by Julie Cannon
On her third week inside Nelson, four women cornered Peyton in the laundry area. She knew she was in trouble when one stood back as lookout and the other three advanced on her. They beat her severely, shouting taunts and threats interspersed with their fists and feet. Going in, Peyton knew she’d have a hard time. Her notoriety in the press did nothing to ingrain herself into the prison population. Even though some considered her a hero for killing someone at the bottom of that cesspool, it quickly became clear that her actions didn’t guarantee her any special rights or privileges once inside. She hadn’t been raped during that assault, but she’d lost seventy percent of her hearing in her left ear, and a deep cut on her cheek was stitched up in the prison infirmary, leaving a three-inch scar. She didn’t get a hearing aid until she got out.
The Nelson Correctional Institution for Women had been built eighteen years earlier as the female inmate population soared, due to mandatory sentencing and more women making bad decisions and hooking up with worthless men. With over two thousand inmates, Nelson was one of the largest prisons in the country. Sitting on six hundred acres in the middle of nowhere, the massive facility had its own power-generation facility and a staff of eighteen hundred. Thirteen towers surrounded the facility, guards keeping a watchful eye on the grounds, ensuring the inmates stayed in and their accomplices out. Two guards armed with high-powered rifles and standing orders to shoot staffed each tower.
Nelson was composed of four wings, A-D, each with the capacity of five hundred prisoners. There was a cafeteria in each wing, as well as a laundry facility, small library, and rec room. On the grounds outside B wing were four basketball courts, two sets of free weights, three dozen cement picnic tables, and as half as many Ramadas. Every square foot was in the direct line of sight of at least two of the guard towers.
There was a revolving door of guards in the B wing at Nelson. The warden believed that rotating the staff kept them from becoming too complacent or getting too close to the inmates. Three supervisors assigned to B wing the entire time Peyton was a resident were the only constant.
McCormick was sixty-three years old, balding, with an extra-large belly and permanently wrinkled uniform. He was good-natured, had kind eyes, and treated everyone decently.
Twenty-eight-year-old Johnstone stood well over six feet, had thick, dark hair, and more muscles than brains. Peyton had heard that he was a high school football star who barely graduated. The acne scars on his face and neck were a sure sign his defined physique was more from steroids than hours in the gym. His mercurial temper confirmed it.
Joanne Davidson was a five foot-two-inch, hard-ass dyke who never gave anyone a break. She was often described as having the regulation book shoved so far up her ass, the words spilled out of her mouth when she spoke.
Peyton had had three cellmates during her stay as a guest at Nelson. Her first four years she bunked with Tina, convicted of armed robbery of a jewelry store a dozen years earlier. Tina was forty-three years old and had six kids, all with different daddies. Tina showed her the ropes and took care of her after she was beaten up.
After Tina was paroled, Rebecca moved in. Rebecca was serving a five-year sentence for selling oxy to other mothers in the PTA at her daughter’s high school. She was a petite woman with long blond hair and a husband who visited her every week. Life at Nelson was completely out of her element. She was clueless as to what to do or how to survive. The first week, Peyton caught Rebecca wide awake, sitting on her bunk watching her.
On the third night Peyton told her, “Relax, Rebecca. I’m not going to rape you with a broomstick, or anything else, for that matter. I don’t want a prison girlfriend, a best friend, or a paranoid cell mate. I’m only interested in doing my time with no problems and no drama.”
Rebecca accompanied Peyton everywhere, as if she would protect her from the predators in their neighborhood. Peyton knew they were out there, just waiting for the opportunity to strike. She’d had to defend herself three times within her first forty-eight hours and twice since then. With someone as naive and privileged as Rebecca, it was only a matter of time, and she didn’t want to be in the middle of that. On Rebecca’s tenth day as her cell mate, Peyton told her that she needed to shower or she would find someone who would gladly “help” her. For the first year Rebecca cried constantly, and Peyton, metaphorically, entertained thoughts of smothering her with her pillow more than a few times.
