by Aimee Laine
A small laugh bubbled up inside Taylor along with resignation to her fate.
“Shoes first, please.”
Taylor toed her work boots off since they hadn’t been fully laced after leaving the hospital. She nudged them toward Hough.
“Thank ya, ma’am.” Hough jotted stuff down on the paper, the gaze of the other officer never leaving Taylor. “You’ll get all these articles back. I’m just cataloging them.”
Taylor offered a slight nod. I remember.
“Britches next, please. Eye color?”
“Blue.” She pushed herself up against the wall to undo the buttons and let her jeans fall to the ground. She wanted to scream at the injustice, to yell and ask why she’d be put through a full body strip search experience a second time. Who had it out for her so bad that she couldn’t live in peace?
“Height?”
“Five-seven.”
“Weight?” The pants went into a bag.
“One-forty.” Her underwear and socks disappeared.
“Any diseases, drug use or alcohol use?”
“No.” Removing Taylor’s shirt would require Hough’s assistance due to the cuffs. Same for her bra. She banked the embarrassment.
“Let me help you with those.” Throughout it all, Hough hummed a calming lullaby that contradicted the situation, especially the fact Taylor stood, naked, attached by a metal ring to a wall. Hough grasped her hand, slid a key into the lock and led her to the table where she dropped a plastic bag she’d pulled from the cabinet. The cuffs were reconnected to yet another metal bar.
Hough plopped onto her chair. “Go on ahead and suit up. I’ll need that ring, too.”
The plastic ripped without effort, and a jumpsuit fell to the ground. Taylor slid her grandfather’s ring from her finger. She rubbed around the knuckle, feeling more naked for having removed it than any of her clothes.
“Got a man in your life?” Hough kept on writing as she asked.
Ian’s face jumped to the front of her thoughts, bringing both a tremor and desire to Taylor. “No.” She slid her legs into the awful jail attire, trying to force him out of her mind. She turned to Riley, his lifelong friendship and smile, but Ian’s image replaced it.
“Pretty girl like you?” Hough chuckled.
“Why are you being so nice?”
“Honey, they ain’t no reason not to be nice to people. Just ‘cause you screwed up—” she held up her hands “—or didn’t screw up, don’t mean you aren’t a human and deserving respect. You give it to me; I give it to you.”
Taylor blew a breath. “You should give that advice to the folks in Alabama.”
Hough narrowed her eyes. “Am I wrong about you, hun?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I got a track record says I know when someone is guilty, and you ain’t.”
A light chuckle escaped along with a quirk of Taylor’s lips. “How do you know—”
“It’s the ‘mean’ in someone’s eye. Look for it, and you’ll know if they’re telling the truth. Works ever’ time. What happened in Alabama?”
Taylor stared into Hough’s sweet, chocolate irises, wishing she could spill her entire history. “Let’s just say, it wasn’t quite so pleasant in their jail, and the woman there didn’t believe in ‘innocent until proven guilty’. And … she let me know it every step of the way.”
Hough stuck a hand on her hip and jutted out the other one. “Naw, girl. You ain’t nothing but someone stuck in the wrong place, maybe even wrong time. Probably even been with the wrong man one too many times, too.” She motioned with the clipboard toward the other officer who hadn’t said a word through the entire experience. “Ask Nell over there. Tell her, Nell. Ain’t I right about people?”
Nell’s answer came in the form of a nod.
• • •
“You’ve got gorgeous eyes,” the redhead said as Ian stood just outside their circle.
The group of four all turned toward him.
“What nationality are you?” The second lovely to speak had thin legs up to her breasts and breasts up to her shoulders. “I mean, what with the green eyes and the milk chocolate skin. The simple cheekbone structure says European, but the tones say African.”
“I’m American, born and bred, like, I presume, all of you beautiful women are.”
They giggled, clearly having had too much to drink already—or just too young to care if they acted silly. “So, are you here with anyone special?” Raven-haired girl asked.
Ian shook his head, not wanting to mention Michael.
