Inside

by Brenda Novak

  “As long as you know not to trust me too much, we’ll be fine.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you just said you wouldn’t hurt me. At least, I think that’s what you meant.”

  “I won’t hurt you. But if you give me the opportunity to do the opposite, I’m taking it.”

  Oh, God… He thought he was putting her on notice, scaring her off. He probably figured that if he destroyed any chance he had before they were even together, he wouldn’t get his hopes up. But, in reality, he was offering her some of the thrills that’d been so conspicuously missing from her life. “Then I’ll be careful to keep my signals clear.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  Now she was worried, but more because of how she might react to him than how he might react to her. “See you in a few minutes.”

  5

  Virgil was fairly certain that what he stood to lose outweighed what he stood to gain. Driving himself crazy wanting what he couldn’t have had never seemed wise. While in prison, he’d watched other men torture themselves over missing this or that and he made a point of not being so stupid. But he was only human. And, as the chief deputy warden led him up the stairs to her front door, moving slowly because of her ankle, her ass was right at eye level. He couldn’t help admiring it. He’d been seventeen when he’d had his last sexual encounter—with the girl he took to the homecoming dance. They’d dated a few weeks, lost their virginity to each other, continued to experiment for a month or so and that was the extent of it. It probably hadn’t been the best sex in the world, but he would’ve had no experience at all if not for that short period. Three months later he’d been arrested.

  Her name was Carrie. He’d dreamed of her soft thighs and breasts a lot since then, but as he aged those dreams had become so old and tired they were as ineffectual as a threadbare shirt. They certainly weren’t as stimulating as a flesh-and-blood woman, especially a woman who looked like Peyton Adams….

  As soon as they reached an elevated deck from which he could see the Pacific Ocean, he circumvented her so he could focus on something that didn’t make him instantly hard. Like the barbecue, the picnic table, the trees towering all around or the wind chimes that hung from the eaves and tinkled in the breeze.

  “This is nice.” He noted the rhythmic wash of the waves. The ocean sounded even closer than it was. “Peaceful.”

  “I like it.”

  The house behind him had a wall of windows. He was eager to look in, but only because he wanted to learn more about this woman who seemed so out of place in the prison system.

  Once he’d acknowledged the reason for his interest, he knew he’d be a fool to feed his curiosity. He crossed to the banister instead of letting her lead him directly inside. There was no point in getting to know her. Even if he ended up liking her, she’d never feel the same way. He was an ex-con. The fact that he’d been wrongly imprisoned was irrelevant. He’d lost the most important years of his life, the years during which most other men built a foundation that allowed them to support a family. Other than the few classes he’d taken while incarcerated, he had no college education, no career—just a lot of experiences guaranteed to keep him up at night.

  It’d be easier, smarter, better, to immediately rule out what his body insisted might be attainable.

  “How long have you lived here?” he asked.

  “Since I started at Pelican Bay six months ago.”

  “So Crescent City is pretty new to you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  She approached the banister at the other end. “I grew up in Sacramento, where I worked at Folsom Prison for fifteen years.”

  “Do you have family in Sacramento?”

  Hugging herself to ward off the cold advancing with the fog, she kicked a pinecone off the deck. “Some. An aunt and a few cousins.”

  Quit asking her questions. None of it matters.

  And yet he wanted to know. “Any siblings?”

  “I was an only child.”

  He closed his eyes, breathed in the scent of the forest. “Where are your parents?”

  To keep the wind from whipping her hair into her face, she anchored it behind her ears. “They’re both dead.”

  The sadness in her voice undermined his resolve. “I’m sorry.”

  “Things happen.” For a moment, she seemed lost in her memories. Standing still, staring out to sea, she reminded him of the female figurehead on an old wooden sailing ship. Beautiful, lonely but serene. A bare-breasted woman was supposed to shame nature and calm the seas. He’d read that somewhere. He’d also read that a live female on board was considered bad luck.

