by J. L. Beck
My fairy godmother or guardian angel had come in and given me the basic necessities for surviving in here while making me feel girly again. I was cautiously grateful if a little paranoid.
Who did stuff like this?
“Anything good?”
“Nothing worth sharing,” I lied prying off my disgusting wet shoes in favor of the new ones. I went to put the underwear in my one drawer under the stack of three white pairs I was currently issued. Unrolling them, a small piece of paper fell out, and I looked around and picked it up. Sharee was busy straightening her stuff and giving her bed hospital corners tucked in. No one was paying me any attention for once. My back to the room, I unrolled the paper cautiously so it wouldn’t make a sound and read the hastily scrawled note.
No need to say thank you. I hope they’re the right size.
The note was unsigned, but there was only one person who could have done it.
The warden, damn him.
6
Cohen
I thought about her often and at the worst times possible. Long dark hair with caramel highlights and eyes of changeable color haunted me. Listening to a parole hearing for another inmate and vaguely attentive, I shifted in my seat wanting to see her. Seeking her out was out of the question. Our investigation hadn’t gotten very far, but I’d been immersed in the politics of prison life, dealing with red tape bureaucracy every time I turned around. I spent my nights gripping my cock until my desire was strangled from me. It felt like an impossible situation.
As the days passed, Maris and I settled into a routine. I was at the prison five days a week, full-time, but I found myself working longer hours, studying the dynamics of the inmate culture and pushing through reforms I probably had no business changing. Apparently, I was taking my undercover responsibilities too seriously. James even called to tell me to lay off before the State of Texas offered me a real job.
It seemed unfair when weekends hit I had to leave pretending to go home while Maris stayed behind. I wondered about the girl who kept me up at night and her file that sat on my kitchen counter in my rented condo ten miles from the prison grounds. I wasn’t supposed to take files from the prison, but I couldn’t help looking them over, again and again. The mug shot photo was worn from my fingers rubbing over the edges curiouser with each thought.
Benedicta Alejandra Cruz had a manslaughter charge based on some pretty circumstantial evidence. I wasn’t a lawyer, but even I knew some of the shoddy forensic findings could have been tossed out of court if challenged correctly by her idiot lawyer. It gave me a few ideas of where to start, including a call to one Zeke Wells and the court clerk. First, I wanted answers from the young woman herself.
“Garcia,” I buzzed from my desk. I hadn’t seen Benedicta in a few weeks hoping she was acclimating well. “Bring me inmate Cruz, I have few things to go over with her regarding a job in the library.” A place I thought she might be safer within the prison.
“Sure thing, Warden Shepard.” Garcia wasn’t high on my list of trustworthy prison personnel, but I knew he wouldn’t question me about seeing an inmate alone in my office. He wasn’t exactly above board himself, and I had yet to figure out how to get him fired while I was here. Several minutes later, my door opened and shut.
I could smell her from across the room. Barely there strawberry shampoo, which I had been secretly supplying her with, the new clean shoes and a few other toiletry items, seemed to have eased a permanent furrow of her brow at least temporarily.
“You asked to see me.” She stood still, her back ramrod straight and hands folded in front of her.
“Sit down, Cruz.” I gestured to the chair in front of my desk where she hesitantly took a seat. She looked thinner, wiser if possible, and cautious. Good girl.
“Am I in trouble?” Her expression pinched and I surmised that she probably thought she was in fact in trouble. I’d heard about an incident in the laundry room the week before. No one had been hurt, but a few Tribe members were disciplined including Maris. Our last encounter was still seared into my mind.
“Not at all.” I sat back from my desk watching her squirm uncomfortably. There were rumors circulating that she wasn’t a favorite of The Red Tribe, nor was she accepted into the Sunshine Sisters. For a mite of a thing, she was certainly a storm of trouble and an outcast no matter how much she tried to avoid it.
What the hell was she doing here in the first place? She was keeping me up at night with my own lewd thoughts wondering how the fuck I was going to stay away from her and yet here she is at my request.
“Garcia said you wanted to discuss something?”
I cleared my throat.
“I heard a rumor you like books.” Watching her throat constrict and cheeks flame pink, my pants grew uncomfortably tight. I knew she thought I was going to suggest something highly improper, and the thoughts were a strong temptation. I wasn’t going to suggest something, but I still thought about it.
“How?”
“I might have asked around.” I shrugged. I actually did ask her cellmate in exchange for something Sharee wanted which was easy enough to give. Who knew chocolate bars were a high currency around here.
“I do like books but what does that have to do with anything?” She’s wary and I don’t blame her. I’m trying to couch what I’m doing to keep her safe and out of trouble from being obvious.
“There’s a job opening in the library, but I want something in exchange.”
“What?” She asked biting her lower lip.
“Tell me about that night,” I opened the file, paging through the document to the summary of events.
“The one where Grant was killed.” I rested my forearms on the wood surface, sleeves rolled up, rearranging the desk blotter.
“It’s in the file.”
My hands rested over the spread out papers tapping as her eyes scanned the desk with petulance. “I know what’s in the file, but I want to hear it from you.”
