The Right Man

Probation agent Chrissy Huyett knows she's in trouble the moment twenty-three year old Taylor Yeager steps into her office—ironic because the one in trouble is Taylor. He's on probation for assault and battery, the result of a bar fight that got him arrested, then convicted, then placed on probation for eighteen months, which includes court-ordered anger management. He had just come from court and the intake unit assigned Chrissy the case. And now she's looking up at Mr. Yeager, as she calls him, all six-foot two of him, broad-shouldered and raw boned, with a ruddy complexion and a pile of light brown hair that creeps over his ears, a refreshing change, Chrissy thinks, from those macho type guys with their shaved heads. Of course, she keeps her compliments to herself. Instead, she tells him to take a seat by her desk, while she struggles to keep her attraction to this guy from breaking down her professional façade.

In her four years with the agency, Chrissy had never been anything but professional, earning high marks from her supervisor and agency staff alike. She completes assignments on time and follows agency policy, ever changing and not always to her liking. Recently, she scored high on the supervisor's test, both written and oral, and is expected to assume that position in eight weeks upon the retirement of long-time supervisor. Until then, it's business as usual, supervising offenders like Taylor Yeager.

He's all smiles sitting in front of her desk, looking neat and spiffy in his courtroom attire, tan blazer over blue khaki slacks and a blue dress shirt open at the collar. He normally doesn't dress like this. Like Chrissy, he works in state government as an IT tech in a different agency. For those folks, its business casual at best, sometimes even jeans. Chrissy dresses a cut above most of the other female agents. As usual, she looks more like she belongs in an executive boardroom (black heels, green blazer, dark skirt and white blouse) than in the glorified cubbyhole that is her six by eight foot office, a spartan, windowless affair with nothing in it except a file cabinet, desk and laptop computer. Once she steps into her new position, she'll get a bigger office with a view.

As is her practice, she asks Taylor to give his version of events even though she's read the offense report.

"Bottom line," he says, "some dude dissed the girl I was with and wouldn't apologize. So I popped him." He bangs his grapefruit-sized fist into the palm of his hand.

"You were drinking I assume."

"Drinking yes, drunk no." She nods, then asks him who threw the first punch. "The dude tried to hit on her knowing full well she was with me. I told him to mind his own business and he laughed at me. That's when I popped him."

"You popped him pretty good from this report, Mr. Yeager, because you also need to pay restitution for his medical treatment for a broken jaw."

Taylor sighs and looks away. Then, after turning his attention back to Chrissy, he says, "Well, like I said, he acted like a dick." He slaps his hand over his mouth. "Oops, sorry about that Mrs. Huyett."

"Its agent Huyett or Ms. Huyett, I'm not married. But that's okay. It just tells me the court did the right thing by ordering anger management. It's obvious you have anger issues."

"You'd have been angry too if you were with some dude and another woman tried to hit on him."

"Maybe, but I wouldn't have assaulted your hypothetical woman. That's the difference. We all get angry, Mr. Yeager. But some of us manage it better than others."

"Whatever," he says, "I'll do what I have to do. I'm not here to give you a hard time. By the way, I like your jacket. It matches your eyes."

"We don't get personal here." His flattery charms her. She averts her eyes, struggling to hide it. She thinks he has a nice pair of eyes himself, bluish-gray, with a warm, engaging quality about them.

He smiles. "Right, we're all business. I get it."

"Good. Then I'll see you back here in another month. By then, you should either have completed the anger management course or at least enrolled in classes." He gets up to leave. "Oh, one other thing. I'll be making a verifying home visit within the next few weeks."

"A hunk and a half," she whispers once he's out the door. She begins typing her notes on the laptop, a brief, pithy summary of her meeting with Taylor. Per agency policy, she uses a minimum of adjectives. "The facts ma'am, just the facts," best describes the agency's note taking logo. She knows what she'd LIKE to write: 'Offender, through no fault of his own, altered this agent's vital signs in pleasurable ways. Her pulse quickened, her skin flushed and her panties moistened. Other than that, it was business as usual'. For fun, she actually writes that, then quickly deletes it. She laughs trying to picture her supervisor's face reading it. Of course, if he did, she could kiss her would-be promotion goodbye.