“We’re here for Kimmie’s twenty-first birthday.” Two of them pointed to the blonde with blue eyes—a girl who looked nothing like Taylor yet rivaled the others in the room.
Knowing they were Kimmie’s friends meant none of them would meet Michael’s age calculation.
Fuck it. This is about getting my groove back. “Twenty-one, huh? How about I buy you ladies a round of drinks?”
They whooped and brought Ian into their fold, surrounding him with their bodies, touching and rubbing as they asked questions and he answered, about where he lived, who he’d come with and finally reached the ultimate. “So, what do you do? For work, I mean,” Red asked.
Ian had decided not to learn their names—except for Kimmie. He figured the less he knew, the better. “I’m a treasure hunter.”
“Ooh, is that like a bounty hunter?” Raven asked.
Holding back the eye roll, Ian said, “Yes.” And yet nothing like it at all. He’d get nowhere if he acted his age.
The women giggled and downed a Tequila shot—their drink of choice, according to Red.
The more Blondie stared into Ian’s eyes, the more Taylor’s face appeared in his mind. He shook his head, trying to get the image to go away. “How about another round?” Or ten.
The women whooped again and spun, picking a whiskey shot and beer chaser for their next venture. As they waited to be served, Ian chatted up each one of them.
All in one sorority.
All having just turned twenty-one that year.
All looking for someone to help them after they ensured Kimmie reached her fully drunk state.
Red sauntered up, ran a finger down Ian’s cheek and to his chest, where his button down had somehow been unfastened further. “There’s something else our friend wants to do for her twenty-first.”
Ian wound an arm about Red’s waist. “Oh yeah? What’s that?” He downed another shot, holding back the cringe as the heat trailed his throat.
“She wants a ménage. With a guy like you.” Her lips remained right at his ear, and a split second later, the wetness associated with a lick sent a chill through Ian.
He grasped Red’s wrists and pulled her in, crushing his lips against hers. When he withdrew, she stared up at him. “Is that what you want?” he asked.
She quirked an eyebrow. “All four of us. We’ve heard the myth about your kind.”
“My kind?” Older men?
She tilted her head left, right and left again. “Yeah, you know, if you go black, you never go back.”
“Ah, that one.” Ian picked up another shot glass, thankful he’d ordered a set, and swigged it, knowing if he agreed to their little fling, he’d have to be thoroughly drunk not to have Taylor’s face peer back at him from all four of them. “Some say it’s true, but the true test is not in the size of one’s dick, but of just how it’s used.”
The four of them wound their arms around Ian. “We’re staying at the Ritz. Just one night. Room fourteen sixty.”
“Will you come?” Raven asked.
“For me?” Kimmie asked.
“And me?” Red asked.
The fourth in their party remained silent, standing still, her newest drink still in her hand. When she licked her lips and fluffed her mousy brown hair, Ian knew they’d all agreed and chosen the best man for the job—whether or not he’d ever been part of a ménage before.
Which he hadn’t.
First time
for everything.
“Okay, ladies. Let’s go.”
They packed up their bags, swiping credit cards with their server, and Ian gave Michael a nod and a wave. He received the same and a giant smile in return.
Teetering on the highest of high heels, the foursome struggled their way out the door and onto the finest sidewalks in New York.
Ian waved to a cab as it slowed its way down the street. Red held out her hotel key, jiggling it as the car pulled up. Rather than pile in with the four of them, Ian said, “I’ll meet you there.”
They squeezed into the back and front seats, jabbering on and on the whole time, squealing that they’d found just the right man and that they couldn’t wait to get his clothes off.
“Drunk as skunks. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
He whistled for a second cab, and once one pulled to the curb, hopped in. “Follow that one. It’s time to forget.”
• • •
Psychologists claimed pink calmed, but the wails of the women in the cells surrounding Taylor’s suggested the experts knew nothing about human nature. Confinement, small spaces and lack of freedom put everyone in a sour mood.
