by M. C. Cerny
“Cohen Sheppard. Just-Cohen.” He panted leaning into me.
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 before today. I had judged myself harshly. There was no worse critic than the one in my head damning me right now.
Cohen looked at me. Really looked at me as he brushed my hair back, his hands gentle. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Strangely, I believed him as 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. It felt good and my head swam bobbing up and down the gulf surf prepared to drown in my desires for something good out of this terrible hand of cards I had been dealt.
When my head surfaced from the cascade of emotions rationality set in. My hand press on his still clothed chest. His heart beating frantically like mine.
“We should stop.” My heart pounded a deafening sound dangerously blocking out the sounds of my surroundings, my focus solely on Cohen.
He didn’t move a muscle.
“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.” I said watching his eyes narrow. I contradicted myself numerous times we must have been suffering from the same whiplash.
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.” Cohen spoke low.
“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, unless you want to go back and forth about this again.”
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.” He implored looking my face over, his lips hovering closer. I could smell his clean breath and I closed my eyes whining.
“Cohen, I’ve already been convicted.”
Brows raised, he asked the question. “Yeah, but you didn’t do it. Right?” I feared he wouldn’t believe me.
“The judge and the state.” I needed to—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.” He ordered gaze searing into mine.
“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 physically in Cohen’s arms. I convinced myself this was just an escape. An interlude in my sentence. 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 scrub like 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 in the dark. Cohen was sure and steady, using that thick digit to circle the bundle of nerves between my wet lips, 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. He felt thick, good, and deep as my walls clutched him. A chuckle escaped my lips knowing this was only his finger and not the main event I was panting for.
“I’m not so innocent.” As multiple kisses peppered my throat, 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.
“Cohen.”
“What baby?” Fingers pumped deep, spearing me apart. I would be sore later, my body unprepared and wet but not yet there. It had been a good long while since I fooled around with anyone. In the time I’d been here, I never attempted to ease the ache in my bed alone, fearing I would be caught. I didn’t need anymore hazing from the inmates. His finger slipped out, and with it, a rush of dewy juice that coated his digits. Our eyes locked, and I watched him, transfixed, as he sucked on those same fingers tasting me, and keeping them wet. Cohen used the slickness from both of us to coat between my thighs spreading it out and rubbing back and forth pressing in with a second finger stretching me to accommodate him.
“Kiss me, make me forget.” I craved oblivion and if he offered it, I would take it any way I could. I would let Cohen be my ultimate drug, my addiction.
“I’ll do more than make you forget.” His lips seared mine, I tasted tart and musk as his tongue plunged deeper with each shared breath. He pulled me up to reach him, his fingers sinking deep down below. His hand against my neck pulled me in a pumping motion against him. The power of his grip around me was more than I could bear. I flew over the edge, whimpering into his kiss. He sucked at my lips and licked my unexpected tears away. The sensation was too much and yet enough to see me through.
“Nene let me help you.” I came crashing back down to reality when a knock sounded at the door. I pushed back from him, and he let me slip away to adjust my clothes.
“Warden Shepard.” The voice belonged to Garcia on the other side of the door. I gasped. Cohen growled.
“Just a minute,” he shouted, further jarring me back to a place I didn’t want to be. Back to prison.
“Cohen, I mean, Warden Shepard…” I corrected myself feeling self-conscious with the sticky dampness clinging to my thighs fearful it would stain through and everyone would know what happened here this afternoon.
“Nene.” His hands cupped my cheeks, tender and sweet. It was the kindest gesture I’d received from anyone since my parents’ death. I could smell myself on him, the tang cutting into bittersweet memories. I turned my face and kissed his palm, licking the one that had rubbed me to completion a moment earlier. His eyes narrowed, darker if possible, and I pried myself away from his hold
.
“Thank you. I’m not sure anyone can help me.” His hands tangled in my hair and he kissed my forehead sweetly not letting me go.
“I will, if you let me.” Our eyes locked and I wanted to believe him.
“About the library?” I wondered why he used that to get me to his office in the first place. Had that even been legitimate?
