CONVICT’S BABY

by Zoey Parker

  She knew she should be frightened of Kurt after seeing him like that, but the worst part was, it had made her feelings for him even stronger. She'd heard the conversation at the bar, and she understood the rage that had driven Kurt to tear the man apart. She knew how horrible he must have felt, listening to someone talk about abusing their family on the anniversary of the night he'd lost his own.

  The way he'd looked right through her before attacking the man had made her heart hurt for him. He'd been able to forget his grief, just for a few precious minutes. And then it had all come charging back at him when his defenses were down.

  Part of her even felt responsible for what had happened. If she hadn't taken him to the bathroom, maybe he'd have gone home and slept it off instead. Or maybe he'd have stayed at his table, out of earshot from the men at the bar. Maybe, in trying to relieve his suffering, she'd only succeeded in making him more sad and confused and angry.

  But no. Instead, she'd been too busy trying to scratch the itch she'd had for him since she'd first met him. And just when she'd finally done it—just when she'd finally felt real happiness, after suffering in silence for so many years—he was taken away from her to face a serious aggravated assault charge.

  She'd wanted to visit Kurt at the county jail, but Ron had strictly ordered her not to. She was afraid that Ron blamed her for all of this somehow.

  And today, on her day off from the deli counter, Ron had called her and told her to come meet him at Shotz—the Dogs' unofficial club house. She agreed to see him, but as she hung up, she worried about what awaited her.

  Would he yell at her? Accuse her of fucking with Kurt's head and depriving the MC of one of its most valuable members? He'd encouraged her that night, but Ron's moods could be mercurial. Who knew what he was thinking and feeling now?

  She walked into the cavernous garage, surrounded by the sounds of engines, power tools, and curses from frustrated mechanics. Ron saw her and immediately waved her into the back office. She followed him in, and he shut the door behind her.

  “So first of all, how are you holding up?” he asked softly. “Still shaken up by the thing at the bar?”

  His concern caught her off guard. “Yes, actually.”

  Ron nodded. “I can't imagine how rough that must've been for you, hon. You finally get a little taste of happiness, and then you have to watch...that. You probably think I'm a real peckerwood for telling you not to visit Kurt at the jailhouse, too. Do you still have feelings for him?”

  Again, Sarah found herself surprised by the question. “Uh-huh.”

  “You want to see him again? Show your support for him through all this?”

  “I do.” She wondered where this was going. She'd been prepared for a lecture, even a fight, but not this level of earnestness.

  “Okay. Good. We'll get to that in a minute. Tell me—if you could find a gig that tripled what you make at the grocery store, plus full benefits, would you want that?”

  Sarah frowned. What did her job have to do with anything? “I guess I would. I mean, I'm pretty sick of working the deli counter, living in a shitty studio, and never having enough money for anything.”

  “I thought so. See, I've been talking to our lawyer, and there's no two ways about it—Kurt's going down for this beating. There's just too many witnesses, and zero chance of pleading self-defense, obviously. Worst of all, the judge and the State's Attorney know damn well what kind of shit Kurt's done for the club in the past, even if he's never been arrested or convicted for any of it. So now that they've got him, they're gonna throw the fucking book at him. He's gonna serve two years, at least.

  “The one piece of good news,” Ron continued, “is that we've got a guy on the inside at the courthouse, and he can tell us exactly where the judge will send Kurt—specifically, River Oak.”

  Sarah's breath caught in her throat. River Oak was a maximum-security facility, known as one of the toughest prisons in the state. The thought of Kurt spending two years there quickened her heartbeat with panic.

  “We've got some Dogs who are already doing time up there, including Bear, our former Sergeant-at-Arms,” Ron said. “But we've been thinking about having someone who's loyal to us apply for a job as a guard, just to help watch our guys' backs. With this whole Kurt thing going on, you seem like the perfect person for the job. You'll be able to see him whenever you want, bring in stuff he needs, and report back to us on how he's doing in there. That's why I haven't wanted you to go visit him—so no one will know you've got any prior connection to him.”

  Sarah considered this. She had to admit that it sounded like a solid plan, and she loved the idea of being able to see Kurt regularly and support him while he was serving his time. And if she could make his sentence easier by doing special favors for him, well, why not?

  “Okay,” she said. “But what does it take to become a guard?”

  Ron smiled. “Not a lot, as it turns out. You've already got your GED. Since River Oak's not a federal joint, you won't need any college credits or special experience. You just apply online, and they'll interview you a couple of times. From what I understand, as long as you don't insult the interviewer's mother or accidentally set the office on fire, you'll get the job—they're desperate for corrections officers. Then you pass a drug test, take a three-week course which includes physical training, and boom, you're in.”

  “Wouldn't it be scary, though?”

  Her uncle shrugged. “What's to be scared of? The inmates are behind bars. You're the one with the badge and baton, so you've got all the power. Pretty much all the bad shit that happens inside is between cons. The last time a CO got seriously injured up in River Oak was over fifteen years ago, and that was because of a riot, which almost never happens.”