  He felt as if he’d just discovered a stowaway on his own vessel. Would Peyton prove to be a blessing or a curse?

  Maybe seeing her bare-breasted would help him decide….

  “How’d you lose them?” he asked when she didn’t elaborate.

  “My mother had ovarian cancer. She went into remission for quite a while, over twenty-five years, but…it came back in the end. She died twenty-nine months ago.”

  She counted by months, not years. The pain was still fresh.

  Zipping his sweatshirt, he sat on the picnic table. He’d left the hat and glasses he’d worn from the motel in Peyton’s car. There was no need for them out here. She didn’t have neighbors. “And your father?”

  “Died in prison.”

  Virgil walked over to her. “Your father was a convict?”

  “He spent five years behind bars.”

  “What for?”

  She continued to fight the wind. “It’s a long story.”

  In other words, she didn’t want to get into it. “How’d he die?”

  Her gaze remained anchored on the horizon. “How do most people die in prison?”

  “Someone shanked him?”

  A slight nod confirmed it.

  Virgil wanted to touch her, to comfort her, if he could, but he didn’t know how. Except for what he’d said to his sister in his letters, he hadn’t had much experience with tenderness, not in fourteen years. And, as an eighteen-year-old boy who’d had only one rather tentative sexual relationship, a less than reliable mother and four step-fathers, he hadn’t had the best example. “How old was he?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  A year younger than he was. She’d lost him early. “That’s too soon to die,” he said, but he’d seen it, plenty of times.

  “He was a good man.”

  A convict who was also a good man? Virgil didn’t believe there was any way to be both. He’d tried. But Peyton’s belief in her father gave him hope that, accurately or not, his sister might be able to remember him in the same light. “Is your dad the reason you went into corrections?”

  Peyton offered him a fleeting smile. “That, and I thought I could make a difference.”

  Holding his breath for fear she’d think he was coming on to her, he covered her hand with his. “Maybe you are,” he said, then forced himself to let go and turn away. “I guess we’d better get started, huh?”

  “This is Buzz Criven.” Peyton slid the picture onto her dining table.

  Instead of sitting next to her, Virgil had chosen the seat across from her. Ever since he’d touched her, briefly, while they were out on the deck, he’d been careful to keep his distance, so careful that he stepped wide just to avoid brushing up against her.

  Peyton told herself she should be glad of his caution. He was showing her respect. But the way he behaved had the opposite effect. His reluctance made her crave physical contact, if only to see how he might react to it.

  Lifting the picture, Virgil studied its subject. “Rosenburg mentioned him in the meeting yesterday. He’s getting out soon.”

  “But he’ll be inside for the next thirty days. I’m thinking it might be smart to make him your cell mate. Maybe, since he’s a short-timer, he’ll be more prone to recruit you right away, to help you along, to talk about his activities, that sort of thing.”


  “He has power inside?”

  “Some. Like the Nuestra Family, the Hells Fury have modeled their organization after the military. Buzz would be considered a captain.”

  He put down the picture. “Who’s the general?”

  “We believe it’s Detric Whitehead. We’ve kept him in the SHU for the past ten years, trying to curb his activities, but somehow he manages to get his orders wherever he needs them to go. This man—” she pulled out another picture “—Weston Jager, or Westy as they call him, is pretty far up the chain of command. He’s in gen pop, so you’ll meet him when you go in. If it wasn’t Whitehead who put out the hit on Judge Garcia, it could’ve been Weston.”

  Virgil rubbed his chin with the knuckles of his left hand. “These guys are skinheads?”

  “The Hells Fury are actually a hybrid—part racist skinhead, part street gang and part prison gang. In recent years, they haven’t been as worried about their supremacist ideology as making a profit from their illegal activities. Without strong leadership—and the opposition posed by the Nuestra Family, which unifies them—I would’ve expected them to divide into two camps, the way Public Enemy Number 1 did years ago, with the true supremacists on one side and the crime-for-profit supporters on the other. But…that hasn’t happened. Whitehead keeps them tough and focused.”