************************************

Taylor can't stop talking about "agent Huyett," as he calls her after Greg Reshefsky asks him how the meeting went with his PO. Greg and Taylor, called "the dynamic duo" around the office, work together in IT, share adjoining cubicles. They're on coffee break in an empty conference room.

"I'd guess she's a few years older than me, and really pretty. She was behind her desk, so I couldn't check out her bod. But what a face! Looks like an older Selena Gomez with green eyes and light brown hair which she wears up, all prim and proper."

"So she's one lady you won't be hitting on any time soon," Greg jokes, aware of his co-worker's facile way with the ladies. Also in his early twenties, he wears dark pants and a blue dress shirt open at the collar. If he's Taylor's other half of the dynamic duo, he's his polar opposite in looks. He's five inches shorter, wears his black hair in a crew cut and could stand to drop a few pounds.

"Don't think so," Taylor says, his tone purposely understated. "She kind of reprimanded me for saying something about her eyes." Taylor went on to complain about the amount of restitution and the anger management classes. "I still think the dude deserved what he got." He holds up his big fist. "Sometimes this is the only language some people understand. Shit, a guy like Chuck Zito would have messed that guy up much more than I did."

"Who?"

"Chuck Zito. Former Hell's Angel and celebrity bodyguard who punched out Jean-Claude Van Damme in a bar a few years ago. Zito's all about respect. Disrespect him and you pay a price. Read his book, "Street Justice." It's all in there. Well, I don't like to be disrespected either, especially when I'm with a chick. So I still don't see why I need anger management. And he can pay his own fucking medical bills. From what I heard, the guy's got money and medical insurance."

Greg nods. "I guess it's for all his pain and suffering," he says sarcastically. "Lawyers get rich off their clients' pain and suffering."

Taylor sips his coffee, then says, "Yeah, pain and suffering some of their clients deserve."

Greg gulps down the last of his coffee. "So what are you going to do? If you don't do the classes or pay the bills, she can violate you, right?"

"Right. But I'll take my good old time doing it."

***************************************

Per the specs of her job, Chrissy visits Taylor's residence a couple weeks later. He lives on the second floor of a two bedroom, garden style apartment building not too far from her office. Normally, she devotes a full day to field visits. But today is different in that she makes this her only stop after leaving the office around five. That way, she hopes to catch him after he returns home from work.

No such luck, she thinks after knocking and getting no answer. She's about to leave her business card on his door when she hears the building's main door open. Looking down over the railing, she sees Taylor coming up the steps.

He looks up. "Agent Huyett! Perfect timing, huh?"

"Just about. Don't mean to intrude but—"

"No problem," he says, reaching his floor. "You told me you'd be by. You're welcome to come in if you'd like."

She fluffs her long hair—she put it down before leaving the office—and then follows him through the door and into his carpeted living room, tastefully furnished with Scandinavian style sofa and two chairs.

"Have a seat," he says. He watches as she eases into one of the chairs and tugs at the hem of her skirt which doesn't quite cover her knees. Nice legs, he thinks. "Something to drink? Wine? Beer? I've got both."

She frowns.

He grins. "Just kidding."

"Very funny. Water would be fine. I like your furniture," she adds, glancing around the room. She also likes him, at least the way he looks. In fact, her vital signs begin to perk up the way they did in the office. This isn't supposed to happen during work hours, at least not with an offender. She's sitting across from him, listening to him talk about his work, thinking he bears a subtle likeness to impossibly handsome actor Scott Eastwood. Only she doubts that Mr. Eastwood has hands like Taylor's, not only big but with knuckles the size of walnuts. She winces inside trying to imagine how the victim felt when Taylor's fist collided with his jaw.

Which reminds her... "Mr. Yeager, have you paid anything toward your restitution yet?"

"No, but I will."

"Okay, then what about anger management? Have you registered for classes?"

He shakes his head and moves toward the edge of his seat, cushioned in dark blue and supported in a thin wood frame typical of the Scan style. "Agent Huyett, I'll be honest with you. I don't feel I need it because I still feel my actions that night were entirely justified. I'm not a violent person. I know how ridiculous that might sound to you in light of the incident. But when somebody disrespects me the way he did, I take care of business."

She hates to reprimand Taylor in his own place, but feels she has little choice. "Mr. Yeager, you need to do that ASAP. Otherwise I'll have to—"

"Violate me, I know."

