FF Lyn Gardner - Give Me A Reason

Intelligent, confident and beautiful, Antoinette Vaughn had it all until one night she went to help a friend and paid for it...with a life sentence in hell.

Four years later, Toni’s judgment is overturned, but the damage is already done. She walks from the prison a free woman, but she’s hardly free. Actually, she’s hardly alive. A prison without rules can do that to a person.

She was raised amidst garden parties, stables and tennis courts, but now a dingy flat in a decrepit building is what Toni calls home. It’s cold, dark and barren just like her heart, but it suits her. She doesn’t want to leave much behind when she’s gone, but the simplicity of her sheltered existence begins to unravel when a beautiful stranger comes into her life.

How does anyone survive in a world that terrifies them? How do you learn to trust again when everyone is your enemy? How do you take your next breath and not wish it were your last? And if your past returned...what would you do?

Author’s Note: Give Me A Reason contains elements of angst, and while it may be found under several genres, its primary listing is lesbian fiction.



If you like this book support the author by buying it.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18719472-give-me-a-reason

You can find my entire collection here:
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I want to thanks brokefree for sharing her book.




Chapter One


She had lost track of time as she sat in the dark listening to the noise of the night. Winter was coming to an end, but like she had done every night as the months had passed, the windows were open an inch, allowing the cool dampness to invade the room and saturate her soul. She didn’t mind. She had forgotten what it felt like to be warm.

She turned on the floor lamp, the bulb flickering for a moment before the connection was made, but its brightness was lost behind a shade stained with the yellowness of age. It was used, bought second-hand like the few other necessities that took up space in the tiny flat she called home. A small couch, barely large enough to hold two people, its upholstery faded and frayed just like her, sat in the middle of the room while a mismatched chair stood desolate in a corner. Purchased for the comfort of guests, it had yet to be used except for the occasional piece of clothing dropped on its lonely cushion. Books were scattered and stacked around the room, some piles neat while others leaned to the left or right, waiting for the effect of gravity to announce itself. There was no need for a bookcase, just another piece of clutter, just another problem for someone else to clean up. There wasn’t a reason for buying new. Why burden someone with your belongings when it would be so much easier to discard them when you’re gone?

Going into the kitchen, she switched on the light, the fluorescent lamp sputtering and groaning as it was awakened from its sleep. Squinting at the brightness, she turned it off and took a few short steps to open the tiny fridge tucked under the counter. It was a paltry room, large enough for one, but too small for two. She liked that.

Taking a bottle from the shelf, she returned to the lounge and placed it on the coffee table, staring at its milky contents and wondering if tonight would be the night. Lighting another cigarette, she slowly exhaled and watched as the smoke floated over her head until it disappeared into the shadows. She glanced at the bottle again. Picking it up, she examined some particles that had settled to the bottom, awaiting their turn to be dissolved by the clear liquor inside. Inhaling a lungful of smoke, she carefully set the bottle down, within reach if the mood struck, but far enough away to keep it safe from harm. Opening her briefcase, she pulled out a packet of papers and took a sip from the bottle of beer she had been nursing for over an hour. As she read over the first essay, she grimaced. Her student had yet to comprehend the lessons being taught. Picking up a red pencil, she began to make notes and corrections in the margins. Taking an occasional drag from her cigarette, she worked through the small stack until all were graded and tucked safely back into her attaché.

Getting up, she went to the window to close the sash and paused for a moment to peer through the glass. Three stories above the street, she could still hear the sounds of tires against wet pavement and the occasional shout of a fond farewell as nightlife left the pubs and stumbled to find their way home. Letting out a long breath, she carried the bottles to the kitchen, throwing one away and placing the other safely back in the fridge, shaking it a few times to assist the remaining granules in their disappearance. Unbuttoning her blouse, she walked silently to the bedroom, and after tossing the shirt in the wardrobe, she pulled down the brightly-colored duvet on the bed, its vibrant hues in sharp contrast to the rest of the flat. Having spent too many nights lying awake on sheets and mattresses used by others, their bodily habits leaving stains and scents behind, this mattress and linens were purchased new. Although the sheets were now two years old and their colors were faded by washing, they still felt good to her.

