Page 15 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

Friday ?

It smells like hot piss in here and the walls are a dull gray and grimy, matching the somber atmosphere of the people waiting to visit with their loved ones.

No matter how many times I’ve visited Colt over the past four years, this place still feels hauntingly foreign. I can’t imagine how it must feel for him.

I fire off another email to Diane, telling her to reschedule my meeting with New York City’s Mayor Meadows from today to next week.

By the time my plane touches down tonight, the Hamptons white party will already be in full swing, and there won’t be time to make it into the city for our meeting.

Not that it’ll matter much. With my luck, Mayor Meadows will be at the party anyway—grinning like a shark in a suit, waiting for the perfect moment to corner me and talk shop on his next campaign.

“Troy Marshall visitor for Colt Marshall!” the warden calls out through the crackling intercom inside of the United States Charlotte North Carolina Penitentiary.

After pressing send on the message I smooth down my navy-blue suit and straighten the gray-and-white striped tie. I stride toward the warden, and he nods in silent recognition, leading me through a small, barred door and down a windowless hallway.

The air in here is thick with the scent of bleach and metal as we approach the private visitation room.

Inside, Colt is already seated, handcuffed to the metal table like he’s some sort of violent criminal.

His eyes are fixed on the wall, his muscles tense as if he’s expecting trouble at any moment.

I hate seeing him like this. It guts me thinking about what he’s been through.

“Can we get those off him?” I ask the guard, gesturing to the cuffs and rubbing my cufflinks.

With a quick nod, the guard steps forward, unlocks the cuffs with a clink, and catches the sharp metal as it falls into his hands.

“I’ll be back to check on you in thirty minutes,” he says, before retreating to the door.

I step inside, my eyes meeting Colt’s for the first time in a month.

He’s grown harder these past four years, the weight of his time in here etched into every line of his young face.

Twenty-eight years young, but he looks much older, worn down by the system that seems determined to break him and his will.

“Colt,” I greet him with a nod. He returns it, though there’s little emotion behind it.

Across from him, his lawyer stands and shakes my hand. Normally, we’d be in the regular visitation room, but since I’m listed as Colt’s secondary contact and his lawyer’s present, we’ve been granted some privacy for this discussion.

“How are you holding up, buddy?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, knowing how much this place has eaten away at him.

For a moment, I’m fourteen again, cradling a tiny newborn Colt in my arms while my dad grieved the loss of our mom—his world shattering even as he held the proof, she’d been carrying more life than anyone had realized.

No one knew she was pregnant with twins until the moment they arrived, so small, so fragile.

I remember staring into his blue eyes, my own blurred with tears, mourning the mother we’d just lost while silently vowing to protect him and Regan with everything I had left in me.

His shoulders are more tense now, eyes still blue but cold—always on alert. His grunt is the only response I get, but it’s enough. We’ve never been big on words. Even less so lately.

I take a seat beside his lawyer who has a stack of papers laid out on the table, his hands neatly folded atop them. The weight of what needs to be said lingers between us, and I brace myself for whatever is coming next.

“So, let’s get down to business. As we’re all aware, Colt has served over four years of his five-year sentence for assault.”

Colt’s jaw clenches, a subtle movement that anyone else might have missed, but I’ve known him too long not to catch it. He’s shut down, distant, wearing that stone-cold mask he’s perfected over the years, but I know underneath it all, he’s seething.

Hell, we all are.

His conviction was a damn injustice—a five-year sentence for something that never should have gone this far. Defense of an innocent woman. He should’ve been granted this appeal years ago.

“We’ve submitted his appeal for early release on good behavior and on account of the new video evidence that Troy was able to recover from the bar where the attack occurred. We are currently awaiting the results.”

The lawyer pushes two copies of the appeal paperwork towards us to review. I grasp my copy, but Colt ignores the document entirely, focusing instead on tracing the outline of what looks to be a new tattoo on the back of his hand.

I scan the paperwork quickly, skimming over the legal jargon that’s all too familiar.

It matches what was sent to my office a month ago when I helped draft it.

The facts remain the same: despite the grainy security footage, Colt acted in defense of the woman who’d been attacked by the sheriff’s drunken son.

