Page 20

Chapter eighteen

Kace

Past

I t’s been a crazy few weeks here at Darkwater. New inmates were delivered a half-month ago as well as last week. There must be a new election coming, and someone has started to clear out county and city jails. Would explain the influx of inmates. If the warden isn’t careful, there won’t be enough room to house all of us and they may have to start shipping them out to other prisons. Trust me when I say, they don’t want that. The funding that comes from the state is indignant on the inmate count and need for resources.

Why do I know this? I did a little research before being sentenced. I wanted to know how prisons run, and who advocates for the indefinite caging of men and women. What I found out made sense, but the information is still cause for concern since a lot of the allocated resources never make it down the chain to where it’s actually needed— such as medical resources, nutritional needs, and most of the basic human necessities.

That’s why there is commissary available, if your family is kind enough, and has the means, to put money on your books. My mom has the money to do so, it’s just getting her to do it that’s the issue. That being said, while we lived under our dad's roof for a long while and his money carried us. I have no access to my trust fund until I turn thirty; granted I meet his requirements and own a successful business.

Well, we now know that won’t happen—I’m sitting in prison for fuck’s sake. There will not be any kind of successful business as long as I am in here. Then the odds of having children are zilch, not that I want to reproduce, nevertheless. I may just sign over my trust fund to my sister so she can use it. Since there won’t be anyone to pass it down to.

That’s a different topic for a different day though. I need to learn how to survive in here, so that is the first thing on my agenda, or was. Over the past couple of weeks being in prison, I have learned that some things are easier said than done.

It’s not as difficult to talk to people on the outside as it is in here. There are already groups that exist inside, then you also have the whole race game to consider. I’ve never been one of those people who give a shit about someone’s skin color, yet that is important here. With my appearance, just speaking to someone of a different race could piss off other people—which is weird as fuck. Who the hell cares that much? Are we not in here to be punished? What’s the point of making shit harder for each other.

Last week, I sat down at a table that would usually be occupied by the kinfolk and was promptly exiled from there then forced to another. The looks I received from the brotherhood were one thing, but when the kinfolk got aggressive with me, that annoyed the AB, and they stepped up to take care of shit. I don’t know if they did it to sway me or not, but their efforts were in vain.

I’m staying far away from the factions if this is how it is going to play out.

I can’t even exist in the rec yard without the bullshit running rampant. There is workout equipment out there, like pull-up bars, climbing equipment, sit-up bars, a triceps dip space, push-up lifts, inclines, and a lot of other stuff. It’s heavy on the upper body training. There’s also a single-lane dirt path that leads around the entire rec yard for running. It’s hard to access on rainy days, but when they let me out in the yard, I run anyway using my boots, even though they are uncomfortable. I want to make sure my feet stay dry.

Nothing is worse than swamp feet—actually, swamp ass is probably worse, but I digress.

Another thing about prison is that it is boring as fuck. There’s nothing to do but work and try to stay out of trouble, which is rather fucking difficult for most of the inmates, might I add. I never got m rocks off being a troublemaker anyway, so it is easy for me to keep my head down and stay to myself.

Finishing up my workout in the rec yard, I step back inside the corridor leading back to the center of the prison, the main access point to my block. Thinking a quick shower would be nice before I go sit in gen pop and watch the tiny ass TV they have hanging up in there. It’s high enough to stay out of reach of the inmates since some of them like to dismantle electronics and use the wiring for getting dotted up. Additionally, the TV is barricaded behind a steel cage and plexiglass, just in case these fuckers in here go rogue and a riot or fight breaks out.

Last thing we need is the loss of our beloved TV.

As I make my way down the hallway, getting closer to my cell, I can hear some bantering between inmates in gen pop. The chatter mixing with orders given from some of the guards.

Stepping out of the hallway and into the open space, I see a group of new officers about five feet to my left, standing in front of the main guard station. Zurita is doling out explanations and orders—they must be in training. I think the inmates call the new one's cowboys versus rookies.

Prison terminology fucks me up sometimes. It’s like talking in code.

As I go to step away and head to my cell, I crash into someone. Someone shorter, softer, and apparently, mean as fuck since it is a feminine voice which barks at me. Catching me way off guard.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going, inmate.”

Whipping my head around, I have to look down before my eyes meet a pair of cold, silver ones. Orbs that are surrounded by dark eyelashes, manicured brows, and a scowl.

