Inside b-1

by Brenda Novak

  “So you’ve heard from him?” Pointblank taunted. “You can tell us where he is?”

  Wearing his leather coat like a badge of honor, Pretty Boy shrugged to hide the discomfort in the pit of his stomach. Skin had already been gone a week, long enough to indicate that he didn’t plan on coming back. But Pretty Boy couldn’t give up hope. Not when it came to Virgil. “No. But…”

  “What?” Pointblank demanded. “I’m supposed to cut this asshole extra slack just because he used to be your cellie and you know his mind and shit like that? Come on, the man got a lifeboat. That gives him a clean slate. And a clean slate can change the way you think about certain…affiliations.” He tapped his skull before taking a pull of beer. “Skin knows too much. We can’t let him forget who his friends are.”

  Pretty Boy ignored the sense of impending doom that’d crept over him the minute he’d been sent to Colorado to round up his old buddy. “I’m telling you he wouldn’t rat us out. Maybe he’d disappear for good, but he wouldn’t debrief.”

  “Something’s going on,” Ink piped up. “And we’d better get a handle on it. Watching his sister’s place is a waste of time. He must think we’re all pussies, that we won’t really hurt her, because he hasn’t even called the bitch. Hasn’t even driven by to make sure she’s okay. What kind of asshole doesn’t care about his own family, for chrissake?”

  “He doesn’t think we’re pussies,” Pretty Boy said. “He only thinks you’re a pussy.”

  Pointblank nearly spewed beer across the bed, but Ink didn’t take the joke quite so well. His face grew mottled, and he jammed a finger in Pretty Boy’s direction. “I’ll show him what a pussy I am when I gut his sister and her kids.”

  Pretty Boy had never hated Ink more. “You think that’ll solve the problem? Killing the people he cares about?”

  “It’s better than sitting in front of her house for days on end, jacking off. That ain’t gettin’ us nowhere.”

  Ink was a bloodthirsty bastard who enjoyed abusing everyone and everything he touched. Pretty Boy had heard he maimed a couple of prostitutes before they left L.A. for Colorado. That was part of the reason upper management had given him this assignment. They wanted Ink out of the way until the flurry of interest surrounding that incident died down. His legendary cruelty gave him a degree of power in a group that prided itself on violence. But Ink had no loyalty, no honor, no soul. “You kill Skin’s sister or harm those kids and you’ll find him, all right. He’ll come to you in the middle of the night and string you up by your balls. Then he’ll pick off the rest of us.” Pretty Boy stepped closer so he could make a point of staring down at the shorter man. “Starting World War III is hardly gonna improve our situation.”

  A flicker of fear danced in Ink’s eyes, but he quickly masked it. Taking his gun from where he’d jammed it down his pants, he made a show of unloading and reloading the cartridge. “Just because you’re scared of him don’t mean I am.”

  Pretty Boy couldn’t help wishing he’d blow his dick off. “I see him, I’ll let him know how you feel.”

  “Enough with the bullshit,” Pointblank said. “We’re all going stir-crazy on this assignment. We want it to be over, and we want it to end well. But this…thing between you two—” he motioned to make it clear that he was talking about their mutual dislike “—it’s not cool. We need to ignore our differences and finish the job so we can get the hell out of this dump.” He tossed his beer bottle at the garbage can and hit the wall instead. When it shattered, a woman in the next room screamed that they should have some consideration, and Pretty Boy wondered what she’d think if she ever learned that Ink would probably kill a woman for less.

  “Shut up, bitch!” Ink yelled back. Then there was silence.

  Apparently she’d gotten the point. Or she was busy calling the manager. Either way, the interruption had been timely because it allowed them to refocus without either of them having to back down.

  “So what do we do?” Pointblank asked. “Do we go back to Skin’s sister’s or not?”

  Before they could answer, Pointblank’s cell phone rang. “It’s Horse,” he said, checking the screen, and answered.

  Pretty Boy walked to the window, parted the drapes and stared outside while listening to Pointblank’s side of the conversation.