  “Are there any PEN1 in Pelican Bay?”

  He hadn’t met her eyes since they sat down, and that bothered Peyton. She didn’t know why. Maybe it wounded her ego that he could ignore her so easily. “There were, but that was a few years ago. For the most part, the Hells Fury have absorbed them, as well as all the other smaller white gangs.”

  He thumbed through the photographs and stats she’d collected on the known members of the Hells Fury. “Their activities are mostly drug-related?”

  “They don’t limit themselves. They’re involved in drugs, yes, but also assault, murder, attempted murder, prostitution. Even white-collar crimes like fraud, counterfeiting and identity theft.”

  “Where’d they get their start?”

  “In the Texas prison system, in the mid-eighties. They’ve grown considerably since then.”

  He looked up, caught her eye, but glanced away. “I can’t believe they’ve been able to gain such a stronghold here, of all places. According to Wallace, everyone knows this is Nuestra Family turf.”

  “That’s partly why the Fury have grown so fast. Operation Black Widow made a sizable dent in the NF. Since then, anyone hoping to keep them in check, anyone who needs protection from them, joins the Hells Fury.”

  “And what’s the NF’s reaction to having another gang rise up to challenge them?”

  She noticed a scar on his forearm. Long and jagged, it looked as if it came from a defensive wound. She couldn’t help wondering when he’d received it. “They’re not happy, as you might’ve guessed. These two gangs are always on the brink of war. We keep them apart as much as possible, but that doesn’t stop the violence. It seems as if someone from one side or the other is getting assaulted practically every day.”

  He spread out the profiles of the most important members. “What’s the death toll?”

  “This year?” She sat back. “A handful, which is damn good considering there’ve been nearly a hundred assaults since January. It says a lot about our medical staff.”

  His gaze met hers again and finally held. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but suddenly the men in the Hells Fury felt no more dangerous than their pictures. She was mesmerized by Virgil’s eyes. The pain inside them was unsettling and yet it seemed at home there, even added an unfathomable quality that made him all the more mysterious.

  Clearing his throat, he went back to the materials strewn in front of him. “What symbols do they use?”

  “As with most supremacist groups, you’ll see the swastika. More specific to the Hells Fury is the HF or a pitchfork.” She fished out a picture of a man with HF inked in fancy script on his pectoral muscle. “The letters fury might be tattooed on the knuckles or across the back.” She showed him that, too. “But their most consistent symbol seems to be a satanic S that looks more like a lightning bolt.” She couldn’t find the photograph she’d planned to bring of the S, so she drew it. “I heard one man say it represents the Destroyer.”

  “It’s also the weapon of Zeus,” he muttered.

  “You’re familiar with Greek mythology?”

  “I’ve checked out a few books.”

  “Not what I’d expect you to read.”

  “I didn’t have a lot of choices. If it was available to me, I read it. What’re their colors?”

  “Orange and black. Ghoulish, huh?”

  It was growing late, and Peyton was getting hungry. She could send these files to the motel with Virgil, let him finish on his own. Or she could invite him to dinner and they could continue together.

  She didn’t see any reason either of them had to spend the evening alone. “I was going to make some pesto pasta tonight. Would you like to join me?”

  She expected an eager response. What man who’d been eating prison rations for fourteen years would turn down a home-cooked meal? A chance to eat all he wanted? But he surprised her by rising to his feet. “No, thank you. I should get back.”

  He’d spoken as curtly as though he had an important meeting, but she knew he had nothing scheduled. Nothing until Tuesday. “You’re choosing whatever you’ve got in that grocery bag Wallace provided over my garlic bread and pasta?”

  “There’s no need for you to put yourself out.”

  “Cooking for two isn’t much different than cooking for one.”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  Refusing to lower his guard, he’d started already walking toward the door.