“Would you like to work there? It’s quiet and away from the rec room where the Tribe hangs out.” Cohen’s hands rest on my shoulders kneading them as if I needed any convincing to get away from those crazy bitches in here.
“Yes. Thank you.” I leaned up on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek suddenly feeling shy.
The knock on the door sounded again. It was Garcia. I hated him.
Cohen pulled me in close and kissed my lips letting his tongue push through tasting, taking, claiming.
“I’ll deal with him.” Cohen stepped outside the room leaving me inside. I heard stern voices and Cohen quickly opened the door walking in. Garcia winked at me from the hallway and my stomach felt gutted watching him saunter away.
“What did he want?” I asked.
“He wanted to talk about room shakeups for contraband.” Cohen husked frustrated.
“Should you be telling me that?”
He shrugged. “Probably not. I probably also shouldn’t tell you to tell your cellmate to hide her chocolate. You definitely didn’t hear that from me.”
“Uh huh.” I nodded wondering how the hell Sharee got her chocolate when the answer was staring me right in the face. Funny that he should look like the guilty party for a change.
“Stay away from Garcia.” He warned me and I nodded. As if I needed that warning. I would happily avoid that guy like the plague.
“Was the library really what you wanted to talk to me about?” I confront Cohen who backed me up against the wall again feeling me up over the offending orange cotton.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this either, but the Tribe is connected to some shady shit inside and out of here.”
Of course they were, the Tribe was always being talked about.
“So if I heard something it would be helpful for you to know?” I wondered if that was why he wanted to know so much about my case and how I ended up here. Was it another ploy to use me? Did I really care? As long as Cohen Sheppard was the warden I might be relatively safe as deceiving as that might be.
“Look forget it. I never said anything. I want someone to look your case over anyway. I do not want you messing around with those girls.”
“But.” I hesitate. What if I did hear or see something.
“Forget it Nene, let me call one of the female guards to take you back.”
Just like that our conversation ended and Cohen reverted to being bossy and moody. I waited for a female guard I hadn’t met before to escort me. She was quiet and I was thankful to have my thoughts to myself. If I was lucky I wouldn’t run into anyone, especially anyone from the Red Tribe. I had to remember that, no matter what, I’m in this alone. I got here alone, and I would get through this that way.
Eight
Cohen
“Any news yet?” James called regularly in the two months I’d been here, checking in asking for reports every 2-3 days. Besides the inner workings of the prison, there wasn’t much to tell. As the warden, I found myself a bit removed from all of the action and depended on Maris to report back discreetly, but the only way she could do that was by stirring up trouble and getting herself sent up to my office. At this point, Garcia was bound to think I was having inappropriate relations with female prisoners if I kept seeing Maris every few days and sneaking ways to see Nene. The last thing I wanted was the Tribe to see Maris as a snitch or Nene as a troublemaker when things went down. I would never forgive myself if either got caught in the crossfire when shit went down.
The Red Tribe was quiet at the moment, and minimal contraband had been confiscated in the last few room inspections. I traded Nene’s cellmate Sharee chocolate for information when she heard things but it didn’t get me much except who was hooking up in the showers or stealing from the kitchen. I needed more. More time. More information.
My time overall reviewed a slew of shoddy paperwork. Plenty of bureaucratic red tape filled with board meetings and inspections for compliance issues dragged the days out. To say I was busy was an understatement, and I understood how this profession could cause burnout with the wrong person behind the desk.
I listened to James yammer on before responding. “No, but we’re working on it. Maris has gotten into the gang, but hasn’t gotten any real information to link the girls directly back to Hector. In fact she hasn’t even sat down with their leader who is real cagey with anyone new.”
“What about during family visits?” James pressed.
“Again, not much. Mostly parents visit, a few boyfriends and kids. Even the contraband confiscations have dried up to nothing.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Nothing was panning out and the stress was getting to me.
“We only have a few months of clearance unless you two can provide more details and reasons to stay undercover inside the prison.” My gut clenched because every day we were here meant potential for Maris to get hurt and shit to blow up in our faces. I thought about the girl, Benedicta—no, I reminded myself—Nene, who was serving five years for manslaughter. Instinctually, I knew the system had done her wrong, but that wasn’t enough to overturn her conviction. The urge to help her was taking over my thoughts and time. I figured James might be able to help with a little quid pro quo, but I hadn’t asked him to help yet. I’d played this game before. Everything had a price, an exchange rate even when contracting information aboveboard. I’d been doing my own looking into this on the side but I didn’t have the time or resources I needed.