  “She’s there. She never goes anywhere but work…. She doesn’t know anything, hasn’t heard from him…. Ink went inside, confronted her. I don’t think she’s lying—he had a gun to her kid’s head…. We’ll do whatever you say, but…What? Who told you that?…Shit!” He threw down his phone.

  They turned to look at him as he jumped to his feet, took his gun out of the drawer of the nightstand and began loading it.

  “What’s going on?” Ink asked.

  “Skin’s cut a deal with the feds.”

  Pretty Boy couldn’t believe his ears. “What?”

  “You heard me. Shady knows a woman inside the Federal Bureau of Prisons. He’s had her doing some research. She says she doesn’t know where Virgil Skinner is, but she heard his name mentioned in the hallway after a high-level meeting between the bureau and some guy called Rick Wallace from the California Department of Corrections. She claims a federal marshal attended one last week.”

  “That means someone’s going into the Witness Protection Program.” Ink’s tone and his hatred stabbed at Pretty Boy.

  “Skin?” Pretty Boy asked.

  Pointblank shook his head. “No. A woman and two kids.”

  “Laurel.” Virgil was trying to protect her. “But why didn’t the feds act sooner?”

  “Who knows? They’re acting now. Word has it someone’s coming for her.”

  “And?” Pretty Boy said.

  Pointblank shoved his gun in his waistband and lowered his shirt. “We need to make sure she’s dead before they can take her.”

  Pretty Boy’s breath caught in his throat. “And the kids?”

  “A rat’s a rat,” Ink muttered. “I say we kill them, too, and really make him pay.”

  Pretty Boy scrambled to find some way to stave off what was about to happen. “Wait! We kill them, Skin’ll talk for sure. He’ll tell ’em everything he knows. No one will be spared.”

  Ink started out of the room ahead of them. “He’s talking, anyway, man. What don’t you get about that?”

  “But why would the CDC be involved? Something’s up.”

  “Whatever it is, we don’t have time to figure it out.” Pointblank again.

  Pretty Boy grabbed Pointblank’s arm. “So you’re going to kill three innocent people?”

  Jerking away, Pointblank doubled his fist as though he was about to take a swing. “That’s enough, do you hear? The feds don’t spend the money to put people in the program unless they’re getting something worth the expense. What does Skin have to offer except our heads?”

  Pretty Boy had no answer to that, but he still couldn’t believe it had come to this. Skin wouldn’t rat them out.

  Apparently willing to let their skirmish go, Pointblank stalked outside. “You coming or not?”

  Was he? Pretty Boy wasn’t sure he could go through with the slaughter. He’d killed other men, but never a defenseless woman. And he couldn’t even imagine hurting a child.

  But if he didn’t fulfill orders, he’d soon be lying on the ground, bleeding out, himself.

  “Yeah, I’m coming.” He went outside and got in the car. But his heart was racing and his palms were sweating and he was deeply conscious of Ink’s thirst for blood as they tore out of the lot.

  What the hell, Skin? What am I supposed to do now?

  10

  Peyton didn’t get it, Virgil thought. She had no idea that her kindness, her beauty, even the sanctuary of her house didn’t help him. On the contrary, it gave him something fresh and memorable to miss when he went back inside come Tuesday. But he didn’t expect her to understand. Someone who hadn’t been through what he had couldn’t grasp how necessary it was to remain aloof and detached. Having
encounters like the ones they’d been having tempted him to soften. And he couldn’t afford that. His first few days in prison would be rough—and make or break all the days after.

  He should’ve refused to come here tonight, for that reason and others. But he hadn’t. Instead of whiling away the hours at the motel, he was wandering around her house in the dark, hating the passage of every minute. Fatigue dragged at him, but he remained on his feet, studying what he could see of her pictures and furnishings—cataloging every detail while pretending he wasn’t dying to slip inside her bedroom.