"Well, at the very least, notify the court of your non-compliance. Please don't make me do that. You seem like a decent guy who acted on impulse. Who was that Baltimore Ravens' running back, the one who punched his wife in an elevator?"

"Ray Rice you mean."

"Right, him. And look what it cost him. No NFL team would take him after that. You guys need to learn how to control your anger. The classes might help, two days of classes, six hours a day and you're done. Just get it over with."

"We'll see," he says, a clear sign to her that he's still not fully onboard.

She gets up to leave. "Well, thanks for the water. By the way, how did your girlfriend react after you punched this guy?"

"Sandy's not really my girlfriend, just a friend who I sometimes, well, get intimate with. Anyway, she freaked when it happened, but understood why I did it. I mean, this guy wouldn't leave her alone, kept hitting on her and laughed about it. She even testified in court on my behalf. My lawyer thought we could beat it, claiming self defense. And you know the rest of the story."

She nods and chuckles. "Indeed I do. That's what I'm doing here."

"Well, maybe I shouldn't tell you this," he says, walking her to the door, "but I wish you were here under different circumstances. I mean, you seem pretty decent yourself and..." He shakes his head.

"And what?"

"Never mind. Some things should be left unsaid. Even an impulsive guy like me knows that."

She thinks she knows what he deems unsaid, but lets it go as she steps into the hall. "See you back in the office," she says. "And, not to beat a dead horse, but you need to get cracking on what the court wants you to do."

Back behind the wheel of her white Nissan Altima, Chrissie tries to picture this Sandy, someone she's never seen, getting "intimate" with Taylor Yeager. Then she superimposes herself into the picture, alone and naked with him. She can almost taste his sweet kisses, can almost feel his hard body against hers. She even starts to move with the rhythm of how she imagines their bodies would play together, his cock inside her hot, wet pussy. In fact, her pussy is now so wet and sensitive that she almost runs a stop sign. Then she slaps herself. "Wake up, girl!" she cries out. Always self analyzing, she thinks she knows what's going on, why she's having these outrageous fantasies. In a word: deprivation. It's been three years since she was involved intimately with a man. She was engaged, preparing to tie the knot when her fiancé got cold feet and split. Since then, date-wise, it's been one long drought, most of it her own doing. If a guy starts to like her, she breaks things off. Such is her lack of trust and fear of getting hurt. Still, she has needs that go unfulfilled, and she looks forward to a time when she can drop her guard and let someone special into her life. She's now twenty-eight, unmarried and unattached, and that's okay. She's not waiting around for Mr. Right so much as trying to prepare herself to accept him if and when she meets him. She must be desperate for such a happening, for why else would she be fantasizing about male offenders like Taylor Yeager? Sure, he's a hunk and appears intelligent—nobody who graduates from university with a degree in computer science is dumb. But he's too violent for her tastes. She's got no use for barroom brawlers, even those with advanced degrees. And even if she did, she can't realistically see herself violating the agency code prohibiting social interaction with offenders. Or can she?

*********************************

Kelly's Pub is a popular watering hole for happy hour. Chrissy is far from a heavy drinker, but she comes here on occasion after work to unwind, usually with a glass of Zinfandel, sometimes with a mug of brew on tap. She likes the convivial atmosphere of the place, as well as the physical layout, the subdued lighting and the bar, long enough and with enough stools to accommodate a good sized crowd. It's five-thirty on a Friday, TGIF, and people are starting to pour in. Sitting with her back to the bar, Chrissy sips her Zinfandel while looking around to see if there's anyone here she might know. She's got her hair down, wearing her dress-down Friday duds—tight, French vanilla slacks, v-neck lavender blouse and yellow cross trainers. She recognizes some people from her building, people who work for different agencies. She's clueless who they are, but engages in a few mutual nods. Even in her guarded state of mind, she pictures meeting a nice guy here, whatever a nice guy is; she's not sure anymore. She sees guys here that could be nice, some of them real hotties, guys in dress-down business casual, others in suits. She sees them standing around, imbibing, checking her out. No surprise there. She knows she's pretty. Hell, she ought to know; she's been told enough times for as long as she can remember. Such lifelong positive attention leaves many women in her league conceited. Not her. Instead, it's left her with a quiet confidence about who she is.

