by Pam Godwin
“I’ll find them some space,” he growled.
“A private cell. With a lock.” If this turned into a sexual thing, she didn’t want anyone walking in.
“Fine.” His nostrils flared.
“Today. Right now.”
He drew in a sharp inhale and scanned the yard, likely searching for inmates who might threaten her. A moment later, he stormed off.
She treaded in the other direction. As she neared her bench, a pack of five men came into view around the corner.
All muscle, tattoos, and menace, they walked with cocky swaggers and eyes locked on wherever they were headed.
She followed their gazes to a table, where the two Americans sat alone.
Shit.
Ricardo and Martin were about to meet the welcoming committee, and it wouldn’t be gentle.
Her muscles tensed, and she glanced in the direction Garra had headed. No luck.
Even if he were here, he would never interfere in a yard fight. And she had no power or authority over anyone, which was why Garra didn’t like to leave her side.
She had no choice but to let this play out.
Her bench sat within hearing range of the confrontation. No one looked in her direction as she lowered onto the sun-soaked seat.
“Hey, gabachos.” A huge bald man known as Papá approached the black-haired guy, who she assumed was Ricardo. “I have a list for you. Make sure we get everything on it by tomorrow.”
The wrinkled paper in Papá’s fist probably demanded things like cigarettes, soap, underwear, and other goods that could be purchased or traded at the canteen.
“Sure, can I see it?” Ricardo asked in fluent Spanish and slowly stood.
As Papá handed over the list, Ricardo slammed a fist into the huge man’s nose.
“Oh, fuck.” Her hand flew to the grip of her gun, knowing full well they would kill her if she interfered.
In a blur of bodies, five men with sledgehammer arms slammed into the Americans.
She expected them to fall beneath the beating. Or run for their lives. Either option would’ve labeled them as cowards and turned them into permanent punching bags. Or worse.
But they didn’t cower.
They hit back, furiously, expertly, and without fear. Even more incredible was the awareness they had of each other. They worked in tandem, one of them punching high while the other kicked low. Their strikes were synchronized, their arms and legs moving as if controlled by one mind.
The way they predicted each other’s movements was mind-boggling. They must’ve trained together. A lot.
Their bodies carried the muscled strength and coordination of men who had dedicated some serious time to the heavy bag. Biceps flexed with every punch. Pectorals contracted and heaved against the stretch of their shirts. Powerful legs delivered blows that sent a massive man like Papá into a stunned lurch of discombobulated limbs.
Make no mistake, the new guys were getting their asses kicked. But through it all, they shared secret smiles as if they weren’t engaged in a fight they couldn’t win.
She held her breath as the sounds of meaty knuckles pounded flesh, cartilage, and sinew. Grunts rent the air, and Papá’s team started to stagger. A couple of the men stumbled out of the throe, bleeding from cuts on their faces.
The instant Ricardo and Martin dropped to the ground, the battle was over.
They lay on their backs, sweating into the dirt and gasping for breaths. Their attackers wiped away blood, straightened their clothes, and limped out of the yard.
There was no heckling, trash talk, or cheap shots as they departed. The silent exit was a form of praise to the new guys for having enough heart to fight a battle they knew they would lose.
She released a sigh of relief then silently scolded herself for caring.
Ricardo and Martin had just earned respect, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be more tests and harder fights.
Martin pushed into a sitting position, his expression strained, scowling beneath a sheen of blood.
“For our first prison fight,” he said in drawling English, “that wasn’t bad.”
His friend dropped a forearm over his eyes and groaned. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.”
She felt a tic in her cheek. An unfamiliar emotion.
I like them.
The sentiment was neither here nor there. She had a job to do, and it started now.
Drawing in a deep breath to calm her heart, she stood from the bench and made her way toward them.
Martin noticed her first and rose to his feet with a grace that didn’t match his rugged, banged-up physique.