  He’d have this night at her house and two others. Then his freedom would be stripped away from him yet again. But the memory of this place, of her, would fuel his dreams for days, weeks, months…who knew how long? Memories of the girl he’d known in high school had been a focal point for more than a decade, undoubtedly much longer than she’d been thinking about him.

  The floor creaked behind him. Turning, he spotted a dark shadow—Peyton dressed in a T-shirt and sweat bottoms—at the entrance to the room. He’d left the lights off, been as quiet as possible. He wasn’t sure what had awakened her.

  “You realize it’s three o’clock in the morning,” she said.

  His bare feet sank into the padded carpet of her office as he continued to walk around the room. He liked the feel of the heavy pile, the scent of lemon furniture polish that hung in the air. Her home was so warm and comfortable—the exact opposite of the concrete walls, floors and fixtures he’d become accustomed to. “Is it that late? I haven’t been keeping track.”

  She came inside and snapped on a lamp. “Would you like a sleeping pill?”

  Now that they could see each other clearly, he became ultraconscious of two facts. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. And she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Being constantly forced to strip for various searches had made him indifferent to his own nudity. But he would’ve liked to shield the scars and tattoos on his torso from her view. Prison tattoos weren’t like other tattoos. For one, they didn’t have the pretty colors. Securing the ink was too much of a problem. His had been done with various “rigs” constructed of tape recorder motors, a pen barrel and guitar string. The ink came from the carbon residue of burning plastic mixed with an aftershave solution. They were all blue or black and some of the symbols were standard jailhouse stuff. “No, thanks. I’ll go grab a shirt—”

  She raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t bother. I’ve seen a man’s chest before.”

  No doubt that was true. But he didn’t want to be lumped in with the prison population and he couldn’t imagine that she saw the proof of his history in a positive light.

  “It might help you relax.”

  “What might help me relax?” Certainly not what he saw. That made it difficult to even think.

  “A sleeping pill.”

  He forced himself to focus elsewhere—on her degree, which was framed and hanging on the wall, a wood carving of an owl that decorated a side table, the stack of work awaiting her attention on the desk. On anything except the soft mounds of flesh that acted like a high-powered magnet to his eyes and his hands. He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to relax.”

  “Why not? Isn’t that why I brought you here?”

  “I’m not sure why you brought me here,” he said. “I’m still trying to figure that out. But if I’m keeping you up…” He would’ve returned to the small guest room she’d outfitted for him, but she stood between him and his only escape route.

  “You’re not keeping me up. I was already awake.” When her eyes ranged over him, he again wished for a shirt—but wouldn’t insist on it. He was what he was and wouldn’t hide from anyone, even a woman who made him wish he could be more.

  Her breasts swayed slightly as she leaned on the back of a chair. “I’m surprised to find you in my office.”

  He examined a seashell paperweight. “Why’s that?”

  “Because there’s nothing of interest in here.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Why would I be kidding?”

  Returning the shell to her desk, he glanced up. “This room says so much about you.”

  “More than the rest of the house?”

  “Of course. This is where you spend most of your time.” He pointed to the books filling two separate cabinets. “You’re well-read—psychology, forensic books, reference, self-help, classics and—” he bent closer to make out the titles of the paperbacks on the bottom shelf “—true crime.”

  “So…you’re snooping,” she said with a grin.

  She was flirting with him. “Basically.”

  This made her laugh. “I guess that means you don’t care if it bothers me.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “Does it?”

  Raking her fingers through her tousled hair, she shoved it out of her face, and he decided she couldn’t be more attractive than she was at this moment. Flashes of what she’d look like nude sent all the blood his heart could pump to his groin. “I don’t plan to put a knife to your throat like you did mine, but—” she shrugged “—it’s a little invasive.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. But he wasn’t. Not really. She was the one who’d brought him here for a second visit. And she’d gone through his stuff at the motel, hadn’t she? “I lost my sensibility to ‘invasive’ after my millionth body-cavity search.”

  “That’s an indignity I wouldn’t want to suffer.”