But the charges stuck because, as they claimed, the force was excessive.

And knowing Colt, they probably weren’t wrong.

What the footage also proves is just how badly Colt kicked the guys’ ass.

If it hadn't resulted in his incarceration and the destruction of our family, I might be proud of the kid for some of the blows I saw him throw.

“If the appeal goes through, you’ll be released—either on parole or without, depending on if the conviction gets overturned,” I explain to Colt.

“And if it doesn’t?” he asks, his voice flat, void of emotion.

“We can try the parole board for early release based on good behavior or...”

He nods, already knowing the answer.

If the appeal fails, he’ll have to serve the full, final year of his sentence. It’s hard to sugarcoat it—it fucking sucks. I’m not going to downplay the fact that it’s just one more year for him . W hen you’ve already survived four, another feels like a lifetime.

His lawyer leans in, careful not to touch Colt but determined to hold his attention.

“We’re confident this appeal will be accepted, and if it is, your conviction will be overturned.

You’d be released with a parole officer to check-in with for the rest of the term, free to get back to a normal life. ”

Colt scoffs, and I don’t blame him. We all know there’ll be nothing normal about his life after this, conviction sticking or not.

Even without a felony on his record, and the love and support from the community for our family, his reputation will cling to him in Whitewood Creek.

The farmstead will always have work for him, so employment will never be a problem.

But the looks, the whispers in town—they’ll follow him forever.

“When will we get the results?” I ask.

“Two months or less.”

I rub my jawline, trying to suppress my frustration with the long timeline.

The election falls next month, which means I’ll likely be back in North Carolina when they come in.

I would have preferred to secure the governor’s seat first. That way, I could use my influence to help him, but it looks like that may not be a possibility.

“Mind if I speak with my brother for a few minutes alone?” I ask.

His lawyer nods, gathering the paperwork before standing to shake my hand.

He exits, closing the door behind him without another glance toward Colt.

He’s a decent enough guy, but my brother asked me to be his secondary counsel for a reason and I gladly accepted.

I might come across as a simple man in my early forties—a North Carolina farmer with generational roots who happened to step into politics—but I can be a ruthless lawyer when necessary. And for Colt, I have been.

“Either way, we’ll get this sorted out,” I assure him using my best politician voice.

He scoffs, not meeting my gaze. “You’ve been saying that for four years.” His voice is gruff, full of anger.

It stings that he’s right. I’ve been hustling in New York for a decade, positioning myself for this governor role to help my family’s business, and to turn the state around.

Colt’s conviction fell right in the middle of it all.

It’s just another weight added to the pile of injustices against our family that I’m determined to rectify soon.

“I know, and I still mean it.”

Our eyes finally meet, and instead of anger, I see hurt reflected back at me. In some ways, that reaction feels even worse.

“When’s the election?” he asks, his voice quiet.

“November.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You better crush these motherfuckers, Troy.”

“I intend to,” I say firmly, my resolve solidifying.

“You see Regan lately?”

“Saw her today.”

“How’s she holding up?”

I hesitate, recalling how watching my twin siblings’ birth taught me more than I could have imagined.

Regan and Colt have always shared a bond I’ve never fully understood.

When my dad was preoccupied with funeral arrangements for our mom—trying to manage a four-year-old wild child like Cash and a seven-year-old Lawson—Regan and Colt’s cries filled the air of our farmhouse.

In that chaos, I quickly learned that what the twins needed most was to be close to each other.

For months, I did my best to comfort them, arranging their cribs side by side so they could nuzzle against one another.

Before long, they would drift off to sleep, the warmth of their connection soothing their restless little hearts.

It wasn’t until my aunt moved in to help with the babies that my role shifted slightly from secondary caregiver to big brother, but those quiet moments with Regan and Colt stayed with me.

It was the reason why when Max’s mom left me as a single father, I wasn’t scared to take on the role. I felt like I'd done it before.

“She’s holding up. Misses you a lot.”

He scoffs and I notice the pain laced behind his eyes. Despite his tough resolve, he’s disappointed in Regan. And despite Regan’s love for Colt, she hasn’t been able to bring herself to visit him a single time since he’s been sent away.