I led in with, “One of the inmates here, I think she might have been wrongly convicted.”
“Aren’t they all?” James reluctantly discussed it, but when I thought about Nene stuck here when I left I got a terrible feeling I couldn’t shake.
“Is there any way to look over her case? Maybe not reopen it per se, but at least make sure things were handled correctly. We’ve got people who can at least review it for chain of evidence, burden of proof…” I asked. James impatiently tapped his fingers on what I assumed was his desk or the steering wheel of his car in the background like I was wasting time on this.
“Cohen, don’t get all soft and mushy on prison pussy. Stay focused on the goal and get out of there.”
“But James, there’s so much that doesn’t add up.” Not like I knew shit about her case besides the bare bones file, but when stuff didn’t add up, it usually meant there was something missing from the equation.
“It rarely does, but to turn over a state conviction is going to take a shit ton of manpower we don’t have to devote to it. She didn’t assassinate Kennedy and she’s not Charles Manson. Fuck the girl and get it out of your system. I just don’t want to hear about it at an ethics committee. So unless she’s going to turn over evidence or rat on the Tribe to help bring Hector down there’s not much we can do.”
“So we just ignore it?”
James sighed.
“Hand it over to the Innocence Project and see what happens.” As if they weren’t already overworked.
“Don’t they deal with death row inmates?” James was great at delegating when he wanted to drop something. Too bad for him I didn’t. If they made her case public it would blow any cover we had because they would want to know why my unit was here undercover to begin with.
“Look, beggars can’t be choosy, and you already have a job to do in there. Don’t borrow more trouble than you already have. Now, get me the evidence to connect the Tribe to Hector.” James wasn’t going to help me on this unless I could give him something in exchange. I doubted Nene would cooperate. Heck, I couldn’t get her to answer a direct question without attempting to jump into her pants.
“I’ll call if anything comes up.”
&nb
sp; “Thanks, and Cohen…”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a good guy and a good agent; don’t let this shit cloud your head.” That was Jame’s way of telling me to not get caught. It wasn’t a green light, but it wasn’t a clear no either.
“Thanks.”
I hung up the phone as the lockdown alarms sounded. Blaring sirens and red lights flashed from the hallway and I stood up feeling the fear for the girls, very capable women, but no less vulnerable in this environment tingle down my spine. Guards ran from posts past the hallway and out into the yard. Reaching into my desk I pulled out my service revolver and put it into my shoulder holster. I wasn’t bringing a plastic spork to a knife fight in here. Garcia barged into my office looking wild eyed.
“Fight in the yard,” he said before running back out. Under his professional mask he seemed elated by this and it disgusted me. I had to find a way to get him fired before this was over.
I went to the window and looked at the flurry of limbs flailing. It was a gang inspired fight for sure. The Sunshine Sisters had yellow threads, probably confiscated from the laundry room, woven into their hair. I wasn’t clear on how they dyed the fabric and I wasn’t about to ask. The ladies from the Red Tribe had pink bands around their wrists made from shit stolen from the rec room craft supplies. Both gangs brawled, fighting over god only knew what. Guards were already peeling women apart tossing them on the ground.
I had to make sure Nene and Maris were okay. Before I could turn away from the train wreck, I heard it. Bleating screams that sounded like someone had been stabbed. It was too far for me to see much except dots of dark color staining orange cotton. I’d seen wounds before in my work, but this was different. My preconceived notions of women’s fragility had been bent and broken in a place like this. They were fighting to survive as much as the next person. Difficult circumstances yielded unexpected results as I stood there momentarily frozen.
In the span of seconds, I watched guards rush in only to retreat. Tasers were discharged and three bodies fell back, wiggling in the dirt. I hoped none of them were Nene and Maris. My legs burned running down from the office into the yard trying to get to them as quickly as possible.
