by Virna DePaul
“I want first dibs on that master bedroom,” he replied. “Thought I would stake my claim now.”
“Hey, come the fuck back here, bro,” Logan protested, bounding up the stairs ahead of us. “I fixed most of that room. I get to call it first.”
“Guess you’ll need someone to mediate,” Taylor remarked casually as he came along behind. He added under his breath, “And you’ll need someone to watch.”
As the four of us went up the stairs, I couldn’t help but silently thank Tabitha in my head for giving me this place. And for giving me my life back. Because without her, I never would have met Logan, Dominic, and Taylor. And now that I had, I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. Life would never be “just fine.”
Life was fucking awesome.
Turned out Grant was right. I was a freak in bed.
The best kind of freak possible, given I’d found the three men of my dreams, they each loved me in their own unique way, and I didn’t plan on giving any one of them up. Ever.
Thank you for reading Nailing Studs! Want more of Kayla, Taylor, Dom, and Logan? I’d love to hear from you! http://www.virnadepaul.com
If you enjoyed spending time with these characters, be sure to check out my other books,
including my edgy bad boys in the HARD AS NAILS Series.
Here’s a sneak peek of Book 1, Hard Time:
Hard Time Excerpt: Prologue
Katie
My mom used to tell me to dream big. That I could be anything I wanted to be. Funny, I never wanted to work in a prison cafeteria, but that’s exactly what’s happened. Now my days are a never-ending vortex of the same mundane task, tossing two scoops of what can only be described as slop into each tray as inmates march down the service line.
They all look the same. They all act the same. It’s impossible to distinguish one from the next, even though they vary in skin color and personality. It’s a blur of one ghosted face after another.
Some of the men scare me.
Most of them do, to be honest.
But he scares me most of all.
Thomas Street.
In the montage of blurry faces, his sticks out like a sore thumb. Something about him is different. Mary, my older—and far wiser—co-worker says that something different is the way he looks at me. I laugh her comments off, but deep down I know she’s right. He’s always staring, his eyes on me even as he settles at a table and pokes his fork at barely edible food.
I look at him, too. I have for months. And while I tried not to get caught looking at first, I soon abandoned all pretense. Even when he’s not around my gaze searches for him. My body yearns for him. And when I finally spot him, it’s always more than a quick gaze.
Like now.
Entrapped by those deep, piercing blue eyes, I can’t look away. I’m stuck in place, dreaming into the abyss of space between us while he eats.
Even as I’m lost in an unwelcome world of longing and desire, my hands continue to scoop slop against trays. It’s the easiest job I’ve ever had, and I’ve become accustomed to running on autopilot. I’ve become a robot, a machine, in the six months I’ve spent here.
I often find myself wondering if the inmates that pass me notice. If they see the emptiness hidden behind my hazel eyes. Probably not. They’re too lost in their own fantasies, if not of what it would feel like to rip my clothes off and fuck me where I stand, then what it would feel like to be on the outside again, living a life of freedom. Little do they know that even when I go home for the day, I wonder the same thing.
How’d I get stuck behind these prison walls? At what point in time did I say to myself, You know, maybe I should go serve processed food to the most dangerous men on Earth. Even worse, how is it that when I’m in my car driving home after work, I often feel like I’m going from one kind of prison to another?
It’s so ironic—this place is my escape from the outside world, and yet each of these men wish they could find an escape to the outside world. In here, I almost feel safe.
I jerk when I feel fingers wrap around my wrist. There’s no one in line, and I’d just scooped slop onto the metal counter in front of me.
“What’s up with you?” Mary asks with a furrowed brow, letting me go. “What are you dreaming about?”
Heat swamps my face as I imagine Street witnessing what I’d just done. I shoot Mary a weak smile as I clean up the mess I made.
“You know me, Mary. I don’t dream.” It’s a lie, of course. I dream about him and I’m sure she knows it. But I’ll never admit it out loud. I sigh and pull the latex gloves off my hands. “Reality is reality; no amount of dreaming will change that.”
“You’re watching him, aren’t you?” She shifts slightly so that her eyes are angled at Street. “I don’t blame you if you are.”
“Don’t be stupid,” I huff and flip a switch, turning the heat lamp above the dish of slop off.
“He watches you too.”
When I say nothing, when this time I manage to keep my eyes on her face, she laughs and turns to the kitchen. I follow her, but take one last glance—this time it’s a quick one—at Street before pushing through the swinging double doors.
He’s still staring at me, as if he couldn’t take his eyes off me if he tried. There is a landmine of magnets between us, with a pull impossible to ignore, but he’s off limits. He’s a man behind bars, and I’m a woman caged in another form of prison, one that’s my own personal hell.
When my shift is over, and the food is prepared for the next day, I begin the long walk to freedom along a path flanked on either side by towering fences with barbwire, one separating me from the prison courtyard, and the other cordoning off some utility buildings. My feet plod against the beaten gravel as I speed down the path, hurrying so I can get home in time to prepare dinner for my boyfriend.
He’s a man with a temper, and nothing sets him off like coming home to an empty table. Sometimes, it seems as if all I do is cook.