The warden knocks on the door, interrupting that train of thought. “Time’s up,” he calls then moves to re-cuff Colt, positioning his hands behind his back before guiding him out the door.

“I’ll see you soon,” I call out.

He nods again, wordlessly, as he’s led away each step making me feel sicker to my stomach.

***

Four hours later, I’m back at the Charlotte airport, waiting to board my flight to New York City, arrival time about five in the evening.

After visiting Colt, I rushed home, said a quick goodbye to my siblings and dad, took the fastest shower of my life, and pulled on the white tux I’ll be wearing the second I land in NYC for the Hamptons party.

It’s the last thing I want to be doing right now.

My mind is anywhere but on schmoozing with political figures and lobbyists, shaking hands and making promises just to secure their backing for my upcoming gubernatorial run in North Carolina.

It feels unnatural and wrong to be sipping from fancy champagne glasses while my brother is behind bars.

All I really want is to be home, wrapping my arms around Liam, burying my face in his sweet, soft hair, tickling him until he’s giggling too hard to fight sleep.

Then I’d crawl into bed, sink into my overpriced silk sheets, and let the sound of the waves outside my window pull me under so deep I wouldn’t wake up until Sunday.

I sink into one of the uncomfortable, cracked leather seats at the Wingship terminal and pull out my phone while I wait for my group’s boarding to be called.

Three o’clock.

Georgia should’ve dropped Liam off with Eleanor by now for their weekend together. I can’t remember if she mentioned having plans of her own or if she’d be sticking around town. Between packing for this trip and prepping for my meeting with Colt’s lawyer, the details completely slipped my mind.

I drag a hand down my jaw, torn between trusting that she locked up the house and got Liam safely to Eleanor—and the nagging uncertainty that comes with not knowing her well enough to silence these racing thoughts.

With a sigh, I pull up my security app and check the windows and doors.

Secured .

Then I access the cameras, scanning the third floor for any signs of movement. Georgia’s bedroom door is sealed shut, so I move to the second floor.

Nothing .

Finally, I end on the first floor and that’s when I spot her.

Completely naked.

She’s seated on one of my velvet kitchen chairs, her elbows resting on the table as she devours what looks like is a messy, Italian sandwich.

I shouldn’t be staring but I can’t look away. My jaw drops. I shut off the video fast, heat rushing to my face—like I just intruded on something meant to be private.

What the hell is she doing?

I rub my temples, feeling completely out of my depth with this woman.

If it isn’t her sitting on me in the men’s steam room of the country club, it’s her eating a sandwich naked in my home.

She really enjoys being naked.

Curiosity and a strong wave of desire to see her again prompt me to reopen the app, needing to confirm that my mind wasn’t just playing tricks on me.

Nope. There she is.

Still naked.

Still eating a sandwich.

The image is seared into my memory despite most of her being concealed.

The angle of the camera doesn’t give me a full view of her breasts, but I can see the swell of them from the side shot and how they nearly brush against the glass tabletop in their weight.

I can also tell she’s wearing nothing on her bottom though her lower half is mostly concealed by a table leg.

She licks her finger in a way that I’m sure is innocent but looks completely seductive in my fucked-up mind just as a glob of mustard splatters against the glass. I harden in my jeans instantly imagining that being my come splattering all over her tits.

Fucking pervert. I scold myself, closing out of the app again and feeling like a creep.

Yet three minutes later, I’m adjusting myself in my chair, being sure no one can see over my shoulder and pulling out my phone, resolute not to reopen the video in case she stands up and gives me an even better view of her naked body. That’d be an image I'd never be able to wipe from my memory.

Because that would be wrong...

I’m much older than she is, more mature, I have more at stake than she does, and I’ve seen plenty of naked bodies in my life. She’s in my home and I’m simply making sure she’s okay.

And none of those truths stop me from typing out a text to her—the first I’ve sent her since hiring her seven days ago.

Clearly, I don’t have as much control over myself as I think when it comes to her because here I am, messaging her and reopening the video just to watch her eat...