He looked like hell, with a bloody nose, fat lip, and his shirt hanging in shreds around his sweat-slick neck. She’d never seen anything sexier in her life.
His blond hair was short on top and even shorter on the sides. He wore dark fitted jeans that hung low on narrow hips and a thin layer of scruff on his chiseled jaw.
His lashes, thick and golden, hooded his deep emerald eyes as he perused her from head to toe.
An unexpected shiver slid across her skin.
“You must be Martin,” she said in English and shifted toward the man lying on the ground at her feet. “And Ricardo.”
Ricardo moved his arm from his face and stared up at her with velvety brown eyes. “Ricky.”
Ricky and Martin.
“Livin’ la Vida Loca?” The instant she blurted the question, she felt awkward.
Ricky shot her a stony glare, and Martin’s eyebrows gathered.
Of course, they were confused. She’d ignored them for days, and now she was poking fun at them.
Two years in this place and she’d completely forgotten how to socialize.
“Ricky Martin. You know, he sang that song…?” She shook her head. “You do speak English, right?”
“We thought we were the only ones,” Martin said in English.
Perfect. That was the language she would continue to use with them. Maybe it would help them connect with her.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Ricky rose to his full height, stretching over six feet of gorgeous masculinity. “Petula, is it?”
Well, hello, Tall, Dark, and Handsome.
He was as tall as Martin, dark where Martin was fair, and just as gorgeous close up. She loved the trendy look of his thick black hairstyle, the way the strands tumbled loosely and disorderly on top and faded beneath a severe side part into shaved sides.
Neither man bore visible tattoos, piercings, or track marks from heroin use. No wedding rings, either.
Maybe they were carrying assassination orders in their back pockets. But at first glance, they seemed like they would show up on a first date with flowers. And condoms. But not guns.
“It’s Tula, and you two look like you could use a drink.” She turned away, tossing an order over her shoulder. “Walk with me.”
She didn’t wait for them to follow, and after a few steps, her nerves tightened. Dammit, they weren’t coming.
Way to make a fool of yourself, Tula.
She was in over her head, but she kept walking, one foot in front of the other, chin up.
Then the sound of shoes scuffed behind her. They grew closer and flanked her on either side, invading her senses with testosterone and body heat.
Her eyes wanted to steal greedy glances at them, but she trained them forward and planned her next step.
If they were going to tell her anything, they would have to trust her first.
She needed to make herself vulnerable. Because what man didn’t trust a vulnerable woman?
Blood dripped from head wounds and multiple cuts on their bodies, and Martin’s swollen lip looked pretty painful. She had the supplies to clean them up and the alcohol to numb the aches.
In her private cell.
That was where she would take them.
For the first time in two years, she was going to open herself up and invite someone in.
She just hoped they wouldn’t hurt
her the way Garra had.
CHAPTER 11
Pain coughed through Ricky’s battered chest, and every step aggravated his throbbing shins. He had a few scrapes, some cuts, and a bruise on his ego. Nothing he couldn’t handle. After a stiff drink and full night’s sleep, he would be back in business.
His partner in crime lumbered along with a slight limp, sporting two sexy shiners on his face and a fair amount of blood on his shirt.
Tula strolled between them, setting an unhurried pace with her shorter legs.
He and Martin had noticed her in the yard right before the muscle squad showed up. Just what a guy wanted—a beautiful woman watching him get his ass kicked up between his shoulder blades. Good times.
As she led them deeper into the maze of hallways, he eyed her up and down in his periphery.
The graceful dip of her waist flared into a round, tight ass. The sinuous line of her neck, small tits, and toned thighs in denim formed an irresistible shape.
Everything about her was delicate, from her petite height and slender tattooed arms to her pert nose and small feet. It would take no effort at all to lift her with a hand around her throat and pin her against Martin’s chest. Before she could sputter an objection, he would have her separated from her gun and restrained between him and Martin, with his mouth on her lips and Martin’s teeth scraping her neck.
