by Nesly Clerge
Demory tapped his pen against his chin and stared at Starks.
“I know why you’re looking at me like that, Doc. But this is different. I loved Kayla. Bret’s just using her and her money. Correction: my money.”
“You seem to still care a lot about what’s happening with Kayla.”
“She’s the mother of my children. I have to care a certain amount, for their sakes. Especially because I’m in here. If I don’t do right by her, what will my children think about me? I have to let her get away with her shit. She’s got my balls in a vice.”
“How well do you know Emma?”
Starks’s face reddened. “Well enough, Doc. After Kayla, I know how to recognize a good woman when I see one. But, I can’t stop worrying about the effects of all of this on my children. How do they feel about another man sleeping with their mother in our bed? How do they feel about having a man other than their father living at their house? Does he correct them? Does he ever take care of them? Drives me crazy wondering what’s going on there.”
“Starks,” Demory put his pen down, “you’re justified, to a point, to care about what Kayla does, because your children are involved. But some of what she does is no longer your call or concern, difficult as that may be to live with. At some point, you need to let go; you’re holding on too tight to what was rather than adapting to what is. Her relationship with Bret may succeed. If it fails, it’s up to her to deal with it, even learn from it, if she chooses to do that. That’s another thing you have no control over.”
“I’ve always taken care of her, did all I could for her. I don’t know how to stop doing that.”
“You’ll probably care about her in some measure for the rest of your life but you’ll find life easier if you focus more on your own situation here. I’m not saying to let go of concern for your children’s well-being, just that there’s only so much control you have about that while they’re in her care. If anything happens, I’m sure Jeffrey will let you know. You have a right to legal recourse if the safety and well-being of your children come into question. Until you hear anything like that, you’re torturing yourself with what-if’s and about matters you have no control over. You’re in here suffering and she’s out there dancing, so to speak.”
Starks got up and began to pace.
“Look, I’m hearing what you’re saying, Doc, and I know it makes sense, up to a point. But I want you to understand what some of my anger is about. She’s using the money I provide for her and our children to give him a lifestyle he didn’t have before. Tailored suits and shirts, handmade shoes, trips to exotic places while leaving our kids and his with the nanny to look after. And on and on. Hell, he has to get money from her if he needs to buy her a gift. He’s not just living off of her he’s living off of me. And the fact that she’s going along with this? It would be one thing if she was in a relationship with a man who could afford everything and was man enough to pay for everything. This is different. And what the hell are our children learning from her?”
“Legally, as long as your children’s needs are met and they’re being cared for, even if primarily by their nanny, you have no say in how she spends the funds you provide for her use. As for your children, you can write to them. You can guide them, especially as they get older and can understand more. You just have to do that in a way that doesn’t criticize their mother. You have to come to terms with what you can do and let go of thoughts about what you want to do but can’t. Is any of this landing?”
Starks’s posture was rigid. He didn’t look at Demory when he answered, “I hear you.” He placed a fist to the wall and pushed against it.
“While we’re on this topic, what about Emma? She and her son were living with you before things changed. Were you paying for everything for both of them?”
Starks held up a finger. “One. That’s different. I’m the man.” He held up another finger. “Two. Emma never needed me to pay for her life. She was supporting herself and her son before we met and continued to do so even after we were together; although, I took care of all the household expenses and treated her and her son to things like gifts, new clothes, outings… that kind of thing. She said she didn’t want to be a burden.”
“Is it possible you feel about Emma as you do because she’s easier to deal with?”
“Absolutely. No way was I going to go through what I’d been through with Kayla.”
“I wonder how long your relationship with Emma would have lasted?”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Are you confident Emma’s going to wait? Is it fair to ask her to? You’ll both be different people when you get out, no matter how many visits or calls you have.”
Starks didn’t respond.
“Look at your life… before and since you’ve been here. You like a challenge. I think it’s possible you thrive on them. I’m just wondering how well and for how long you would have coped with a relationship that went along smoothly, perhaps too smoothly.”
“You’re way off the mark, Doc. Way off. I have—had—enough challenges in business to entertain me. I didn’t need or want any in my intimate relationship ever again.”
“People can become addicted to drama. I could give you the bio-chemical explanation for this fact, but I promise you it’s a very real experience.”
“Not for me. You’re wrong.”
“Do you see any parallel between what you were doing with Emma and what Kayla’s doing with Bret?”
“What is this—annoy patient day?” Starks sighed. “The situations are altogether different. Emma’s not using me. And she has enough self-respect to choose a man who’s successful, not eager to live off a woman so he doesn’t have to work.”
“So you believe that, even under the current circumstances, things will continue to go well with Emma?”
“Oh yeah. She was as happy to see me as I was to see her. I was surprised, though. I’d listed her but told her not to come.” Starks, smiling, stared out the small window. “Said she misses me too much to stay away.”
“How did you feel when you realized she’d ignored your request?”
