Incarcerated: Letters From Inmate 92510

by Inger Iversen

  “No, that’s not it.” Logan kissed her nose and swallowed a ball of nerves before kneeling down on one knee. Katie swayed, and Logan reached up to steady her. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and Logan could tell from the look in her eyes that he was gazing upon his future wife. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember why he had even been nervous about her answer.

  “Katie, will you marry me?” he asked. Still, he held his breath, waiting for an answer.

  She fell to her knees in front of Logan.

  At eye level, he could see the woman he loved, the woman who had saved him from the hate in his past. They still had a long way to go, but it was a journey he couldn’t wait to take with her.

  “Yes, Logan. I love you so much, yes!” she whispered.

  He yanked her into his arms and kissed her as if they were alone, not caring that her father and friend were there or that he was crying like a damned fool. In that moment, all he cared about was his fiancée in his arms. The woman he loved and planned to spend the rest of his life with.

  Logan entered the room and the heads popped up at his arrival. He glanced at the podium to the tall, white male standing behind it. The man smiled and waved at him, motioning for him to come further into the room. A black man stood and walked toward Logan, and he tried not to tense; Katie told him he always tensed when someone from another race, or rather a man of a different race, came near him.

  The guy handed Logan a pamphlet. “Here you go, man. You can find a seat anywhere you want.” Gesturing to the rows of chairs, he sat back down. Logan could admit that he was nervous, and he could admit that he wished his fiancée was there by his side, but he needed to do this himself.

  After taking a seat in a chair in the back, he opened the pamphlet. It read, New Hope: For the support of racial equity and positive change.

  The night after his and Katie’s first date, he realized that she was on the internet looking up support groups for women who were dating men with issues about race. He was mortified that his future wife needed a support group for his issues, but he was determined to get help. Logan continued to read the pamphlet, Helping to break down barriers one step at a time. He took a breath and glanced around the room. Men and women both sat listening to the speaker at the podium.

  He was in the middle of a sentence when Logan started to listen. “—at this time, I’d like at ask if there were any newcomers who would like to come up and introduce themselves?” The tall white man, with a white beard and odd-looking black eyebrows, looked around the room. “Don’t be nervous, and don’t be ashamed. Please, do not be worried about speaking honestly. This group is here to help you move past your issues for a healthier, happier life.”

  That was what Logan was there for, but he didn’t want to get up in front of a room of strangers and tell his business.

  “We can’t help you, if you keep it in.” When no one stood, the man nodded and said, “I’ll start. My name is James, most of you know me already.” The group didn’t greet James in unison like Logan had always thought they did; he’d been watching too much T.V.. Logan’s phone beeped and Logan pulled it from his pocket to read the text message.

  Love you and can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.

  We’ll get this right. Love, Katie, the soon to be Mrs. Whyte.

  The text meant the world to him, and her support lent him strength.

  Logan raised his hand just as James started to speak again.

  “Yes?” James gestured in his direction.

  He stood. “My name is Logan, and I’m here because my fiancée is black and I have trust issues with black men. I can’t have my past hurting her, and I need help figuring out how to understand that all black men aren’t the black kids who harassed and kicked my ass on a daily basis in the past.” He glanced around; there was only one black man, but he showed no signs of anger or judgment.

  Maybe he was here because, like Logan, he was wary of other races. The world was full of men like Logan—people with troubled pasts, chips on their shoulders, and much more—but he refused to live like that anymore. He wanted a new life, a life with Katie, and in order to do it, he had to face the demons of his past. Luckily, Logan knew he could face anything with Katie by his side. Just like James had said, ‘one step at a time.’

  James clapped and said, “Welcome, Logan, welcome to the beginning of your new life.”

  A Love and War stand Alone

  These DO NOT NEED to be read in any order

  I crashed and opened my eyes . . . there you were, fierce and protective, and I knew . . . I just knew it was you all along.

  Ex-Marine Trent Reed has been shot at, in a coma, and placed in war zones, but when his best friend calls in a favor, he is faced with the most dangerous situation yet—to be the best man. Trent’s turbulent past with races other than his own taints his view on the interracial marriage, and he’s none too happy to deal with the ill-tempered maid of honor. To accept the position means understanding that his friend is soon to be out of his life—for good.

  Tough-girl Teal Lofton has struggled all of her adult life, from her weight to the color of her skin holding her back in work and love. When she agrees to be the maid of honor in her friend’s wedding, those struggles are amplified by a hormonal bride and a jerk of a best man who she is strangely, yet wildly, attracted to.

  As tensions and tempers rise, Trent disappears with the wedding rings and Teal braves a snowstorm to bring them back, determined to fix yet another problem. But a tragic accident brings together the unlikely pair, forcing them to face the prejudices of their pasts. In doing so, Trent and Teal embark on an inevitable course of self-discovery and passion like they’ve never experienced before—until a secret from Trent’s past threatens to destroy it all.