  The more Sarah thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. She wanted to be kissed and held by Kurt again without waiting two years, and this seemed like her only chance. Tripling her current income was a nice thought, too. She'd be twenty-five before she knew it, and that felt a little old to still be wearing an apron to work and slicing lunch meats for minimum wage.

  “But don't they run a background check on applicants? You and I are related, so connecting me to the MC wouldn't exactly be difficult.”

  Ron grinned, reaching into the desk drawer and producing some paperwork. “Their background checks are half-assed. And you'll have these.”

  Sarah scanned the fake ID, birth certificate, Social Security card, and GED. The name on all of them was “Tina Martin.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Okay. Go to the application website on your computer, and let's do this.”

  Hang in there, Kurt, she thought. We'll be together again soon.

  Chapter 5

  Kurt

  The newly-convicted men stood in a line behind the courthouse. Their wrists were cuffed, their ankles were all chained together, and they were wearing the same clothes they'd had on during their trials and sentencing hearings—mostly cheap, rumpled, ill-fitting suits that looked about as natural on them as party hats and red clown noses.

  Kurt was no different. He hadn't owned a suit or tie at the time of his arrest, so Ron had bought them for him. Even though Kurt had provided his measurements, the suit still felt tight on him in all the wrong places and the dress shoes pinched.

  Given the predictable outcome of the case, Kurt wished he hadn't bothered with the damn suit after all. If he was going to do time anyway, he would have preferred to face the judge wearing his MC patches and standing in his own two boots.

  A repurposed school bus with flaking gray paint slowly backed up in front of the men, beeping. “Department of Corrections” was stenciled in black on the sides and back. The beeping stopped and the courthouse guards opened the back door of the bus, hustling the men into it. The individual seats had been replaced with long metal benches welded to the sides of the bus. The convicts sat in rows facing each other and the guards shackled their ankle-chains to bars running under the
benches.

  Then the guards withdrew, the door slammed shut behind them, the bus lurched forward, and Kurt was on his way to prison.

  He looked around to see if any of his traveling companions might be dangerous, but the other men mostly kept their heads down, staring pointedly at the floor. One of the only exceptions was a boy sitting across from Kurt, who couldn't have been older than sixteen. He stared out the windows of the bus with wide, frightened eyes, as though he was fervently trying to memorize every tree and building they passed. His jaw was slack, and his hands kept fidgeting in his lap.

  Well, we've got at least an hour ahead of us before we get to River Oak, Kurt thought. If all I do is stare at the dirt and boot prints on the floor of the bus, I'll be dead from boredom long before we arrive.

  “What's your name, kid?” he asked.

  The boy looked at Kurt with a stunned expression, as though a boulder had suddenly started speaking to him. “Kareem. Kareem Thomas.”

  Kurt nodded. “Nice to meet you, Kareem. My name's Kurt. What did a kid like you do to get sent to River Oak?”

  “Oh, I didn't do nothin',” Kareem answered, shaking his head vigorously. “I'm innocent. They said I robbed Mr. Taylor's store an' shot him, just 'cause I was wearin' the same shirt as the guy who did it. I ain't never even fired no gun before. My lawyer said I hadda tell people I did it anyway, though, or I'd go to prison for longer. Maybe even life.”

  “Didn't they do a powder residue test to see if you'd fired the gun?” Kurt asked. “Seems like that'd clear things up pretty quick.”

  Kareem blinked. “No, they didn't do nothin' like that. They just showed me to Mr. Taylor, an' he said 'Yeah, that sure was him,' an' that was pretty much it. Mr. Taylor, see, he's white, an' he always had trouble tellin' black folks apart. Most times I went into his store, he thought I was my cousin Deshaun.”

  Jesus, kid, Kurt thought ruefully. When they were handing out public defenders, you sure did get the shitty end of the stick. No GSR tests, no proper lineup—nothing but a pat on the ass on your way to the slammer.

  “Well, I damn sure ain't innocent, ha,” the man beside Kurt piped up cheerfully. He was an overweight white guy in his late thirties with rosy cheeks and thinning blonde hair. He offered a pudgy hand to Kurt. “Carl Davies. Pleased to meet you.”

  Kurt shook the man's hand, grimacing at how sweaty his palm was. “What are you in for, Carl?”

  Carl grinned like a jack-o-lantern. “I'm a con artist, ha. Swindled a bunch of retired folks out of their savings. One of them got wise to it at the end, though, so I had to crack the old bitch upside the head. Put her in a coma for a couple weeks, ha. They gave me ten years, but my shyster said if I play my cards right, I can be out in three.”

  Several of the other men sitting around Carl were starting to steal sideways glances at him. If he noticed, he gave no sign.

  “You don't seem that worried about heading up to River Oak,” Kurt observed. “You been there before? Got anyone there to watch your back?”

  Carl chuckled. “No and no, ha. But ain't you been listening, pal? I told you, I'm a con artist. Emphasis on the 'artist.' I can see all the angles, figure out all the right moves. Just give me a day or two, and I'll own the fucking place, ha.”