As she lay in the darkness, she wondered how she could feel so lost in a space so small, but then again, she felt lost everywhere. The flat was simply a place to exist until the next day dawned, and tomorrow would dawn. Tomorrow she had work to do…so it wouldn’t be tonight.

***

“Are you going to work all night?” he asked, stomping into the kitchen for the third time in the last hour.

“Duane, you know I start tomorrow, and I need to get my thoughts in order,” she answered, looking up from her laptop.

Frowning, Duane said, “It’s just that your work always seems to come first. There’s never anything left for me.”

“I’m sorry, but you know how I am.”

“You mean a workaholic?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Look, I love that you’re focused on this, and I love you. It’s just that I’ve spent the last two days watching the telly, and I’m bored.”

“And I want to make a good impression on my first day. I promise, once I get settled at Calloway, I’ll give you all the time you need.”

“I need time now, babe. I feel like I’ve wasted my whole weekend over here.”

“Well, if I’m not mistaken, you invited yourself over here this weekend, not me.”

“I didn’t think I needed an invitation!”

Realizing she could have been more eloquent in her response, Laura rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to think of a way to avoid yet another endless argument about her wants versus his needs.

Laura MacLeod was thirty-two years old, and although born in Scotland, she had moved to England six years earlier to take a rather lucrative teaching position at a small private academy in Surrey. She had always wanted to teach, to instill values and knowledge in youthful minds, so it was a dream come true...and the paycheck didn’t hurt either. She was smart. She was young, and she was rapidly building a hefty nest egg.

During one summer break, a fellow teacher suggested that Laura join her in volunteering at a local women’s prison. Although doubtful that incarcerated women would be as willing to learn as the boys behind ivy-covered walls, Laura reluctantly agreed. It was a decision that changed her life.

Having always taken great delight in educating others, it wasn’t until she saw the appreciation in the eyes of the inmates that Laura realized she had found her niche. There was a profound difference between instructing children raised with silver spoons in their mouths, to enlightening women whose lives seemed to hold only despair. Before autumn arrived that year, she had left the pristine palace of expensive education, and taking a position at HMP Sturrington, Laura MacLeod entered the world of Her Majesty’s Prison Service.

Laura enjoyed her time at Sturrington, as much as anyone could enjoy being locked behind thick stone walls for eight hours a day. Most of the women were eager to learn, and although there was an occasional conflict, more often than not it was just frustration on the part of the inmate. Laura could walk out of the gates every afternoon while they stayed behind, locked in their cells, with only their thoughts to keep them company. She understood that feeling all too well…that was until she met Duane York.

With a healthy bank account to back her up, Laura purchased a small home in the borough of Barnet and spent her free time renovating and decorating it to make it her own. Visiting a local nursery one weekend, she accidentally bumped into a man carrying a shallow tray of flowers, sending him and the plants to the ground. Profusely apologizing, when she offered to buy him a cup of coffee while waiting in the queue to pay for their purchases, he agreed, and one week later, Duane York called to ask her out on a date.

Laura’s attraction to Duane wasn’t instantaneous, but like the flowers she planted around her house, it grew over time. He was an attractive man, a half foot taller than her five-foot-four-inch frame, and although slender, years of playing football with his mates had afforded him a workout that defined his muscles quite nicely.

It was a comfortable, slow-moving relationship, but when he had proposed to her a few months earlier, Laura was stunned. They were good together. In and out of bed, they were good together, but marriage meant love, and Laura wasn’t sure she really loved Duane. She liked him. She liked him a lot, but a commitment of that magnitude needed more than just like, it needed love, so she told him no. Heartbroken and angry, he left her house that night saying he’d never return.

At first, it was odd not having Duane underfoot, rummaging through her pantry for nibbles or relaxing in the lounge while she fixed dinner. However, as each day passed, Laura realized that it was nice to do what she wanted when she wanted to do it. It was refreshing to open the refrigerator and still find it stocked with what she craved, and when she came home after a long, hard day, her house was exactly in the order she had left it that morning. There were no surprises anymore, and for the first week, it was a nice change, but by the start of the second, Laura began to miss having Duane around. She missed his laugh and his warmth, and the way they’d snuggle on the sofa together, watching the telly as they talked about their days. She missed making meals for two and evenings in the pub with friends, and she missed the love they made, even though she wasn’t sure, at least for her, love had anything to do with it. So, when Duane called to apologize ten days after he walked out of her house, Laura accepted it and things returned to the way they were.