The dying sun beats against my face as it prepares its descent from the horizon, and a light trickle of sweat traces down my forehead. I hear the shouts of men playing basketball in the courtyard. Suddenly, my body tenses. My skin prickles. And somehow, without seeing him, I know Street is there. As if to confirm my suspicion, someone calls his name, and I stop and turn.
Street dribbles a basketball along a concrete court, weaving his way around his opponents. Any other time, the inmates wear their prison garb, but for some reason, in the yard when they’re playing basketball or working out, the prison lets them wear athletic gear, and play shirts or skin.
Street’s showing lots of skin. He’s tall; I’ve always known that, but somehow he looks taller without his shirt on.
His abs are crunched tight as he shifts downward, spinning beneath the arm span of a man on defense. He quickly gains his footing, steadies himself, and throws the ball into the basket, scoring a three-pointer with ease. In celebration, he claps his hand against a teammate’s as they cheer, and they bump chests.
Men.
His fingers fall to his hips, pressed against his body where the line of his black basketball shorts melts against tanned skin. A spider spins a web beginning at the arch of his right shoulder, and trailing all the way to his elbow in the form of an ashen-colored tattoo. On his left shoulder, a tiger with the same bright blue eyes as Street threatens to pounce.
His teeth sink into his lip, and it’s like he’s putting on a show. But there’s no way he can know I’m watching, right? He hasn’t even shifted his attention in this direction, giving me time to study him. He has a strong jawline and even though I can’t see it now, he has a long scar just under his right ear, where some left-handed nemesis tried to cut his throat in a fight.
It happened before I arrived. From what I know, Street’s been here about a year and still has several years left. When he walks, that scar will go with him.
If he doesn’t stay clean, it’ll be a way for someone to identify him.
But for
me, it will always be a sign that there’s much more to him than meets the eye.
A guard caught me staring at Street once and assumed I’d been staring at his scar, which in all fairness I had been.
The guard told me he’d gotten it during a prison riot, when one gang had gone after another. “Street’s one of the few inmates not in a gang,” he’d said, and I’d heard the hint of admiration in his tone.
“So he just got caught in the cross-fire?” I asked, unable to squelch my damn curiosity.
“Nope. He waded right in.”
“Oh,” I’d said weakly.
“Saved a newbie. A kid that had been targeted to be raped.”
“Oh,” I’d said again, this time my voice stronger. “That’s…nice.” I’d known it was a lame thing to say, but if it were true, it was damn nice, literally putting your neck on the line to save someone else. Even if you were a man in prison who’d obviously made mistakes.
According to Mary, who’d heard it from another guard, Street is serving time for a burglary gone bad. Apparently the house owner had interrupted him. Someone had pulled a gun. The owner had been shot but lived.
The talk was that Street had accepted his fate, never trying to fight the ugly fight of feigning innocence. It doesn’t erase his actions, but now when I see his scar, I’m reminded of a book I read about a young Odysseus who joined his grandfather and a group of uncles for a hunt on the wooded slopes of Mount Parnassus. Odysseus was the youngest of the group, but when the men and dogs spotted a giant boar, Odysseus was the first to go after the beast with his spear. The boar dodged the blow and gored Odysseus in the knee. Thereafter, the scar was used to identify Odysseus, but also to symbolize his rite of passage into manhood. The scar helped make Odysseus into a man and marked him as one.
I view Street’s scar the same way. No matter his past sins, the scar will forever be a testament to his bravery.
Jesus, Katie, you’re a fool.
I’ve romanticized the scar, romanticized Street. Except for random bits of information, I really know nothing about him. Most of what I know is what I see. Yes, I really like what I see, but what does it say about me that I’m drawn to such a man for the shallowest of reasons?
His eyes.
His abs.
Those biceps, and a particularly beautiful smile.
His lips, and did I mention his eyes?
Maybe it’s the hint of danger in spite of my relative safety. He can’t touch me, but what if he could? What if I couldn’t stop him? The thought heightens my desire not just for physical release, but for an adventure to escape my mundane life.
His head cranes in my direction, and with a fire burning in his eyes, I know I’ve been spotted. I’ve been caught. I swallow a lump in my throat as I try to turn away, but crave just another second of visual contact.
He bites his lip again, and this time it’s intentional. He’s beckoning me, letting me know that he’s spotted me, and I know, more than ever, that he thinks of me the same way I think about him.
Sometimes, the torture continues into the depths of the night where I’m left yearning for something more while my boyfriend snoozes beside me. Sometimes, the only way I can shut it all off, and close my eyes, is when I picture Street on top of me.
Picture him inside me.
I shake the image out of my head and once again walk down the path, fighting the urge to turn back around for one last peek.
I sling my purse over my shoulder, and dangle my keys in my hand. I smile at Ken, the prison guard behind the counter as I shuffle toward the front door; one of only two routes out of the prison.
But something catches my attention—behind the counter and behind Ken, an unfamiliar guard with a severe, attentive face has a phone pressed against her ear. Her eyes shift, and she hangs up the phone with an amused but abrasive smirk.