Babs, her cellmate until Peyton was paroled, was sixty-eight-years old and had spent more than half her life behind bars. She had killed her neighbor with three shots to the crotch when his dog peed in her yard one too many times. She was tough, had a sailor’s mouth and seventeen tattoos that Peyton could see, and didn’t take shit from anyone. They got along just fine.
Shaking off unpleasant memories, Peyton headed for the shower. She’d replaced the hot water heater with the largest one she could find and often stood under the scalding spray until the water cooled. This morning was a quick in and out, and she started her day.
Chapter Nineteen
Leigh was fifteen minutes early to her second lesson with Peyton. When she signed in, Marcus told her that Peyton was just finishing up with her current client and would be in shortly. Leigh grabbed her bag and went outside, stopping just short of the empty putting green. She dropped her bag, pulled out her driver, and began her stretching routine.
She’d thought of Peyton every day since their first lesson, either when practicing her swing in her backyard or lying alone in bed at night. A few times her mind had drifted to her during a particularly boring meeting or conference call. Her body came to life every time as well, and more than once she took advantage of the privacy of her bedroom to release her frustration.
Leigh had had difficulty concentrating the last day or two, anticipating seeing Peyton today. She’d chastised herself more than once, but her body and mind refused to listen. This afternoon, she’d barely been able to sit still and forced herself not to leave right after lunch. She left at three, ran a few errands, and drove around the large block several times, sitting in her car for thirty minutes before finally allowing herself to get out and check in. She had no idea what was wrong with her. Her attraction to Peyton was borderline obsession.
“All warmed up?”
Surprised, Leigh spun around. Peyton had come up behind her, wearing knee-length shorts and a Copperwind polo shirt, topped with a Copperwind visor. She held a tall plastic glass of what looked like iced tea in her left hand.
The excitement that had tickled her stomach for days turned into drunken butterflies when she saw her. She couldn’t remember having this type of visceral reaction to a woman in a very, very long time.
“Yep. All done. Traffic wasn’t bad, and I got here early so as not to waste your time.” Leigh knew she was rambling and forced her mouth to shut. Peyton smiled, and Leigh suspected she knew how nervous she was. God, get a grip, Leigh. You’re thirty-seven, not a teenager.
“Great. Let’s start on the driving range, and then we’ll play a few holes.” Peyton picked up her bag. “Did you play this weekend?”
Leigh had, and she gave Peyton the Cliffs Notes version but omitted how she had looked for her on every hole and how disappointed she was when she didn’t see her all day.
“Okay,” Peyton said, dropping the basket of balls onto the ground in front of her. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”
Leigh set her tee and picked up a ball, all the while telling herself to relax. If she didn’t, she’d make a complete ass of herself. That’s all she needed to add to her ragged nerves.
Her first and second shots were pretty good, but her third veered to the right after Peyton reminded her to move her hands. They shook when she remembered Peyton touching her. Leigh wanted Peyton to tell her exactly where to put her hands—on her, not the club.
Peyton kicked another ball over to her, and Leigh didn’t dare make eye contact before or after she placed it on her tee. She took a few deep breaths, adjusted her hands, a
nd, without thinking any more about it, hit the ball.
“Good. Another.” That was all Peyton said. After a dozen more balls, she picked up Leigh’s bag and said, “Okay. Let’s head out to the first hole.”
On the way to the tee, Peyton asked Leigh to describe her game plan for the hole. Leigh checked the info about the hole on the placard next to the water cooler and rattled off the clubs she would use to reach the green. Peyton nodded her approval.
At the tee box, Leigh bent over to get a new tee and her ball from a bottom zipper of her bag at the same time Peyton stooped down to pick up a scorecard that had floated to the ground in front of Leigh’s bag. Their heads were inches from each other, and they looked up simultaneously. Their eyes locked, and what she saw in Peyton’s took Leigh’s breath away.