Hough had walked Taylor to her cell, given her a single blanket and pillow and one bit of advice: “Just like a bad dream, honey. They, too, go away, and the sun shines again. Hang in there.”
Taylor shifted to her side, blinked through exhaustion, though her body refused her sleep. Across from her, a woman sniffled light sobs. Beneath her, one snored louder than a lawn mower rolling at top speed. Despite the hour and the darkness, silence failed to engulf the women’s side of the correction facility.
She flipped onto her back, the ceiling coming within three feet of her face. A shiver ran through her body. She switched to her side again, despite the protest of her muscles suggesting she should stay the other way. The proximity to the wall could induce an attack like the ones she’d had at home—of claustrophobia instead of just being hog-tied.
Why she had so many issues remained a mystery, but Taylor had learned to cope.
As long as she could breathe and keep her hands to her front, she could deal, alone, with her place among the criminally challenged.
4
Groggy from lack of sleep and dreams about a certain gorgeous blonde, deep down in the southern part of the US of A, Ian clutched his massive, morning erection and groaned. He rolled over, the hangover pounding his head, and crawled his way toward the bathroom.
The scent of burnt toast and syrup wafted through, smack to the center of Ian’s stomach, making him want to both hurl and curl up in a ball.
He managed to reach the bathroom, rise for some Ibuprofen and down a few by drinking from the sink’s tap.
“Never, ever, ever drink so much in one night,” he said to the mirror. The face staring back at him reflected the night’s binge, but not the guilt he’d expected when the night started. Hand on the marble countertop, Ian balanced himself upright, letting the swimming room come to a stop. A gritty dryness coated the inside of his mouth, and he needed something stronger than water. “Time to face the judge,” he said and staggered from the bathroom in his boxers.
“You look like hell,” Michael said the moment Ian stepped into the kitchen.
Ian blinked at the brightness in the space and found Michael sitting at the round table in a kitchen designed for a chef, but rarely used to its capacity. “And you’re a horrible chef.”
“ThaswhyI’mgonbeadoctor.”
Ian withdrew a glass from the cupboard and poured the remaining inch of orange juice from the container, attempting to process what Michael had said. That’s why I’m gonna be a doctor. Thinking while still hung over did not bode well for the rest of the day. “You talk with your mouth full around Mom and Dad?”
Michael wiped at his lips. “Never. She’d beat me black and blue if I did.”
With a roll of his eyes, Ian sipped at the lukewarm juice. As smart as Michael had been, top of his class, he acted pre-pubescent half the time. Which is exactly why I went to the bar with him last night.
“So … why were you home before me?” Michael asked. “I mean, I saw you leave with four lovelies. Figured you’d be out all night.”
Ian set the glass on the granite counter. He knew the subject would come up but had hoped it wouldn’t. “Tired. I had a long—”
The shake of Michael’s head went farther than any words could have. “Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar.” He scraped off some of the charred remains on the bread and slathered jelly on top. “You left with them. With them, my man. If you weren’t going to actually make use of them, you could have passed them off to me.”
“You’re old enough to get your own women.” Rather than try to drink any more of the juice, Ian dumped it, rinsed his glass and set it in the dishwasher. His cleaning lady would take care of it later that afternoon.
“But four! You had four of the most gorgeous girls.” Michael leaned forward, hands pleading. “Tell me one of them—”
“Nothing to tell. They were drunk. Too drunk. And by the time they reached the hotel, two of them threw up on the sidewalk.” Ian ran a hand over his head. “So, I did the gentlemanly thing and kept going.”
“So wrong.” Michael hung and shook his head. “But yet again, this is why you are you, and I am me. The one chick I met last night?” He faced Ian as if Ian should answer the non-question. “Her boyfriend showed up as we were walking out. How crazy is that?”
Ian waved a hand through the air. “Sorry. But don’t you have anything better to do than sit here eating burned toast?” And asking me about an adventure that didn’t happen? And making my stomach curl with your inability to cook?
A nod accompanied Michael’s, “Nope. No classes today. Just need to study.” He didn’t even seem hung over.