During those two weeks of solitude, Laura received a call from an old friend. John Canfield was the former governor of HMP Sturrington, but he had resigned his position at the prison two years before, deciding that he no longer wanted to live ten hours a day behind locked doors. Still passionate about helping those who could not yet help themselves, he had accepted a position as the director of one of the largest bail hostels in London whose primary focus was on education.

Two days after receiving John’s phone call, Laura sat in a bustling coffee shop listening as the man across the table chattered on about Calloway House. Not just a hostel to spend the night, the week or the month, Calloway offered its occupants more than just a roof over their head and a curfew. With the current curriculum, the residents could learn to read, to write, to balance a checkbook and even fix a car if they so desired. It gave them hope and with it, self-worth.

Over their second cup of coffee, John explained that he currently had a staff of four full-time and two part-time teachers, but he needed someone to oversee not only them, but also the course schedules. He needed a person with focus, steadfast in their belief about what learning could accomplish. He needed someone who could follow rules, adhere to the strict guidelines set by the Department of Education and Skills, and he needed someone who would be willing to take the steps necessary in order to insure that Calloway would continue to receive funding. In other words, he needed Laura MacLeod.

When they had first met at Sturrington, although impressed by the petite woman with the green eyes and infectious smile, John believed that her enthusiasm to teach convicts would be short-lived. He could not have been more wrong. While many a teacher had turned cynical behind the stone walls and barred windows of the prison, Laura had not. She thrived on teaching those who craved to be taught. She adored her students and they adored her, and it didn’t take long before Laura MacLeod became one of John’s most trusted and valued educators. When funds were allocated to increase his staff at Calloway by one, John picked up the phone and called Laura.

Before they finished their third cup of coffee, Laura accepted the position, and when Duane York once again became part of her life a few days later, their already fragile relationship began to show even more cracks.

“Laura!”

Startled from her thoughts by Duane’s outburst, she looked up from her notes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You haven’t heard one bloody word I’ve said, have you?” he shouted, grabbing his jacket. “That’s just great!”

Flinching as the front door slammed shut, she sighed. “Shit.”

***

After parking in an area marked For Employees Only, Laura climbed out of the car, gathered her briefcase, laptop and lunch, and turned around to gaze at the six-story building in front of her. Located on the outskirts of London, Calloway had been converted from an old apartment building to a halfway house nearly twelve years earlier. Showing its age in its architecture, the brick facade was broken up by tall, narrow windows, all of which were capped with thick pediments of stone, and along the roof line was a bulky cornice supported by brackets jutting out every few feet. Slightly ominous in its appearance, Laura took a deep breath as she headed to the entrance. Pulling open the heavy door, she walked inside.

Well aware that if Laura MacLeod had a fault, it was one based on time, John Canfield had been patiently waiting in a doorway off the entry. Watching as his new hire walked into the lobby, before she could say anything to the elderly man sitting behind the front desk, John called out, “Glad to see you could make it.”

Looking in his direction, Laura smiled. Pushing six-foot-six, John Canfield was in his late fifties with very little hair left to speak of, but his cheerful personality and boyish charm subtracted years from his age. Gangly and soft-spoken, while they had only worked together at Sturrington for a short time, it was long enough for Laura to see John as more than just a friend, and only slightly less than a father.

“Sorry. Am I that late?” she said with a weak grin, shrugging her laptop bag off her shoulder.

“Only a few minutes,” he said, taking the satchel from her hands. “Come on. Let me show you around.”

Before starting the tour, John quickly introduced Laura to the old man sitting behind the desk. As with most bail hostels, or Approved Premises as they were now being called, several of the residents had strict curfews. During the week, it was Martin’s job to keep track of who came and went, while at night and on the weekends, other retired prison officers took his place.

Rail thin and with his scraggy face displaying a two-day-old stubble of stark white hair, Martin grumbled a curt hello before looking back at the daily tabloid he held in his withered hands.

Rolling his eyes at the watchman’s gruffness, John led Laura through a large doorway to the right of the entry as he explained that the two lower levels of Calloway held the staff offices, classrooms and community areas while the upper four floors housed the residents. Believing that part of their rehabilitation involved