  The guard in the passenger's seat slammed his baton against the metal grate that separated the drivers from the prisoners. “All right, that's enough of the gettin'-to-know-you bullshit! You men can keep your mouths shut for the rest of the ride.”

  “Why?” Kurt asked mildly. “Talking isn't against the rules, is it?”

  The guard glared at him. “First of all, convict, you're in my bus on the way to my prison, which means 'Y' ain't a letter in your fuckin' alphabet no more. You'll do what you're goddamn told if you know what's good for you. And second, you want to keep flappin' your lips an' pissin' me off, go right ahead. But you're gonna look pretty fuckin' funny tryin' to talk with all your teeth busted out.”

  Kurt lowered his head and stayed silent for the rest of the ride. He found his mind drifting to thoughts of Sarah. He wished he'd been more sober that night, so he could have retained clearer memories of fucking her—as it was, he was only left with a series of vague impressions of the way she'd looked at him, how she'd smelled and felt and tasted.

  He'd been disappointed that she hadn't visited him in jail, but not surprised. How could she still have feelings for him after seeing what he'd done to that yahoo?

  Had she had genuine feelings for him that night? Or had it just been a childish crush, mixed with booze and pity?

  And what about his feelings for her? Were they real, or...?

  Kurt shook his head, trying to clear it. Playing tug-of-war with himself over this was a waste of time. Whether they'd had feelings for each other was a moot point now. He was going to prison for two years, and by the time he got out, she'd be with someone new. They probably wouldn't even bring up the thing in the bathroom ever again—it'd be just another experience for both of them, something to carry around without dwelling on it.

  Just focus on keeping your head down and doing your time, Kurt told himself. Let go of everything else.

  Especially her.

  Chapter 6

  Kurt

  The dusty chain link gates of the River Oak Maximum Security Correctional Facility squealed as they slid open, allowing the bus into the courtyard. The guard in the passenger's seat—whose name tag identified him as Officer Rodriguez—walked around to the back of the bus, opened the door, and unchained the men from the metal bar under the seat. Kurt and the others shuffled out, still chained together at the ankles.

  Rodriguez led them into a large room where two more huge, broad-shouldered guards stood waiting. Another bored-looking older guard sat behind a long desk. There were pairs of thick red and blue lines denoting narrow paths on the squeaky gray linoleum floor, and they led to a row of yellow squares in front of the desk.

  “Okay, shitbirds, this is how it's going to work,” Rodriguez bellowed. He enunciated every word as though he was speaking to a room full of slow children. “I'm going to unchain you one at a time. Once I have removed the cuffs from your wrists and ankles, you will walk between the red lines to one of the yellow squares. If you say a goddamn word or put so much as a toe outside of those red lines, Officers Douglas and Miles are going to beat you 'til you shit blood, and then you can spend your first month at River Oak in the fuckin' hole.”

  Kurt sighed inwardly. He was already sick of this asshole's attitude, and he couldn't imagine how many more there were in River Oak who were just like him.

  “Once you reach one of the yellow squares, you will strip down to your bare ass and hand your clothes and personal possessions to Officer Morton behind the desk. This will include watches, earrings, wedding rings, cock rings, anything you've got that isn't permanently attached to your body. No holding out, no exceptions. He will catalogue these items, place them into storage, provide you with prison uniforms and bedding, and assign you a number. You will memorize this number, and you will by God answer to it when it's called, or you will be one sorry motherfucker . When you have your clothes, bedding, and number, you will put on your uniform, step back and walk between the blue lines to the area on the other side of the room.”

  On the outside, with the Dogs at his back, Kurt would never let anyone talk to him like this, uniform or no. He'd stomp some respect into them, then hop on his bike and ride off—anywhere, nowhere, whatever he pleased.

  But now there was no one to back him up, and nowhere to ride to. Blue skies and free air had been replaced with cement blocks on all sides and the stink of rusty iron, dirty concrete, and body odor.

  Rodriguez approached the row of men with his keys, starting at one end. There were three men before Kurt, including Carl. As Carl pulled off his clothes, some of the other convicts whistled and catcalled at him. Carl looked back at them, startled, then put on a shit-eating grin and tried to laugh along. Still, Kurt could see the first glimmer of fear at
the corners of Carl's eyes.

  Instead of yelling for the prisoners to quiet down, the guards just smirked to each other knowingly.

  When Rodriguez reached Kurt, he gave him another hard glare, as though daring Kurt to defy him in any way. Kurt forced himself to stare straight ahead blankly until Rodriguez unlocked his wrists and ankles. Then he walked between the red lines to the yellow square and stripped naked, tossing his clothes onto the desk.

  “One pair of dress shoes, brown, size 12,” Officer Morton droned. He noted each item on a clipboard before tossing it into a cardboard box. “One pair of socks, black. One pair of trousers, black. One leather belt, brown. One button-up shirt, white. One suit jacket, black. One tie, red and white stripes. One pair of underwear, boxers, gray.”

  Morton removed the form from his clipboard and added it to the box. Then he put a lid on it and taped it down before throwing it on top of a stack of identical boxes. He produced a magic marker, writing a series of letters and numbers on the side.