“Why? The court didn’t believe me.” Flippancy would not be a good move on her part.
“Don’t be dismissive with me, Ms. Cruz.” Her eyes followed my every movement. “I don’t like it and it doesn’t help you.” I waited for a reaction. She was good, but the twitch of her eye told me another story.
“I’m here aren’t I?” I gripped a pen clicking it to distract myself from getting up and doing something I shouldn’t like touching her.
“Yes, here you are, but do you deserve to be here?”
“Ask the judge.” Her defenses were high and I was getting nowhere.
“I’m asking you, and I’m willing to listen.” I softened my tone by giving her a smile and waiting. Her hands started fidgeting. I made a decision I hoped wouldn’t backfire by moving a chair next to hers and taking her hand in mine.
She struggled, trying to pull away, but I held fast, waiting for her to give in. I touched her hand only and let my fingers rub over her in a soothing gesture. How could such small hands be so destructive? There was so much more to her story, and I needed to hear it.
Urging her, “Tell me, Benedicta.”
“No one has ever believed me. Why would you?”
She looked defeated.
“Because I don’t think you did it. I don’t think you could have physically bashed his head in thirty something times.” I tell her with conviction and wait her out.
Finally, she surrendered.
“I was working late that night at the El Diablo. It’s a bar not far from my apartment. I had parked my car in the back lot. There’s a video camera, but my boss never fixed it after some boys hit it with a soccer ball last summer.”
“So no video.” Unfortunate for her, but not earth shattering.
“Right. Anyway, I get a ten-minute break about halfway through my shift, so I go out back. Grant’s there but I didn’t see him right away. He was hiding in between cars.” Her body language leads me to think she was afraid of him or something.
“What happened?”
“H
e was mad, high, and pissed I wouldn’t go out with him again. We went on a few dates and then he got weird. Changed into this real asshole. It was awful. He was rude and demanding which was why I stopped going out with him.” Her body seemed to curl inward protectively.
Thoughts ran rampant in my head imaging all kinds of things happening between Grant and Benedicta. I persisted with a question I knew I shouldn’t be asking but did anyway. “Did you sleep with him?”
“Excuse me?
“I’m trying to establish if he felt more of a connection to you.” It’s a lie and she knows it.
She rolled her eyes. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Did you?” I asked again.
“No.”
It was hard to mask my relief and I changed the subject. “Was he stalking you at any point?”
“No, but he was known to follow girls. Especially when he didn’t get his way the first time.” Small top teeth bit her bottom lip. If the son of a bitch wasn’t dead I’d probably beat him to death hearing the implication of this.
“He was feeling scorned.” I encouraged her to keep telling me what happened. My gut sank, feeling nothing good about this.
“I guess, I don’t know. Anyway, he got handsy with me. I slapped him, so he grabbed my arms, bruising me up. I kicked him in the nuts and ran back inside. That was the last time I saw Grant. He was moaning because I kicked him good and he sank to his knees on the pavement. That’s how I got away from him.”
“Did you tell anyone? Your boss? A co-worker?”
“No, of course not. I’m a private person. I can’t believe I’m even telling you any of this.”
“What happened next?”
“After my shift I went back outside to my car. I got in and went home. Grant was long gone. The next thing I know police are at my apartment, arresting me, saying I killed him.” She’s quiet, looking her hands over, and I let them go. She’s examining her short nails as if something is under them, guilt maybe shame.
“The weapon was identified as a tire-iron from your car.”
“Of course it was. My trunk hasn’t locked since it was broken into last year. I’m not exactly someone swimming in the funds to fix every broken thing in my life.”
“So basically, someone took the tire-iron from your trunk, whacked Grant, dumped his body behind the bar dumpster, put the weapon back in your car, and you didn’t know?” The part I had trouble with was that Benedicta looks a hundred pounds soaking wet. I can’t fathom how she could have hit him numerous times to kill him, and then drag his body behind the dumpster. She simply didn’t have that kind of upper body strength. The autopsy report noted that the deceased was easily two hundred twenty pounds, twice her body weight. How on earth was she convicted?
Her agitation increased until she’s pushing me away. “You know what, fuck this. I’ve said everything before, and I’m done rehashing what I didn’t do.”
I must have led her to believe that I thought she was untruthful. Her cheeks hollowed out from breathing hard and tears looked like they might fall at any second.
“Sit down.”
“No, I fucking won’t. I’d like to go back to my cell please.”
“I’m not done with you Benedicta. Sit. Down.”
“Of course you’re not finished with me.” She’s standing, pissed off, and flushed. I wanted to say so many things, but I felt this overwhelming urge to spank her and comfort her simultaneously. I told myself it was wrong. It was out of place. Absolutely and utterly wrong to do what I was about to do, inching closer to her. My own body charged by her defiance and grabbed her arms.
“You know my lawyer tried this shit, and I kicked him in the balls for it.” Her hot breath skimmed my chest through my dress shirt standing so short next to me. “I’m kind of a ball kicker.”
I laughed.
“Noted. Now I can see how far that got you, Benedicta.” I wasn’t really scolding her, but I did shift one leg so that, if she tried kicking me, I’d get a graze and not a direct hit. I wasn’t stupid.