“Fucking animals,” she says with another shake of her head.
“What happened now?” Ken questions without flinching from scribbling on a notepad.
“There was an incident on the courtyard.”
“Let me guess,” he groans and spins to face her. “Someone was running his mouth, and someone else threw punches.”
“Close, but no cigar.” She reaches for a pen from her pocket and clicks it, prepared to do some scribbling of her own. “An inmate stabbed another inmate with a shank.”
“Christ. Did you recognize any of the names?”
“The victim didn’t ring a bell, but the attacker was Thomas Street.”
“Damn,” Ken sighs. “I thought he was one of the good ones.”
“They’re animals,” she says, and my stomach sinks to my feet. “They’re only good until they’re not.”
I swallow a lump in my throat, and swipe my tongue against my lips. Before they realize I’ve been listening to their conversation, I’m out the door.
I’ve known it my entire life—I have the absolute worst taste in men.
Hard Time Excerpt: Ch 1
Katie
Two years later…
I set a stack of books down onto a table in the back of the store, and take a moment to collect my bearings. I’m overworked, underpaid, and beyond tired. I force out a yawn that’s been sitting in my throat for the longest time and roll my fists against my eyes. Only two more hours, and I’ll be out of here and home with my baby.
I’m the only person currently in the store, so I allow myself a break and sit down on a wooden chair beside the table. It’s been a busy day. A busy week for that matter. I run my palms over my face, and feel my eyes grow heavy.
When the bell attached to the front door rings, any sense of peace is ripped out of me. I try to get a view of whoever just walked through the front door, but all I see is a shadow passing and heading toward the cash register.
“Coming,” I call out to the waiting customer, and make my way down an aisle decorated with horror and science fiction tomes. The light flickers above me as I finally round the corner at the end of the aisle.
There’s a man standing on this side of the cash register with his head shifted to face the front window. He flips through the pages of a book—a romance novel written by a local, and being sold on commission.
There’s nothing sexier than a man who reads. My eyes trail to his behind and I smile. Nice ass, I whisper to myself before stepping around the counter, and behind the register.
My heart stops immediately.
It’s him.
It’s Street.
The man I’d fantasized about for months before realizing he wasn’t the man I thought he was. It wasn’t long after the stabbing incident that I quit my job at the prison, but I never saw him again. According to Mary, they threw him in the hole, and hid away the key.
A lot of things changed in the past two years, beginning when I found out I was pregnant. In rapid succession, I left my job and my sleazebag woman-beating boyfriend, I started school, I gave birth, and I started working in this store forty hours a week trying to survive one day to the next. Things aren’t ideal, but I’m making a life for myself and my baby girl, Riley. Plus, getting to work at a store surrounded by books is leaps above slinging hash in a prison cafeteria.
Staring into Street’s blue eyes, however, feeling that familiar zing of electricity and tugging between my thighs, I realize how a part of me has been dormant all this time. Nothing and no one makes me feel the intense desire that just looking at Street does.
And to my utter shame, there isn’t a drop of recognition in his expression.
The first thing I tell myself is that’s good. It will make this transaction easier if he has no recollection of me. And why should he? We never met. We never spoke. Sure, we eye-fucked the hell out of each other, but back then, I wore a sanitary cap, no make up and a drab baggy uniform. I’m surprised now he’d even bothered to look at me. Really, our relationship began and ended with the plopping of slop onto his tray.
“Hi,” he says and folds the book shut.
“Hello.
Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m looking for a book of poetry by Dylan Thomas.”
I’m taken aback by two things. Yes, by what he asked. This man reads poetry? It can’t be… But also by the way words roll off his tongue. This is the first time I’ve ever heard him speak, and his voice is husky and smooth, with a note of intelligence in the way he enunciates his words. He sounds the way I imagine a sexy professor would sound when he looks like a cross between a battle-scarred warrior and a sex god. And he’s asking for a poetry book!
“Is this a gift?”
He cocks a brow, and my face immediately flames. “Um…I just mean…we have books that are bound nicer than others. So if you’re looking for something that’s text book quality versus gift quality—you know, leather bound, hard cover versus soft cover…”
“I don’t need anything fancy,” he says.
I clear my throat, then lead him to the poetry section. As I search for the Dylan Thomas books, I’m acutely aware of Street standing slightly behind me, close enough that I can feel the warmth emanating from him.
My hand hovers over several different Thomas titles. “Is there a particular time period you’re interested in?”
The feeling of heat increases as he steps closer to look over my shoulder. He smells clean and fresh. Like what a sunny day on a lake would smell like, I fancy. Darsbury doesn’t have a lake and I’ve rarely been outside the city limits.
“I’m looking for one with the poem Clown in the Moon.”
I feel the whisper of his breath against my ear and shiver.
“Oh.” I lick my lips, and take a shallow breath. “I’m not—I’m not familiar with that one. Is it—Is it good?”
He doesn’t answer for a few seconds. Then he says softly, “My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose. And all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows.”
My breath hitches at his words. Quickly, I pull out a book, then another, searching. When I find a book that has the poem he just quoted, I swallow hard, then slowly turn.