Desire, passion, and raw need were clear, and there was no doubt Peyton wanted her. Given the way her body immediately responded, Leigh knew her eyes were conveying the same. Peyton’s eyes moved to her lips, and Leigh knew she was going to kiss her. All she needed to do was lean in just a little, and their lips would touch.
Leigh was certain Peyton wouldn’t make the first move, and she suddenly hesitated. Leigh always took charge of getting what she wanted in a sexual relationship. She wasn’t demanding, but two people were always between the sheets, each with needs and desires that were expected to be fulfilled. Several seconds passed, and Peyton finally stood and stepped back.
Leigh grabbed her ball and tossed it onto the ground before Peyton could see how bad her hands were shaking. The connection she felt with Peyton was shocking. They’d spent only a few hours together. If she didn’t pull herself together and focus, this was going to be a very long and potentially embarrassing lesson.
Fifty-five minutes later, Leigh felt she hadn’t done too bad during the three holes she played. No way could she avoid Peyton or put distance between them. Peyton was always right beside her or behind her, making a comment or adjusting Leigh’s body to the correct form. Peyton touched her hand, her hips, and even her knees while demonstrating a certain technique.
Peyton’s fingers burned, and on more than one occasion, Leigh thought about doing something wrong just so Peyton would touch her again. She had difficulty concentrating on what Peyton was saying, let alone being able to actually do it. Leigh had caught Peyton looking at her more than once in a not-so-professional way, the tension from that first almost-kiss still between them.
They didn’t say anything as they walked back to the clubhouse, and before she said or did something stupid, she made a beeline for the restaurant.
Peyton was behind the desk when Leigh exited and reached for her bag.
“I’ll get it,” Peyton said, picking it up and settling it on her shoulder.
Leigh wasn’t sure if Peyton carrying her bag was chivalrous or ridiculous. Maybe a little of both. “Peyton, I can carry my own bag to my car.”
“I know you can, but I’m headed that way. Besides, your hands are full.” Peyton nodded at Leigh’s hands that were, in fact, holding a large iced tea and a bright-orange bag of Crunchy Cheetos.
Leigh went out the front door, Peyton close behind, her clubs clinking together in the bag. In a few steps, she was beside her when Peyton asked, “Where are you parked?”
“Over there.” Leigh pointed to a tan Toyota truck sitting in the last spot on the row. Actually, Leigh’s truck was the only vehicle in the area where she pointed.
“Is this your bike?” Peyton asked, clearly surprised as they got closer.
One of the errands she’d run when she left early was to stop and pick up her bike from the mechanic. She knew she wouldn’t have time to go home and drop it off, so she’d tossed her clubs into the passenger side of the cab before she went to work.
“Actually, I ride motocross.” Leigh always got a cheap thrill when someone realized that. It wasn’t that unusual for a woman to ride a motorcycle, but it was for it to be a Honda 250 dirt bike tearing around a dirt track with twenty guys.
“What’s the difference?”
They had arrived at Leigh’s truck, and she put the key into the lock and opened the passenger door. Her truck was over twenty years old and didn’t have power locks. It didn’t have power anything, other than steering.
“Motocross is riding a motorcycle off-road with hills and jumps and tight corners and short straightaways. The machine is a little different, more responsive and durable.”
“Sounds pretty fast-paced and exciting.”
“It is. It gets your heart racing and your adrenaline pumping.”
Peyton thought of more pleasurable ways to get her adrenaline pumping. Especially with the woman standing beside her. “Where do you ride?” Peyton maneuvered her clubs inside Leigh’s truck and closed the door.
“There’s quite a few tracks around. It depends on where the guys want to go.”
“The guys?” Peyton asked, her eyebrows raised.
“I ride with a club. There are six of us, and we take turns deciding where we’ll go.”
“Your bike looks pretty serious. How often do you go out?” Peyton looked over her bike. It was primarily red with a white rear fender and black seat. The tires were brand-new, the knobs still in place. The chrome shone from a recent wash.
“Two weekends a month.”