One of these guys, standing a few feet away, keeps trying to make eye contact. He's not super good looking like some of the guys here. Rather, she'd call him "pleasant" looking, a Mr. Average a few years older than she who wears khaki pants and a red tie that hangs loosely around the collar of his white button-down shirt. He's got brown, wavy hair, parted on the side, a slight pompadour in front. She meets his gaze and smiles. She's not particularly interested, but she's kind of in the mood for company. She sees him making his way through a group of people, beer bottle in hand, a hopeful smile plastered across his face.

"Hey pretty lady. Buy you a drink?"

She crosses her legs, squirms on her stool. "I've got one, thanks."

"Looks like you're almost on empty. How bout another?"

"Thanks again, but no. One's plenty for me."

"A light drinker, huh?"

"You could say that."

"No problem." He thrusts his hand out. "The name's Ted."

"Chrissy."

"Nice meeting you Chrissy. You work around here?"

"Close by. You?"

"Downtown, but I live out here. What line of work are you in?"

"Corrections."

"I see. And what or whom do you correct?" She tells tell him she's a probation agent.

He steps back. "Ah, you supervise baaaad people."

"They're not all bad. Some just made bad decisions. What about you, work-wise?"

"I'm a bean counter, otherwise known as an accountant. I've got my own firm." He whips out a business card.

"A CPA."

"You got it."

They begin to talk louder in order to be heard over the swelling crowd. This Ted seems nice enough, full of himself but nice. Plus, he looks in decent shape. Like her, he hits the gym a few times a week. At least that's what he tells her. He also tells her how well he does financially, the two cars he drives, the Honda Accord Cross Tour for "my practical side," the Porsche Carrera GT for "my fun, frivolous side." And then there's the condo in Florida and another condo he rents in Vail, Colorado during ski season and the charity he's set up for unprivileged youth. She nods, taking it all in, not believing or disbelieving, just letting him toot his own horn about how wonderful he's done in life at such a young age.

Before she knows it, it's an hour later, close to seven. Outside, twilight has descended. Chrissy has long finished her Zinfandel, while Ted gulps down the last of his third beer. He offers to walk her to her car. "As a probation agent, you should know the danger that lurks on our streets after dark," he says.

She considers his offer because she's parked a few blocks away on Munsey Lane, devoid of street lights and the scene of a mugging not too long ago. "Sure, I'd like that," she says. "Thanks."

Once outside, she takes notice of his height. About five-foot ten, she estimates. Not a big guy, though obviously bigger and stronger than she. If attacked, she'd feel safer with him than alone. They walk a half block, turn a corner, then walk another block, then turn another corner, then take one more block to Munsey Lane, a glorified alley with shabby, clapboard detached homes on one side, a vacant gravel lot on the other. There's other cars parked here, many belonging to pub patrons who couldn't find a space anywhere else.

With Ted behind her, she takes out her keys attached to the automatic lock and clicks open the door to her Nissan. Then she begins to turn around to say goodbye. However, she's unable to because he's got his arms around her, trying to force her into the car as he grabs her keys.

"What the hell are you doing?! Give me back my keys and get your hands off me!"

"Shut up and get the fuck in!" he growls.

She grabs the door, trying to push herself away, while he keeps trying to push her in. It's obvious to her that he's attempting to kidnap her in her own car.

She tries to scream, but he slaps one hand over her mouth, while punching her in the ribs with the other. She grabs his hand and bites it, forcing him to yield his grip. She screams at the top of her lungs. "Help me! Somebody help me, please!" She manages one more scream before he wraps an arm around her neck and begins to choke her. She can no longer scream, can barely breathe as he applies more pressure. She struggles to remain conscious, fearing that if she blacks out she might not wake up. Still, night is falling fast, and she feels her body falling with it. She lands on her bucket seat, and then a fist crashes into her forehead. Then...she feels nothing.

The noise brings her to—the noise and then the sight of her attacker being punched and subdued by some guy who looks familiar. Her head hurts and she's still too groggy to fully comprehend what's going on. Then she hears a familiar voice: "Agent Huyett, are you okay?" Sirens are going off, a small crowd has gathered, and her attacker is lying prostrate on the sidewalk, banged up a lot worse than she. And here's this guy kneeling beside her, doing his best to comfort her.