Jesus.

“Are you hard of hearing?” she grunts.

“Huh, no. I…” I stammer.

Have you ever felt pulled to someone from the moment you meet? That’s how it feels staring down into her chilling eyes, watching as her pupils dilate— whoever she may be.

She is stunning.

“Inmate, back up!” someone yells, but they seem a million miles away at the moment.

I can’t move even if I want to, I am sucked into her orbit. The gravity at which she holds me, has the strength to pull the bones right out of my body. We keep eye contact for what may be too long to be appropriate. At least until her expression changes from annoyance to panic, then to anger. Which I find rather interesting.

She’s new and doesn’t know what to do yet, and I don’t know why that gives me such a thrill.

Letting my eyes flick over to the embroidery on her tactical vest, I can see the white stitching that says “Pierce,” then I make eye contact with her again. Before I can speak my apologies, like a gentleman—though I am far from one—her smaller hand wrenches my right arm and spins me around. She then kicks me in the back of the knees, making me drop down to the concrete floor. Pain ricocheting up my legs.

An audible grunt spills out of my mouth the second I am fully prone, my face pressed to the cold surface beneath me, and her weight sitting on the middle of my back. I can hear her talking, roaring orders, and droning on about order and respect. But I am so stunned, I’m incapable of focusing on anything else except for the memory of her chilling gaze.

Instinctively, I pull my arms so I can push against the floor. Needing to get up but instead I feel the harsh bite of handcuffs already circling my wrists.

What in the fuck is going on?

With more force, I pull at them again before I start to roll over onto my side. In-custody asphyxia is a real thing, and while I’d rather not be here, dying isn’t in the cards either. I aim my movement at dislodging her from my back, and to get some sort of upper hand over her. While I’m momentarily stupefied, like a fucking deer in headlights, my brain finally decides to return to the land of the fully functional.

“Get the fuck off of me,” I grunt out.

Officer Pierce shifts over me, her shorter and lighter body moving into a straddle at my waist just as she puts all her weight down on me. Next thing I know, she has her left forearm pressed against my throat, barring down and glaring at me.

“I said, ‘Inmate, you will learn some fucking respect and follow my orders. When I tell you to watch where the hell you’re going, you will do it. If another officer tells you to back up, you follow the command without hesitation.’ Do I make myself clear?” she grinds out.

“Y—yes, Officer.”

With a harsh shove to my throat, I feel her lift and vacate my body. The heat of hers still lingering against me like some sort of phantom. Then, her scent, citrus and honey—makes my mouth water.

I must be having a psychotic break.

She just threw me on the floor like I am nothing, embarrassed me in front of the whole block, and all I can think about is looking at and feeling her again.

Is this what they talk about in fantasy books? Instant desire?

Maybe it’s because I have gone so long without any sort of physical contact from a woman. I stopped seeing Emilia a few months after the accident and just went into a hole. There were appointments I needed to make, work, seeing my lawyer, and a whole slew of other important matters. She was furious that I dumped her, Ricky wasn’t any less angry, but he understood why I did it.

Severing ties with Emilia, knowing that I might be going away for a long time, if not my entire life, would only be more taxing to her. I mean, I know we didn’t have the healthiest relationship since all we did was fight and fuck— in that order— but Ricky still thought there was going to be more between us. It was the right thing to do, give her the space she needed to move on, to find someone who could give her that white picket fence I knew she wanted one day.

So, now that it has been a good four years or so since I’ve been with her, my body and mind have to be playing tricks on me. I’m not attracted to men, so of course, the first beautiful woman that steps into my line of sight is bound to leave me breathless.

That’s what I keep telling myself anyway—maybe it’s just her, who knows.

Pulled up from the floor, the fireball uncuffs me and put the devices back on her duty belt as Officer Zurita approaches; my hands absentmindedly rubbing the now annoyed skin at my wrists.

“Did we learn anything today, inmate?” he asks.

Dickhead.

I looked over at the shorter man, brows furrowing in response, and keep my mouth shut. You don’t converse with guards, from what I have been told, no matter the subject. It was some unwritten rule amongst the inmates; if you were sotted talking to them, then there will be repercussions to your existence. It’s not a gamble I am willing to take.

Looking away from him, he gives me a snide look, then motions for Officer Pierce to create distance.