  “To get where you are today, you were once a C.O., right?”

  “For ten years. I’ve performed more than my share of body searches, if that’s where you’re going.”

  “Did you ever proposition anyone you searched?”

  She seemed appalled. “Never.”

  Pretending preoccupation with yet another pile of books, he tried to make his next question sound casual. “Ever have a relationship with an inmate?”

  “No.”

  That told him what he wanted to know. He had less of a chance with Peyton Adams than he’d assumed—and he’d started out at zero. But he was still curious. Why was she being so nice to him? “What about C.O.s?”

  “I had a brief fling with one—but he was quitting, had already given his notice. Today he owns a breakfast joint.”

  She was far more open about her background than he’d expected her to be. Maybe it was the late hour. Or maybe she didn’t have a lot to hide. She’d lived a circumspect life, which made her even less likely to be interested in someone like him. “Have you ever been married?”

  “No.”

  He thumbed through a National Geographic he found on the table, wondering why she’d brought this particular magazine in here at all. The cover showed a family of polygamists. “Engaged?”

  “Twice.”

  Uninterested in learning about one man with ten wives and a zillion kids—too remote from his own experience—he abandoned the magazine. “What happened?”

  “The first time I said yes to a marriage proposal was in the eighth grade. We outgrew the infatuation by summer.”

  He had to smile at the thought of her making such a promise at that age. “And the other time?”

  “I was in college and had fallen in love with a musician. He felt we were meant to be together, but wanted me to wait until he’d made his mark in the music industry. I wasn’t too excited about becoming a roadie, always standing in the wings, hoping he’d have some energy left for me after everyone else took their piece of him. So I moved on.”

  The tips of her breasts had hardened. He could see the outline through the cotton material of her shirt. Was she as aroused as he was—or just cold? “Where is he now?”

  “I’ve lost track.”

  “He must not have made it too big.”

  “I don’t think he did. For all I know, he’s still playing bars.”

  Had she slept with the musician? Made love to the C.O. with whom she’d had that brief fling? He wanted to ask, but wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate any more sexual tension. “Who is
this?” He picked up one of the photographs standing on her desk.

  “My mother. I took her to Napa Valley a year or two before she died. She said it was her favorite trip.” Peyton walked around the chair she’d been leaning on and sat down. Pulling her legs up, she hugged them to her chest—thankfully concealing what he was having such a difficult time ignoring. “Was the C.O. who propositioned you, the woman you mentioned to me, someone who performed a strip search on you?” she asked.

  He was staring at her mother. Peyton had the same smooth skin, the same chocolate-brown eyes. “Yes.”

  “Did it upset you?”

  Confused, he looked up. “Why would it upset me?”

  “Because it wasn’t right. She was in a position of authority, which makes it a form of sexual harassment.”

  He couldn’t help chuckling. “I don’t know very many guys who worry about sexual harassment, at least from women. They can always say no, can’t they?”

  “Unless they feel it might adversely affect their situation.”

  Seemed like a small problem to him. If only that was all he had to worry about. “Maybe it’s just a prison thing, but if a woman wants to get it on with me, I’m flattered.”

  She straightened her legs but folded her arms immediately after. “And yet you said no.”

  “Have you had sex with every guy who’s paid you a compliment?”

  “Of course not.”

  “There you go.” Setting down the picture, he continued his exploration. “Anyway, she might’ve been a whore, but she wasn’t all bad. She used to slip me extra paper, books she thought I might like, chocolate, stuff like that. And some of the other guys enjoyed more…personal favors from her. A woman wasn’t an easy—” he was about to say commodity, but caught himself “—treat to come by.”

  She tilted her head as he fingered a stack of files. “If you think I have a file there on you, you’re wrong.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why are you so interested?”

  Because, as much as he wished otherwise, he was interested in her. She must realize that already. If not, he wasn’t going to point it out. “These things…” He waved to indicate a cabinet that held a variety of handmade objects—baskets, pictures displayed on small easels, leather pieces, jewelry.