Could she take them at the same time? Or was her pussy too tight? They would have to go slow, give her time to adjust to the stretch of two cocks.
Goddamn, just thinking about it made him hard.
Watching her walk next to Martin, seeing them side by side, it was the only thing he could think about. Martin’s blond hair, chiseled features, and broad chest towering over Tula’s head of long black hair, vivid brown eyes, and dainty figure… They were balls-grippingly gorgeous.
She veered into the corridor a few steps ahead of them, and he exchanged a look with Martin.
His friend raised an eyebrow as if to say, This was too easy.
He gave Martin a shrug. Roll with it.
“We’re almost there.” She escorted them down a long run, with a two-story wall of cells on one side overlooking a dining area on the other.
Rectangular tables lined up in rows, and large pots of beans simmered on the stove. The scent of kerosene, grease, and cigarette smoke pervaded the air, and rotting garbage strewed the floor where inmates ate.
He and Martin had managed to avoid that unventilated, windowless shithole, choosing instead to buy watery onion broth and tortillas from the canteen.
“How are you making it in here?” she asked.
Jaulaso lived up to its squalid reputation, with its racist cliques, petty hall fights, inedible food, and endless hours of soul-sucking misery.
He grunted. “It’s a lot like high school.”
“With guns and knives.” Martin glanced at the group of armed men they’d just passed.
“This is your first time in prison?” Her dark eyes flicked between him and Martin. “Both of you?”
“Yup.” He stepped around a Jurassic-sized cockroach on the floor and shuddered.
“Your ability to throw hands made an impression in the yard.” She glanced at Ricky. “That right cross you caught Papá with made his knees go out.”
“You mean the bald-headed diesel?”
“Yeah. You hit him so hard he wobbled away like a baby giraffe.” She stopped at a cell door and met his eyes. “There’s a saying around here.”
“Don’t drop the soap?”
Her pretty red lips formed a tense line. “An ass whipping washes off. A coward isn’t forgotten.” She opened the door and waved them in. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
His position in the hall gave him a view of women’s jeans and shirts hanging from a pipe in the ceiling and floral hair products lined up on the small sink. A single bed sat in the corner, piled with folded blankets.
This was her private cell, and she was inviting them inside? Where was her surly, overprotective guard?
Martin wore an expression that matched the unease in Ricky’s gut.
Why had she brought them here alone? Was it a trap she and Garra had set up? Or maybe she’d waited until Garra was distracted so she could lead them here without his notice? For what reason? To fuck around behind his back?
He and Martin knew better than to touch another man’s woman, especially in prison.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asked.
“What?” Her eyes widened. Then she exhaled past a frown. “You mean Garra. We don’t… We’re not together. He just watches out for me.”
“You should tell him that.” Martin glanced up and down the hall as if expecting Garra to leap from the shadows. “He dishes out threats to anyone who looks at you, like you’re his property.”
“He wishes.” Her mouth relaxed, and the corners curved upward. Her cheeks rose, and her lips parted, setting free a blinding, dick-hardening grin. “That asshole takes his job way too seriously.”
Christ, her smile. It possessed her entire body, pushing away the tension in her muscles and illuminating the golden streaks in her brown eyes. Fucking beautiful.
“Asshole, huh?” Martin braced a hand on the wall above her head and leaned down to imprison her eyes. “You’re the only female inmate in Area Three, and you’re telling us there’s no boyfriend? No lovers or anyone who might feel compelled to pump us full of lead for talking to you?”
“There’s no one. Even if there was, I decide who talks to me.” Her smile flattened between clamped lips. “I’m offering you a drink, medicine for your cuts, and amicable conversation.” She narrowed her eyes. “Kindness is rare around here. I wouldn’t pass it up if I were you.”
“Why do you have medical supplies in your cell?” Ricky crossed his arms.