“Surprised. Happy. Guarded.”
“Why guarded?”
“You think after Kayla I can’t ever afford to trust a woman again?”
“You don’t trust Emma?”
“I’m not a fool, Doc. Sure, Emma’s a thoroughbred, but I learned a big lesson about trust.” He snickered. “Learning it even better in here.”
“Do you think it’s possible to open your heart fully to someone if you can’t or won’t trust her?”
Starks, his face flushed, turned to Demory. “Fuck trust. People have to prove to me they’ve earned it. People can and will fool you—as much as you let them get away with, but there’s a time limit on how long they can keep it up. So I watch and wait.” He waved a hand in the air. “If I get what I want from them while I wait, so much the better.”
“Part of what you just said is a guaranteed road to a life of selfishness.”
“None of us ever knows how long we’re going to live. You have to put yourself first in this life.” Sneering, Starks said, “I learned that from my father.”
Demory glanced at his watch and hurried to scribble a note.
“Look, Doc, I know what you’re trying to do. You want me to look at my faults rather than at who’s really to blame. That’s your job; I get that. But that doesn’t mean it’s right.”
Demory put his pen down and leaned back. “In a couple of weeks, I’m taking some necessary time off, for around two months. Another counselor will cover for me until I return. I’m sure you’ll find he’s okay to—”
Starks shot up. “I’m not talking to another counselor. I’ll wait until you come back. Whatever you’re doing, I hope it goes well. But don’t expect me to talk to anyone but you. I think our time’s up.”
Starks’s stride was deliberate as he left the session. Demory just didn’t get it: He wasn’t in the wrong; Kayla was.
<
br /> Why was that fact so damn difficult for people outside of his family to get?
CHAPTER 101
STARKS NOTED HIS pile of dirty clothes was getting too high for the cardboard box he stored them in. Jackson had taunted him, back when they’d first been put together in the cell, about neatly folding what needed to go to the laundry—“Who does that?”—his cellmate had asked.
“This place may be a sty,” he’d responded, “but that’s no reason to live like pigs.”
The word pigs reminded him of Lawson, who still needed to be dealt with.
What was taking Sanchez so long to get back to him?
Starks removed the knitting needle from the hem then slid his scrub top off, followed by his undershirt. He sniffed at the garment, wrinkling his nose at its pungent odor. He blamed the stink on the cheap soap and deodorant the commissary carried. The shirts, followed by the pants, were folded and added to the stack.
The last thing he felt like doing was standing around in the laundry room for over an hour. In any prison, it was a favor for a favor, or payment—cigarettes, drugs, exchanges of items bought at the commissary, or cash, even with inmates whose paid work assignments involved doing laundry for inmates. He decided to arrange whatever was required. Dressed in clean clothes, and his slender, primed weapon tucked into place, he picked up the box and made his way through the two corridors that led to his destination.
Once inside the laundry room, he selected the smaller of the two inmates working that shift and approached him, introducing himself.
The inmate replied, “Name’s Nick.”
The details were handled quickly: Nick wanted nothing for doing the laundry; said it was his job, and that he’d be happy to do the favor.
Starks stared at the man for a moment then asked, “When will my stuff be ready?”
“For you, two hours. Clean and folded. If you need anything else, you let me know.”
“I’d like the clothes put back in that box.”
“Will do. And, I’ll deliver them to your cell as part of the service.”
“Appreciate it.”
Whether Nick wanted anything for his services or not he was going to get something. It bothered Starks to accept favors or services for nothing, especially in here. His grandfather had taught him that money was the cheapest way to pay. Even after the time he’d been in here, he still didn’t know the lay of the land well enough to determine whether accepting something for nothing would work against him. Some “big-house” rules stayed the same; some changed on a whim.
Starks was about to exit the laundry room when his heartbeat began to gallop in his chest. The inmate with the lion tattoo was at the entrance; he’d stopped and was staring, his expression unreadable.
The inmate pulled himself to his full height and put a smile on his face. “Mister Starks.”
Starks hesitated, trying to figure out what the man was up to. Erring on the side of caution, he nodded but stayed silent.
The inmate returned the nod then went into the laundry room. Starks was hit with a sudden thought of concern about his laundry then shrugged it off. Everything in the box had been provided by the prison. If an inmate destroyed the clothes, the prison would replace them. He’d hidden the underwear Emma had given him. No way was he going to be caught wearing them but they might come in handy as an exchange with the right inmate.
This new behavior of the guy with the tattoo must be a result of the COs keeping their promise. He looked behind him. The tattooed inmate hadn’t come out of the laundry room. Starks glanced at the round clock mounted high on the wall. It was lunchtime, and he wanted something from the commissary. He wasn’t feeling up to what the chow hall might serve.
He made a right turn into a nearly empty corridor and stopped short. Three Caucasian inmates cornered an unusually large African-American man whose hair was in long dreadlocks. Guards and other inmates were conspicuously out of sight. None of the four men noticed he was there. He kept his distance, stayed silent, not yet certain what was going on or about to go down.