  The hardest part about writing a novel is the sacrifices you have to make to get the work done. For instance, whether it is your time, sleep, or money, it all counts. I want to thank everyone who stuck with me when I “hermitted” and busted butt to get this novel finished. To my mom for missing me, yet letting me stay away to work, to my sister for her encouragement and faith in me, and to my friends who love me and put up with my shit. This is a heartbreakingly hard job, and there are times when authors fall into this deep abyss of character’s voices and plot twists. Understand that we love you and have not forgotten about you. We just . . . we are just so different, but to those who stand by our side: WE LOVE YOU! Thanks so much.

  A special thanks to: Brianna & Christian, Anthony Fusco, Denise Bolen, and Carma Delany! The prison info you gave me was amazingly helpful. TO MY MUSE, BRIANNA J Madden: THANK YOU SO MUCH!

  P.S. Victoria from Crimson Tide Editorial:

  YOU ROCK!!!

  Inger Iversen lives in Virginia Beach with her tree-hugging boyfriend, Joshua, and her overweight lap cat, Max. When not reading or writing, she spends her time watching reruns of True Blood and Walking Dead, or killing zombies in Call of Duty. Of course, if the world were to change into some World War Z type of situation, she’d probably be the only chick running around searching for a Ray Gun!

  @kris10inger

  www.ingeriversen.com

  More work from Inger includes:

  Paranormal Books:

  Few Are Angels Series:

  Immortal Heart

  Few Are Angels

  Awakened

  Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly publishing:

  In the Dark Series:

  Goodnight Sam (short)

  Running in the Dark

  Sinners in the Dark

  Dark Trade | Miranda Kavi

  Torch | Cambria Herbert

  Corporate Ties | E.L. Loraine

  Mangled Hearts | Felicia Tatum

  Hit | Rebecca Ethington

  Forever | Mary A Wasowski

  Written in the Stars | Jennifer Martinez

  Alyssa's Redemption | Karly Morgan

  5 Miles | Nadège Richards

  Take A Gamble | Rachael Brownell

  Three Days
of Rain | Christine Hughes

  Shady Bay | Casey Bond

  Turn the page for an exclusive look at Cambria Hebert’s new adult contemporary novel TORCH and Casey L. Bond’s SHADY BAY

  TORCH

  By Cambria Hebert

  1

  The pungent smell of gasoline stung my nostrils and my head snapped back in repulsion. I opened my eyes and lifted my hands to place them over my mouth and nose to hopefully barricade some of the overwhelming scent.

  Except my hands didn’t obey.

  I tried again.

  Panic ripped through my middle when I realized my arms weren’t going to obey any kind of command because they were secured behind me.

  What the hell?

  I looked down over my shoulder, trying to see the thick ropes binding my wrists. The lighting in here was dim.

  Wait. Where was I?

  My heart started to pound, my breathing coming in shallow, short spurts as I squinted through tearing eyes at the familiar shapes around me. A little bit of calmness washed over me when I realized I was in my home. Home was a place I always felt safe.

  But I wasn’t safe. Not right now.

  I sat in the center of my living room, tied to my dining room chair. I was supposed to be in bed sleeping. The boxers and T-shirt I wore said so.

  I started to struggle, to strain against the binds that held me. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew enough to realize whatever was happening was not good.

  Movement caught my attention and I went still, my eyes darting toward where someone stood.

  “Hello?” I said. “Please help me!”

  It was so dark I couldn’t make out who it was. They seemed to loom in the distance, standing just inside the entryway, nothing but a dark shadow.

  My eyes blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears flowing down my cheeks. The gasoline smell was so intense. It was like I was sitting in a puddle of the stuff.

  “Help me!” I screamed again, wondering why the hell the person just stood there instead of coming to my aid.

  The scrape of a match echoed through the darkness, and the catch of a small flame drew my eye. It started out small, reminding me of the fireflies I used to chase when I was a child. But then it grew in intensity, the flame burning brighter, becoming bolder, and it burned down the stick of the match.

  The dark shadow held out the matchstick, away from their body, suspending it over the ground for several long seconds.

  And then they dropped it.

  It fell to the floor like it weighed a thousand pounds and left a small glowing trail in its wake. I watched the flame as it hit the floor, thinking it would fizzle out and the room would be returned to complete blackness.

  But the flame didn’t fizzle out.

  It ignited.

  With a great whoosh, fire burst upward, everything around that little match roaring to life with angry orange flames. I screamed. I didn’t bother asking for help again because it was clear whoever was in this house wasn’t here to help me.

  They were here to kill me.

  To prove my realization, the dark figure calmly retreated out the front door. The flames on the floor grew rapidly, spreading like a contagious disease up the walls and completely swallowing the front door. The small side table by the door, which I’d lovingly scraped and painted, caught like it was the driest piece of wood in the center of a forest fire.

  Smoke began to fill the rooms, curling closer, making me recoil. How long until the flames came for me?

  I began to scream, to call for help, praying one of my neighbors would hear and come to my rescue. Except I knew no one was going to rush into this house to save me. They would all stand out on the lawn at the edge of the street and murmur and point. They would click their tongues and shake their heads, mesmerized by the way the fire claimed my home. And my life.

