Slow, deliberate footsteps.
I glanced up, and what I saw made my stomach drop as though I’d missed a stair.
Travis.
With recognizable tattoos sprawled over his arms, it was impossible not to know it was him. Big, broad-shouldered, his hoodie unzipped enough to show a white tank top underneath that’d probably seen more fights than laundry.
He walked toward me with a smile that didn’t make me feel at ease. I wondered what had happened at Travis’s meeting with his parole officer.
“Well,” he said, dragging the word out, “if it isn’t the good therapist.”
My throat went dry, and I froze. “Travis.”
“Do you shop here?” he asked as his attention flicked to the bags in my arms.
As if to check me for weakness.
My hands were full, my keys were buried somewhere in my pocket, and I had no easy escape.
“I live… in the area,” I said, choosing my words carefully.
My voice didn’t shake, and I was proud of that.
“Lucky me,” he said as he moved closer, slowly.
Close enough I could smell his cheap cologne and the faint tang of cigarettes which clung to his clothes. Plus, an unmistakable stench of whiskey, which told me Travis was drunk.
In his palm was a bent bronze coin that appeared to be an AA anniversary token. He’d rubbed the year clean with his thumb and the whiskey on his breath said he’d lost it tonight.
On his wrist, a plastic band, obviously county issued. Barcode and all. Travis had been in jail. A folded schedule labeled Day Reporting protruded from his pocket, a warning in paper form.
He offered a smug grin. “Small world, huh?”
I fought the urge to shift back, though I had nowhere to go. I was backed up against my car.
“I spent the weekend in a cell because of you,” he said as he picked at his wristband. “County had me for seventy-two hours. Day Reporting for a month. I lost out on a good job yesterday because I was locked up. And now I’ve got a curfew like a goddamned child.”
I couldn’t find any words to respond, but I could see Travis’s anger written across his face, visceral.
“Know what else they gave me?” Travis asked. “A shiny little no-contact order with staff that I’m already breaking.”
“Is there something you need?” I asked as I tried to keep my tone neutral.
No contact included me. If I made it home, I’d have no choice but to write a report and have it on my supervisor’s desk before nine. But Travis didn’t just need my signature anymore. He needed somewhere to put the blame.
His grin widened. “Thought I’d say hello, Blair. Wanted to make sure you haven’t written too many notes about me in your little pad. Judges love their notes.”
My heart thudded once, hard, and threatened to stop altogether.
I was a professional, and I’d dealt with his breed of jerk before. The problem was, most of the time when I faced a man as dangerous as this, I sat across a table from them with a panic button under my finger. Not in a dim, deserted lot with no witnesses.
And no exits.
I forced my tone to remain level. “Sessions are confidential. And if you’ve been issued a no contact order, you’ve broken it.”
I couldn’t understand what Travis’s goal was. But I’d learned not to overanalyze the impulsive behavior of anger management participants. Even so, Travis in particular had a lot to lose. Any harm to me and he’d be in another violation of his parole, which would mean a return to prison.
He leaned closer to me and the stench of cigarettes filled my nostrils.