“Since Garra is determined to block every challenge aimed at me, the least I can do is keep supplies on hand whenever he eats a fist.”
“That happens often?” Ricky asked.
She shrugged.
Every item acquired in Jaulaso was earned, traded, or bought with prison currency, such as cigarettes or food. It would’ve taken her months, if not years, to collect alcohol and medicine. And she was offering her invaluable stash to two strangers.
Why? He trusted her about as much as he trusted everyone else in Jaulaso, but she might be their only access to Hector La Rocha.
The cartel boss didn’t let women into his dirty fraternity. But he made an exception for Tula Gomez. She must’ve been important to him.
Ricky entered her cell with a tingle of apprehension between his shoulder blades. Martin followed, and she shut the door behind them.
“What about you?” She stepped toward the small sink and rummaged through the supplies on the floor. “Any spouses or committed relationships waiting at home?”
“Nope.” He stood beside the cot, scrutinizing the claustrophobic space.
Several crates of books, cartons of cigarettes, a portable cooking stove, and an old cell phone summed up her belongings. She’d definitely been here a while.
He and Martin only had the clothes they were wearing and the cash in their pockets. Everything else had been confiscated during their arrest, as expected.
“Tequila?” Crouched beneath the sink, she held out a bottle behind her.
“Thanks.” Martin lifted it from her hand and removed the cap, glaring at the gold contents as if hesitant to drink.
“I don’t have cups. Are you not used to slumming it?” She snatched the tequila and sipped straight from the bottle. “Where did you say you were from?”
“We didn’t.” Ricky grabbed the bottle and swallowed a long pull, savoring the smooth burn of agave before handing it to Martin. “Where did you learn to speak English so well?”
“College. I’m a Spanish high schoolteacher in the States.” She paused, and her eyes lost focus as if she were rearranging her thoughts. “I was.” She blinked. “Never dreamed I’d end my career with a prison sent
ence, but here I am.” Her fist gave an unenthusiastic pump in the air. “Killin’ it.”
“What are you in for?” Martin lowered onto the mattress and rested his elbows on his knees, watching her from beneath the bloody gashes on his brow.
“Drug smuggling.”
Why did you do it? Did you do it? The silence exhaled the questions so loudly they didn’t need to be voiced.
“I’m innocent.” She grabbed some gauze and a bottle of antiseptic solution. “Same thing every prisoner says.” She held up the supplies. “Who’s first?”
He nodded at Martin. “This guy needs all the Band-aids you got. He’s been holding back tears since we left the yard.”
With a swollen-lipped scowl, Martin flipped him off.
“Take off your shirt.” She peered at Martin from beneath her lashes. “I’ll soak it in the sink and try to get the blood out.”
This would be interesting. Martin wasn’t exactly the touchy-feely type, especially around strangers.
“Don’t bother. It’s ripped to hell.” Martin reached behind his head with a pained grimace and pulled off the shirt.
Ricky lowered onto the bed beside Martin and examined the defined cuts of muscle he’d been drooling over for seven years.
Martin had always been fit, but the past six months of training had turned his body into a chiseled work of art.
He and Ricky had spent several grueling hours a day together, rolling around on a mat, boxing in a ring, and lifting weights. The torture hadn’t just been physical.
His hands knew every inch of Martin’s body, and it wasn’t enough. The urge to reach for Martin plagued him constantly, to feel all that strength against him, the press of hot skin, and the gust of frantic breaths as their bodies moved as one.
“How do you know each other?” She poured the antiseptic solution onto a swath of gauze and inspected Martin’s swollen eyes. “I assume you were arrested together?”
“It’s a long story.” Martin angled forward, putting his face within an inch of hers.
“We have nothing but time.” She didn’t try to reclaim the personal space he penetrated. “Get it? Time?” She sighed. “Prison joke.”
“Why are you helping us?” Martin leaned back and pressed his scowl to the lip of the bottle, taking a swig.