Two of the men pinned the huge man’s arms behind his back. The other delivered blows to the man’s face; kicked the man’s legs out from under him. The man fell; the thud of his head striking the concrete floor made Starks’s stomach constrict. The three began to kick the downed inmate. Red splatters took shape briefly on the gray walls, before trailing toward the floor.
Starks shouted, “Leave him alone.”
Too involved in the moment, no one but the man being beaten took notice of him.
He edged closer, his right hand grasping the left side of his scrub shirt. The last thing he wanted to do was reveal his weapon, or worse, have it taken from him, used on him.
The victim pressed his hands against the wall, using the surface to drag himself up, despite the blows and kicks still being delivered to him. He turned, swinging at the nearest man; his fist made contact with the attacker’s right temple. The man fell and stayed unmoving. Rage was evident in the large man’s eyes and on his face. He lifted one of the two men standing and slammed him to the floor; the man moaned and stayed down. The other inmate took off, running in the direction opposite where Starks stood.
The bloodied man’s fists stayed clenched; his breathing was hard and fast. He looked down at the men at his feet, wobbled then fell against the wall.
Starks rushed to him. “Are you okay? Do you want me to help you to the infirmary?”
The man held his hand out, not to accept assistance but to keep Starks from coming closer. He took a few shallow breaths then answered, “I’m okay, mon.”
“What was that about?”
“Dem batty boys.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Dey want me to be dey girlfriend. You understand dat, yeah?”
Starks’s eyes took in the man’s bulk. “They must be idiots to mess with you.” The man’s smile was slight but genuine. “Although, some might say the same about me.”
“What you mean?”
“I’ll tell you another time. I’m Starks.”
“Skullars Bailey. Just call me Skullars.”
“I’d like to help you, if you need help, that is. You want me to flag down one of the guards?”
“No, mon. No doctor, no guards for me.” He winced when he straightened up then stuck out his chest. “I handle my own business. But I tank you for tryin’ to make dem stop.”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“First week out here. Just outta da SHU. Dem fools try somethin’ wid me da first day. Don’ wanna go back in da SHU.”
“Believe me, I understand. All of it.” Starks glanced left then right. “I like how you handled yourself. Listen, if you ever need anything or just want to talk, I’m in D block.”
“Dey jus’ move me inna same block. First cell on da right.”
“I’m in the fifth cell on the left. Look me up.”
“You not batty man, are you?”
“I assure you that I bat for the usual team.”
CHAPTER 102
STARKS CHANGED HIS mind about getting something from the commissary. Jackson would be in the chow hall; he felt like having some company. He couldn’t fathom why his roommate went there for meals as often as he did, nor had he asked. Maybe Jackson’s funds had something to do with it. He wondered why he’d never thought of that before.
Jackson had never asked for payment, or anything, in fact, in exchange for his assistance with the attack on Bo. He needed to give this matter more consideration.
He spotted Jackson moving forward in the tray line and waved when his cellmate looked his way. Starks pointed toward their usual table; Jackson nodded.
Two minutes later, they sat across from each other.
Starks put a bite of potatoes and part of a meatball on his fork and grimaced when he tasted them. “Everything’s cold and bland.”
“Ah, the sweet consistencies of life,” Jackson said. “Hey, I got a new gig in the kitchen, starting tomorrow.�
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“Maybe you can do something about the quality of this crap.”
Jackson snorted. “Sure thing. You can expect gourmet meals from now on.” He chewed thoughtfully. “I’ll have more influence working in here. Inmates will want favors.”
He pointed his fork at Starks. “People are talking about you.”
“That’s not news.”
“Well, this is. The Beast is stirring things up.”
“Who the hell’s the Beast?”
“One of Bo’s soldiers—former soldiers. Has a lion tattoo.”
Starks frowned. “We’ve met.”
“He’s saying you have all the COs in your pocket. That he already spent time in the SHU twice in one week because of you.”
Starks grinned. “He’s wrong. I don’t have all of them in my pocket.”
“How many so far?”
“You know how many.”
“If you add anymore, it would help if I knew who. Do you trust them?”
“I don’t need to trust them; I just need to motivate them.”
“Word’s getting out that you have a secret weapon.”
Starks’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “That’s not good.”
Jackson shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. The ones that helped that day think you just knew where to strike to cause the most damage. Others believe it’s just part of the rumor mill. But you’ve probably noticed more people being nice to you. Maybe even treating you with respect.”
Starks put his fork down, pushed his tray away, and folded his arms on the table.
Jackson grinned. “Man, it’s like you’re becoming mythical in their minds. It’s like a fish story. Every time it’s told, the fish gets bigger, more powerful.”
Starks pulled his tray back, picking up his fork to poke at the food. “People will say what they say. If it helps me, great. If it gets me into trouble, that’s not good.”