This is why men my age don’t get wasted. Ian headed for his couch where he intended to lie down and do nothing all day.
At the musical chime singing from his bedroom, he continued on and grabbed his cell off his dresser. “It’s eight o’clock in the morning, why are you calling me so early?”
“Hot date last night?” Tripp asked.
“Well … if you must know … yes.” No. Rather than sit on the bed and twiddle his thumbs while he talked, Ian opened his balcony doors, breathed in the pre-polluted morning air of New York City and basked in the glory of just being home. The thirty-fifth floor offered him a full view of the city below, the cars on the road and the ever-present horns and sirens.
“Time to come back,” Tripp said.
“What the hell? No way. I got … stuff to do. Women … and—” Fuck, this sucks. Wind bit at his cheeks, a reflection of the varying springtime temperatures and of the morning.
“Are you drunk?”
How the hell could he tell that? “Of course not.” Anymore.
“Good. Then get on the pla—”
“Did you find us a new gig?” Ian’s lips curved. They’d done nearly no work in the six months since Tripp married Lexi. Or, no ‘real’ work as Ian liked to call it. “What is it? No, wait, better yet, where is it? Bahamas? Europe? Somewhere completely exotic with an everlasting supply of tequila—” His stomach lurched. Or not.
Tripp chuckled. “Exotic, yes. No idea on the tequila.”
“Where, then?”
“Trust me, Ian. You want to be in on this one. The plane will be ready in an hour. Get your ass on it, and I’ll pick you up.”
“Wait … if you’re picking me up, that means I’m coming back to Slowville. Back to Noville. Back to—” Ian had never refused Tripp’s business offers before, and the excuses only escaped out of pure frustration over a woman. One woman. One damn woman. He thumped his forehead against the glass of his balcony door, inciting a headache the size of Mount Rushmore. “You’re not telling me everything.”
“I’ll fill you in when you get here.”
“Oh, no. If I have to come back—” The line died. Ian held the phone away from his head. “Bastard.�
�� He slipped back through the doors and grabbed his bag—one he hadn’t even unpacked—ripping through it for clean clothes.
Michael appeared in the frame of the door, yet another piece of toast in hand. “South for the winter?”
“It’s spring, but apparently so.”
“Coming back?”
“Of course I am. Why would you even ask?”
• • •
The clang of nightsticks against steel bars forced Taylor’s eyes open. She hadn’t even realized they’d closed. She’d been roused at six for square meal number one and replaced in her cell immediately afterward. As nine rolled around, her cell mates had been taken away, and three new ones returned, each with a brighter smile on her face than the previous. By ten, she’d grown restless and almost considered asking to make another phone call.
Though she’d talked with Tripp Fox about becoming her attorney, she hadn’t called her parents and wouldn’t dare interrupt their annual vacation. Riley, though, he’d help if he could.
She just wouldn’t ask. Doing so would put him in an unfair position.
When the clangs continued, Taylor’s heart raced with memories of her time in Alabama.
“Something freak you out up there, honey?” Her lower bunkmate’s drawl carried over the sounds.
Taylor hadn’t realized she’d moved enough to bring any attention to herself. Unsure whether she should play tough, demure, or be herself, she rolled to her side and said, “It just never gets quiet.”
“Nope, never does.” The voice came from the lower bunk on the other side of the cell. “I been in—” The woman tapped one bright red fingernail against the other. “—fourth time this month.” She lowered extended-length lashes, revealing bright browns a second later. “Prolly gonna stay inside this time. Might as well get used to the noise.”
“Why?” Taylor held back the cringe at an extra-long stay. She hoped for a summons to the magistrate that morning. Expected it even, if Tripp could get her on the docket.
“Done did it this time. Actually killed the bastard. Thought I did it last time, but he prit-near killed me instead. I got him, though, this time. Damn cops didn’t help one damn bit before. Had to take control. Use my own hands. Shoulda done it three tries ago, but I kept thinking I’d change him.”