab a card game for us. You have a preference?”

He shrugs, “Get UNO. I’m kind of good at it.”

Forty-five minutes later, Malachi- kind-of-good-at-UNO wins his sixth game in a row, and I realize, I’ve just been punked by an eleven year old.

I want to say it sparks something inside of me—maybe a flicker of joy, or at least some kind of amusement—but it doesn’t.

I just feel... numb.

The kid seems decent enough, sharp and quick-witted in a way that makes me think he’s dealt with his fair share of challenges, but none of it is cutting through the thick fog I feel in my head.

I’m still stuck in autopilot mode, going through the motions and counting the seconds until my hour-long, court appointed session is over.

He smiles when he notices someone arriving in the doorway of the center. “My mom’s here. Same time next week?”

“Yeah kid, sure. I’ll see you then.”

As Malachi sprints off, I gather up the cards, tossing them back onto the pile with the other games before eyeing the half-empty box of pizza on the nearby table.

I told myself earlier I wouldn’t touch it—figured I’d leave it for the kids and try not to be that guy, even though it’s clearly marked for the volunteers too.

But it’s been over four years since I’ve had real pizza.

The stuff that they served in the prison cafeteria barely qualified as food.

I drift toward the box like it might bite first, then grab a leftover slice.

Curiosity outweighs guilt. I take a bite, waiting to feel something—anything—even if it’s just regret.

“Hi! You’re one of the new volunteers, right?” a voice asks from behind me as soon as I take my first bite.

I turn around to find a younger, very short woman with long, dark blonde hair that falls on her shoulders in waves, and bright green eyes.

She’s wearing a fitted white t-shirt and some sort of flowery looking hippie skirt that makes her look like she’d be comfortable leading a group sing-along for these kids and honestly, that might be just what they need right now.

“I am. Colt Marshall.”

“Ah, Regan’s brother.” She smiles easily and I still have no idea who this woman is. “I’m Lydia. I’m one of the lead volunteers here.”

“People do this for fun?” I try to joke but my tone falls completely short, and it sounds more like a demand.

She winks, not missing a beat despite my rudeness. “You’ll see. These kids have a way of taking up residency in your heart and keep you coming back even when you’re no longer mandated to be here.”

I highly doubt that.

“Is it that obvious that I’m being forced to do this?” I ask.

She smiles easily. “I’ve got an eye for identifying those who would rather not be spending their afternoon playing games with kids.”

Hm.

“So, what do you have going on tonight? Usually, the Bigs all go to Krissy’s Bar in town after volunteering and get drinks to unwind and catch up. Wednesdays are fifty-cent wings and beer night. Sometimes we throw darts or play pool.”

“Ah, I can’t drive unless it’s for work, doctor’s appointments, or a court appointed appearance,” I respond, grateful for the excuse because going to Krissy’s right now sounds like hell.

She nods. “Well, I can give you a ride if that’s all that’s stopping you?”

“Not tonight.”

It’s not the mandated 11 p.m. curfew keeping me from considering her offer. It’s that I simply don’t want to. And now that I’m out, I don’t do things I don’t want to do unless I’m forced to. Got enough of those things already.