  I wasn’t going to die like this.

  I twisted my arms, straining against the corded rope, feeling it cut into my skin, but I kept at it, just needing an inch to slip free.

  I tried to stand, to run into the back of the house. If I couldn’t get loose from the chair, I would just take it with me. But my ankles were crossed and tied together.

  I called for help again, but the sound was lost in the roaring of the flames. I never realized how loud a fire truly was. I never realized how rapidly it could spread. It was no longer dark in here, the flames lighting up my home like the fourth of July, casting an orange glow over everything. The entire front entryway and stairwell were now engulfed. I could see everything was doused in gasoline; the putrid liquid created a thick trail around the room. Whoever had been here completely drenched this house with the flammable liquid and then set me in the center of it.

  I managed to make it to my feet, hunched over with the chair strapped around me. It was difficult to stand with my ankles crossed. But I had to try. I had to get out of here. I took one hobbled step when a cough racked my lungs. I choked and hacked, my lungs searching for clean air to breathe but only filling with more and more pollution.

  I made it one step before I fell over, my shoulder taking the brunt of my fall, the chair thumping against the thickness of the carpet. I lay there and coughed, squinting through my moist and blurry vision, staring at the flames. . . the flames that seemed to stalk me.

  They traveled closer, following the path of the gas, snaking through the living room, filling it up and rushing around me until I was completely circled with fire. The heat, God, the heat was so intense that sweat slicked my skin, and it made it that much harder to breathe.

  It was the kind of heat that smacked into you, that made you dizzy and completely erased all thought from your brain.

  I was going to die.

  Even if I were able to make it to my feet, I wouldn’t be able to make it through the circle of fire that consumed everything around me.

  I pressed my cheek against the carpet, not reveling in its softness, not thinking about the comfort it usually afforded my bare feet. Another round of coughing racked my body. My lungs hurt. God, they hurt so bad. It was like a giant vise squeezed inside my chest, squeezed until all I could think about was oxygen and how much I needed it.

  My chin tipped back as I writhed on the floor, making one last attempt at freedom before the flames claimed me completely. I heard the sharp crackling of wood, the banging of something collapsing under the destruction, and I blinked.

  This is it.

  The last moments of my life.

  I’m going to die alone.

  I started to hallucinate, the lack of oxygen playing tricks on my fading mind, as a large figure stepped through the flames. Literally walked right through them. He held up his arms, shielding his face and head as he barreled through looking like some hero from an action movie.

  My eyes slid closed as my skin began to hurt, like I sat outside in the sun for hours without the protection of sunscreen.

  I heard a muffled shout and tried to open my eyes, but they were too heavy. Besides, I preferred the darkness anyway. I didn’t want to watch as my body was burned to death by fire.

  Pain screamed through me and the feeling of the carpet against my cheek disappeared. My first thought was to struggle, but my body couldn’t obey my mind. I felt movement, I felt the solidness of someone’s chest, and I could have sworn I heard the sound of a man’s voice.

  “Hang on,” he said.

  The shattering of glass and the splintering of wood didn’t wake me from the fog that settled over my brain. The scream of pain at my back, the extreme burning and melting that made a cry rip from my throat still wasn’t enough to get my eyes to open.

  And then I could hear the piercing wail of sirens, the faraway shouts of men, and the muffled yell of one who was much closer.

  I really thought heaven would be more peaceful.

  And then I was sailing through the air, the solid wall of whatever held me ripped away. I plunged downward, and with a great slap, I hit water, the icy cold droplets a major shock to m
y overheated system.

  My eyes sprang wide; water invaded them as I tried to make sense of what was happening. I thought I was burning. But now I was. . . drowning.

  The water was dark and it pulled me lower and lower into its depths. I looked up. The surface rippled and glowed orange. I almost died up there. But I would die down here now.

  I wanted to swim. My arms, they hurt so badly, but they wanted to push upwards, to help me break the surface toward the oxygen my body so desperately needed.

  But I was still tied to a chair.

  The chair hit the ground—a solid, cold surface—as my hair floated out around me and bubbles discharged from my nose and mouth.

  It wasn’t hot here.

  It wasn’t loud, but eerily quiet.

  It was a different kind of death, but death all the same.

  The ripples in the water grew and the chair began to rock. I heard the plunge of something else coming into the water and I looked up. Through the strands of my wayward hair, I saw him again. My hero. His powerful arms pushed through the water in three great stokes. He reached out and grabbed me beneath the shoulder, towing me upward toward the orange surface.

  When my head cleared the water, my lungs automatically sucked in blissful air. It hurt so bad, but it was the kind of pain I had to endure. Another cough racked my body, and as I wheezed, the man towing me and my chair through the water said, “Keep breathing. Just keep breathing.”

  And then I was being lifted from the water, the chair placed on the cement as I coughed and wheezed and greedily sucked in air.

  “Ma’am,” someone was saying. “Ma’am, can you hear me? Are you all right?”

  I looked up, blinking the water out of my eyes, but my vision was still blurry. I tried to speak, but all I could manage was another cough.