by M. C. Cerny
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 used a rough paper towel to wipe my feet clean putting the shoes on. 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 tucked in hospital corners. 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. I didn’t know if I should smile or cry.
Six
Cohen
I thought about Benedicta often and at the worst possible times. Her smirking expression teased me when I passed by her in the halls or watched her sitting in the corner of the cafeteria with her click of friends. Long brown hair with caramel highlights and eyes of changeable color haunted me. I thought of nothing but tangling my fingers in the strands and holding her captive until her pouty mouth gave me more than the answers to my questions. I broke more pens than the state funds allotted clicking them to death as I read through mindless reports.
Listening to a parole hearing for another inmate and vaguely attentive, I shifted in my seat wanting to see her. It was an impossibility. Seeking her out was out of the question. Our investigation into the gang recruitment 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 should have been paid double unravelling the mess the previous warden had left while I spent my nights gripping my cock until my desire was strangled from me. It felt like an impossible situation. She was the girl I should not want, could not have, and yet my mind held onto the idea in a death grip.
My latest fantasy included shedding her of the orange jumpsuit and laying her out on my desk. Her hair would tumble over the edge and her wrists bound with my tie instead of silver handcuffs. I’d start by tasting her pussy licking slowly between her folds until she screamed so loud that the only banging heard above my hips thrusting into hers moving the desk across the floor would be the guards at the door unable to gain entry to my office. I’d gone as far as to change Garcia’s post so that he would have less access to Benedicta. Besides the gifts I paid handsomely to have snuck into her room it was the only real thing I could give her. I didn’t even know if she was innocent except for the doubt that wavered in my mind about her trial.
As the weeks passed, Maris and I settled into a routine. We were stalled in our investigation and time was running out if we were going to make any charges stick to the girl gang involved. I rarely saw Benedicta which was for her benefit as much as I tried to ignore her presence. 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 the weekends hit. I had to leave while Maris stayed behind working her leads and Monday rolled around far too slowly. I spent plenty of nights on my couch reading the file about a pint sized girl with a mighty swing 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 inmate Cruz to my office please. 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. Moving around his shifts under the auspice of personnel changes seemed the best I could do. 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 which she didn’t need, wiser if possible, and cautious which was never bad in a place like this. 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 with my trouble-seeking partner.
“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. I had no one to blame but myself for that one.
“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.
I shift a few papers on my desk before speaking. “There’s a job opening in the library, but I want something in exchange.” I looked up at her and watched the expression on her face change.
“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 listed on the police report.
“The night? What night?” Her eyes dart around the room as if she’d been looking for a way out. No such luck, I wasn’t giving up this bone without a fight or answers from her pretty pink lips.
“The one where Grant was killed.” I rested my forearms on the wood surface, sleeves rolled up, rearranging the desk blotter. I waited for her to speak.
“It’s in the file.” Her voice small and worried.
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.”
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br /> “Why? The court didn’t believe me.” Flippancy would not be a good move on her part despite my attraction to her.
“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. I wanted to touch her badly, I’d take any excuse I could, but I knew it would be wrong. I’d be taking advantage of my power, but the temptation was there. I almost in twisted way pitied the lesser men who fell far and hard giving in.
“Yes, here you are, but do you deserve to be here?”
“Ask the judge.” Her defenses were high and I was getting nowhere with my questions.
“I’m asking you, and I’m willing to listen.” I softened my tone by giving her a smile. 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? I looked them over examining them. Soft skin, neatly trimmed nails bare of shine or color. It didn’t seem possible she could wield something like a tire iron with deadly force without the other person hurting her or fighting back. There was so much more to her story, and I needed to hear it.
Urging her, “Tell me, Benedicta.” My thumb rubbed circles on her hand, now pliant in mine.
“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. It’s a shitty parking lot where one of the old waitresses had been mugged at knife point.”
“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?”
“He jumped out from behind the cars, scared the shit out of me at first.”
“Did he hurt you?” I’m thinking Grant maybe got what he deserved but don’t say anything.
“He was mad, high, and pissed I wouldn’t go out with him again. We went on a few dates and then he got weird. Squirrelly-I’d call it. Changed into this real asshole. It was awful. He was rude and demanding which was why I stopped going out with him in the first place.” Her body seemed to curl inward protectively. I’d like to give Grant a good fist bashing but luckily someone’s already seen to that.
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. It wasn’t particularly relative to the case except that I wanted to know. “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 already 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.”
“You kick him hard?” I had trouble imagining her little foot doing much damage.
She seemed to perk up proudly admitting, “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.”
Silently I cheered her on in my head. Though if she knew the direction of my thoughts she might be tempted to kick me too. Inwardly I smiled proud she at least got a good kick in.
“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.” Keeping the altercation to herself doesn’t help, but again on it’s own isn’t a deal breaker in a case like this. I can’t fathom how the shoddy prosecution got this past a Grand Jury, but what’s done is done.
“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. It’s definitely not the blood of killing Grant Espina.
“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.”
No she wasn’t.
“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 and get rid of the evidence like bloodied clothing. 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 pushed 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.” She moved for the door but I blocked her from leaving.
“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 the attitude out of her and comfort her simultaneously. I told myself it was wrong. It was out of place. My kink had no business inside this office, my job, or what was currently transpiring between a prison inmate and the warden. Absolutely and utterly wrong to do what I was about to do, inching closer to her. My own body charged by her defiance. I grabbed her arms.
“You know my lawyer tried this shit, and I kicked him in the balls for it too.” Her hot breath skimmed my chest through my dress shirt standing so short next to me.
“Did you now? I would have liked seeing that.” I teased.
Warily she looked away and then back at me murmuring with a shrug, “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 slightly rough, she simmered down. Her trust was a gossamer wing, easily torn, and she was in need of a firm hand.
My firm hand.
Seven
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 the warden 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.
“Won’t we get in trouble?” I asked canting my hips closer to his greedy with my own needs.
“Fuck trouble, I’m sure I’ve broken enough regulations and rules for us both.” He said looking as disheveled as I felt.
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.
“Does trouble have a name?” I didn’t recall what the inmates called him beside the grossly inappropriate things said in the showers and in the bunks at night when the lights have gone low.