“Good work, Nadia. Way to set a good example. I do suggest taking on some sort of fitness regimen, so it gives you a bit more strength to throw around. You are almost too light to utilize your weight, but your quick maneuvers gave you the edge you need to take down inmates like Patton.”

Nadia, not a name you hear every day. Feminine and delicate—and fierce for this one.

“Thank you, Sir. I will keep that in mind.”

When they walk away, I remain standing in my spot like a fucking idiot. The tender way she said ‘Sir’ makes my cock to throb.

There are many things in life that you want and cannot have, even more when you’re incarcerated, and I want her right then. I hope to God she stays on staff. Though I know nothing will ever happen between the two of us, it will make my sentencing a little better getting to look at her every day.

Snapping out of my daze, I move down the open corridor of open cell doors ‘til I get to mine and round the corner. Ronald’s sitting on his bunk reading his comic, as always. He is quickly turning into a comfort, like one of those inanimate objects that if it moves, it fucks up your entire day.

Without saying anything to him, I step over to the shelf and snatch up some new clothes— I need to shower. The sweat that was once coating my skin has now dried into an itchy layer of salt. Which blending with the dirt on my hands, arms, and the side of my face from being pinned to the floor. She was so damn fast; I can only imagine the force she will have once she strength trains.

“Anything good happening out in the yard?” Ronald asks without looking up from his book.

Odd, him trying to have a conversation.

“No. New inmates, new guards. One is taking her role seriously, but you know how these things go. Got to wait it out to see how they manage.”

“Mhm,” he replies.

I take that as the end of the conversation, proceed out of our cell and to the showers. It’s usually pretty busy in here two times during the day, but I’ve discovered that I can squeeze in here between the two time slots. Allowing me to get my business done without being interrupted.

Today is a bit different, ominous to a point. There are a few guys in here that I see occasionally, minding their business. A few white guys chatting in the far-right corner in their full jumpers, looking like they are sizing up the others which makes my stomach plummet. I can only imagine what type of shit is about to go down, that thought makes me turn on my heel. I don’t need a shower that bad. I can give myself a whore bath in my cell far away from whatever initiation ritual is about to commence.

Quickly leaving the showers, I make a beeline to my cell and right to the sink. Ronald quirks a brow at my sudden appearance.

“Problem?”

“You could say that—one I don’t want to be a part of so it’s washing in the sink.”

“Ahh, yeah. I’ll step out to give you some time. Going to go grab something from commissary, my daughter Ivy sent some money over today.”

“Sounds good, see you when you get back.”

Once he left, I turn the water on a low trickle and pull out a clean shirt. It will leave me with an odd number of full uniforms but that’s alright. Running the fabric under the water, I use it to soak up just enough to wring out across my shoulders. Wetting them before lathering my bar of soap and running it across my skin.

It didn’t take me forever, but I am just finishing up with my feet when Ronald returns, dropping down on his bed, going back to his book— bag of chips in one hand and a piece of candy in the other.

“Want one?” he asks, seeing me eye the little red disk.

“What is it?”

“Reeds cinnamon candy.”

“Sure,” I reach out, and he drops one in my hand.

Sliding into new clothes, I put away the soiled ones and tread back to gen pop where I sit down on one of the bench seats. Hoping to get lost in whatever TV programming they are allowing us to watch today, but the longer I try to focus on it, the harder it becomes.

I glance over my shoulder a time or two, looking for the female guard—eager to see her once more before shift change or chow. As I scan the area for what feels like the twentieth time, I finally lock eyes with her. She is sitting in the guard booth, possibly going over the fire exits and other safety measures within this part of the prison. I guess it’s dry and boring because when she makes eye contact with me, she straightens her spine and allows herself to stare back versus paying attention to what is in front of her.

She doesn’t really strike me as the type to be easily distracted, so I’m a little surprised that she maintains eye contact again. Unlike earlier, she doesn’t wear her emotions all over her face.

Good girl.

The inmates will eat her alive if she lets any sort of emotion through, they see it as a weakness and will use it to their advantage. I would hate to see one of these fuckers rip her apart; there’s a reason they don’t put women in max—one I prefer not to think about.

Holding her gaze for a few more breaths, I look away. First down at the floor just a few feet away from where I am sitting, then I turn forward and face the TV. I have a feeling this girl is not only going to hold her own here, but she’s either going to do really good, or really, really bad.