  “Are you trying to prove a point, Virgil?”

  He stopped. “What point would that be?”

  “That you don’t need anyone? That you don’t want anyone? That you’re fine on your own?”

  “I am fine on my own.”

  She pursed her lips. “A simple dinner might threaten that? Threaten you?”

  “Maybe. In any case, I’ve already warned you.”

  “Warned me.” To be careful of the signals she sent him, he meant. She shook her head and laughed. “To a man who’s been in prison for so long I probably look pretty good. But don’t let that confuse you. Any woman would look good.”

  “Quit acting as if I can’t tell the difference between you and someone else, as if I have no taste, no ability to discriminate. I’ve had other opportunities. Once I established who and what I was, the only person who ever came on to me in prison was a woman. She would’ve spread her legs at the snap of my fingers.”

  Peyton pushed her chair back. “How’s that, if you were housed in a male prison?”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “She wasn’t a prisoner.”

  “So it was a staff member?”

  “A C.O.”

  “Did you take what she offered?”

  “Hell, no. She got off on passing herself around to as many men as she could, mostly prison scum. Who knew what diseases she carried? I could never be desperate enough to sleep with her.”

  It wasn’t difficult to imagine a female C.O. taking an interest in a man like Virgil Skinner. He’d caught her eye, hadn’t he? “Who was she?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Staff having sex with inmates, that’s against the law.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t look at me to rat her out.”

  “Why not? It doesn’t sound as if you’re too impressed with her.”

  “No, but I live and let live, unless I don’t have any other choice.”

  Prison rules. What remained of the values, for lack of a better word, he’d developed on the inside. Peyton recognized it easily. “So, if you don’t need me, why are you running?”

  As he chuckled under his breath, his eyes ranged over her. “What do you care if I leave? Aren’t there enough other men to admire you in Cresce
nt City?”

  “Stop it. I’m not trying to— Never mind.” Getting up, she scooped her car keys off the table. “If you’d rather go back to the motel and eat alone, fine. I’ll take you.” She made a move to stalk past him, but he caught her by the arm, and when she looked up, into his face, she realized he wasn’t nearly as unimpassioned as he’d implied.

  “You know what I want from you,” he said. “If you want it, too, you don’t have to make me dinner. You don’t have to view me as an equal. Hell, you don’t have to do anything at all. Just ask.”

  He was determined to maintain the upper hand, at least when it came to any personal interaction between them. But what he didn’t understand was that she couldn’t justify such a shallow encounter. She’d never had one before; no way was she starting now. She wasn’t angling for a thrill, although there was that aspect. For some reason, she craved a real encounter with this man, something as honest as meeting him had been unexpected. “I’m not interested in a quick tumble.”

  “Who said it had to be quick?” He sent her a lazy grin. “We’ve got all weekend. And despite my past, I’m clean, if that’s what you’re worried about. They tested me before my release.”

  “Good to know, but I can’t accept your terms. Although not for the reasons you think.”

  Two grooves formed between his eyebrows. “Then what do you want from me?”

  His close proximity made her feel…odd, breathless, aroused. “Does it have to be so complicated? I want you to stay for dinner. That’s what I invited you to do, isn’t it?”

  When his eyes lowered to her chest, she knew he was anything but unaffected. “If I stay, it won’t be for dinner.”

  Their eyes met again and she saw what she hadn’t been able to see before—vulnerability, maybe even confusion, beneath a shield of male pride. That he hated feeling as needy as he did made her want to touch him and be touched by him all the more, if only to provide him with some comfort after what he’d been through. But she couldn’t respond to the emotions he evoked in her. She barely knew him. And even though the CDCR hadn’t officially hired him, she was working with him. As a woman trying to be successful in a man’s world, a woman who already had the odds stacked against her, she’d always been careful to maintain her professionalism. So why, out of nowhere, was she tempted to indulge herself? With him?