“Wow. That’s commitment,” Peyton commented, still looking at her bike.
“Actually, it’s a lot of fun, and because I spend so much time behind a desk, it’s a great way to release that corporate tension. We’re in racing season now, so most weekends we’re on the track. This weekend we’re at a race at Wild Horse Recreational Area over in Stanford.”
“You race?”
Leigh laughed at Peyton’s surprised expression. “Absolutely. You should come watch.” Leigh stopped laughing, not sure where that invitation came from. It wasn’t as though they were friends or that she was trying to be. She didn’t know how the almost-kiss fit in. An awkward silence stretched between them.
“Thanks, I appreciate it, but maybe some other time,” Peyton said quickly, stepping back from her truck like it was on fire. She turned away, but not before saying, “See you Wednesday.”
Leigh tossed her duffel into the bed of the truck and watched Peyton walk toward the other cars in the parking lot. “You should come watch,” Leigh said, mimicking her earlier invitation. “Jesus, Leigh. Could you have said anything more stupid?”
Peyton opened the door of an old Ford pickup truck and climbed in. It desperately needed a paint job, but from where Leigh stood, it looked like the body was in good condition. It started right up and didn’t emit any black smoke from the tailpipe.
As Peyton pulled onto the main street, Leigh thought about her invitation for Peyton to come watch her race. Actually, it was more along the lines of you should come and watch the races, not you should come and watch me race. But still, why had she invited her in the first place? Was it out of habit and politeness, or was it something else?
Chapter Twenty
“Turn your left hand a little,” Peyton said, correcting Leigh’s grip on her club.
“How? I’m over as far as I can and still hit the ball.”
They’d been at the driving range for almost an hour, and Leigh was tired and hadn’t been able to focus on anything Peyton told her. She hadn’t slept much the past few nights. Dreams of Peyton straddling her on her motorcycle were keeping her from getting a good night’s rest.
“Like this,” Peyton said, stepping behind her. She wrapped her arms around Leigh and covered Leigh’s hands with hers.
Peyton’s body was directly behind Leigh, her hips snug against her backside, her breath warm against her neck. Leigh immediately reacted to the intimacy. She lost all track of what Peyton was talking about, felt only her hard body and soft breasts pressed against her. She relaxed into Peyton.
Leigh’s heart was pounding, and surely Peyton could feel it. Peyton stiffened, then relaxed against her, then quickly stepped away.
“Peyton,” Leigh said, not really sure how to continue.
“Think about what we talked about today and what I showed you. Practice your grip and swing when you get home. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another appointment and have to get across town.”
Peyton left so fast Leigh wasn’t quite sure what happened. One minute she was helping her with her grip, and the next, all Leigh saw was her back as she practically ran toward the clubhouse.
Could she have been affected by their closeness as much as she was? Surely not? A woman who looked as good as Peyton had to have tons of experience with women. Leigh was sure she wasn’t the first one to fall under her spell.
“What the fuck, Leigh?” she said, sitting down on the small wooden bench behind her. The sun was warm on her shoulders, and she reached for her water bottle tucked into a side compartment of her bag. Taking a long swig, she sat back, her mind running in different directions.
“Get a grip,” she murmured quietly, even though there was little chance the overweight man in mismatched blue-striped shorts and green shirt hitting balls four spots over could hear her talk to herself.
“Okay. Let’s sort this out,” she said, her logical brain taking charge. “First, yes, I’m attracted to Peyton. Who wouldn’t be? She’s striking and I’d have to be dead not to notice. Nothing wrong with that, a perfectly normal reaction. Good God. It’s not like I’m going to have a fling with my golf instructor. How clichéd would that be?”
Leigh paused to gather her thoughts. “Plus, we’re in two very different places. I live in corporate America, and Peyton works at a golf course.” Leigh cringed, because as soon as she said it, it sounded like they lived in a class-system society where she was the aristocracy and Peyton a mere commoner. Certainly she hadn’t turned into a snob, had she? She hoped not.