“I hate my name,” she uttered. With her hands fisted in mine, she gets nowhere.
“What can I call you, sweetheart?” She bristled easing her struggles against me.
“Nene, you can call me Nene if you’re going to manhandle me like this.”
“I’d like to call you Nene because you want me to have that privilege…not because I coerced you.” There were plenty of things I wanted from her. Honesty. Trust. Submission. Cajoling her until it frustrated me hadn’t worked. However, the moment I got rough, she simmered down. Her trust was a gossamer wing, easily torn, and she was in need of a firm hand.
My firm hand.
7
Nene
“I shouldn’t want you like this, but I do,” he said as his hands pushed me backward bumping against the desk. The hard corner rested against my ass, none too gently reminding me how strong he was compared to me. I was no match for him as he picked me up and dumped me on top. Papers drifted to the floor like a B rated porn movie, slowly swishing through the air, landing spread out on the floor. It was a mess—like my life currently.
Nervous energy fueled my ill-timed giggle, earning me a hard look from his chiseled face. He belonged in a museum with his perfection of all hard angles and ropey muscles. His looks distracted me from how I ended up in this predicament in the first place. Cohen’s large, roughly calloused hands caught my ankles rubbing the small bones gently before pulling my legs wide apart. Standing between my thighs, his hard length pressed so close, the heat from him was palpable through the fine wool of his suit pants and the cotton scrubs. Boxed in by his body I couldn’t get the clothes off. It was as if someone had cranked the thermostat in the room solely between my legs, and I couldn’t escape the scorching heat. I didn’t want to escape it. I was vulnerable to him, shaking with both fear of getting caught and my overwhelming need for him.
“Please.”
I pleaded for him to treat me fairly, gentle even. I didn’t know if he had done this with scores of other women in my similar position. I didn’t want to know, because it would cheapen this, making my heart empty. Incarceration made me do things, feel things, desperate for things I didn’t think possible.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He held me up supporting me by the back of my neck like a rag doll, limp and compliant in his hold. He got as close to me as he could, my legs splayed embarrassingly wide for anyone to see if they barged inside the office.
“God help me, I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said. I reminded myself this wasn’t me; I wasn’t this girl. What the hell was I doing? I let him continue to manhandle me.
“We should stop.” My heart pounded a deafening sound dangerously blocking out the sounds of my surroundings, my focus solely on Cohen.
“Do you want me to?” He pulled away for a fraction of a second, and I pulled him right back, not leaving a paper’s breadth between us. This was fucked up, but I didn’t care.
“No.”
His hand tangled in my hair, a thumb brushing back and forth against the shell of my ear, calming me. The stupid orange scrubs glowed bright reminding me why I was here to begin with. Shame filtered through the fragmented thoughts of need and desire.
“Nene, hear me out.”
“What are we doing?” His chest touched mine and my breasts ached, my heart threatening to break free from its cage it was beating so hard.
He chuckled.
“Well, we’re about to make out but I had something else in mind.”
I blushed, thinking about limbs tangled in a more copacetic setting, unlike this one.
“I meant—” I was afraid he misunderstood, but he was ahead of me already.
“I know, Nene. I want to have someone I trust look over your case.”
“But I’ve already been convicted.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t do it. Right?” Brows raised, he asked the question; I feared he wouldn’t believe me.
“The judge and the state.” I needed t
o—no, I wanted to argue with him because it seemed so implausible.
“Did you do it?” He shook me until I looked him in the eyes, mine hazel into his blue, transfixed on a painful truth.
With conviction, I said, “No, I didn’t kill Grant Espina.”
“Then, Nene, it’s not impossible. Don’t give up on this before it’s even begun.”
“But Warden Shep…” Using his free hand, he put a finger to my lips, and a frown marred his face.
“Call me Cohen. In here and in private, you call me Cohen.”
“Cohen.” His name was soft sounding, an elixir to the roughness around me. I kept my focus on him, wondering how crazy I must be to trust this stranger with my life and his body standing between my legs. I didn’t think I could be this impulsive but prison taught me to grasp what moments of freedom and escape I could from this place either mentally or like this in Cohen’s arms. I convinced myself this was just an escape. One time.
“Nene.” He reached down between us, and his fingers found their way to the elastic band around my waist. Slipping past the offending garments, he trailed lower until the pads of his fingers met my slit. I hadn’t felt a jolt like that in all my years, not from the rough pawing of boys I casually dated to my own clumsy ministrations. Cohen was sure and steady, using that thick digit to circle the bundle of nerves between my wet lips, and pinching the pearl. My eyes rolled back, and I fell hard under his spell, needing everything he would give me and more.
“Sweet, innocent, Nene.” He growled so low that my mouth dropped open, my jaw to my chest as he plunged inside pulling me close to him, the barest of space between us, and my head tilting back on my own moan.
“I’m not so innocent.” As multiple kisses peppered my throat, and my hands supporting me on the desk shook with the effort it took to maintain my position.
“Not anymore you’re not.” Desire laced through me followed by a flash of guilt. This was wrong, yet I couldn’t stop myself.
