Love Undercover

by Nana Prah

  Monica sat up in the bed and folded her legs under her. “You came into the room smiling. I thought they’d given me someone I wouldn’t be able turn my back away from. Who smiles when they come to jail?”

  “I wanted to make a good first impression. I’d heard horror stories about prison so I didn’t want to tick you off right from the get go.” Sarita shrugged off the misconception she’d formed from watching prison movies and hearing stories.

  “Yes, this unit is known for their hardened inmates.” Monica didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm. “Thanks for giving me the laugh of my life by climbing onto the top bunk. I thought I was going to die because I couldn’t’ breath. You should’ve seen your ass hanging on for dear life. Too funny.”

  Sarita didn’t find this aspect of the memory amusing. Her one-hundred-fifty-pound body didn’t enjoy climbing to get into the top bunk. The facility made the experience more arduous by not providing steps along the side of the bunk. A person needed to step onto the window seat and practically vault onto the bed.

  When it came to aerobics, jogging, martial arts, and dancing, she excelled. Her athletic nature didn’t extend to climbing. She had no fear of heights but her trepidation about falling made her cautious. “You could’ve given me the bottom bunk.”

  Monica’s mouth opened, spouting laughter. “No way, first come, first serve. I almost peed my pants when you got stuck.”

  In hindsight, the scene sounded hilarious, but at the time Sarita had feared going splat onto the floor. “Thanks for showing me how to climb up. Eventually!”

  “We’re trapped in here with very little entertainment. You have to take it when you can. You’ve gotten better at it, but you’re still hilarious to watch.”

  Sarita reached up and grabbed her book. “I had planned to get into bed, but I’ll sit on the window seat and read instead. I don’t feel like being your comedian right now.”

  “Too late. The memory alone has brought me so much joy.”

  Sarita observed her cellmate. With her smooth walnut-brown skin, angled dark eyes fringed with short eyelashes, and high cheekbones all set in an oval face, the woman claimed beauty as a close friend.

  Sharing a cell with Monica had turned out to be a blessing. Both of them accepted that the predicament they found themselves in had been a consequence of their own actions. Each night found them conversing and laughing as if they’d known each other all their lives.

  Sarita opened her book and attempted to lose herself in the story. Unable to focus, she placed it beside her as she stared out at Washington D.C. “Tell me your story again.” Sarita couldn’t make herself shift her eyes from the beauty of the city.

  “I’ve told you already.” The rustling of sheets indicated she’d changed positions. “How long have you been here again?”

  Sarita turned to glance at Monica. “Today is day three.”

  “I’m cursing my sixty-fifth day.” Monica held up the index and middle finger of her right hand. “More than two months of my life spent in this place!”

  Sarita had come to like and respect her. “I’m not a psychic, but I’m sure they’ll be letting you out soon. I can feel it. But I’ll miss you when you go.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. But not enough to want to stay.”

  “I read you loud and clear.” Sarita rested her head against the wall behind her to study her friend. “Tell me your story again.”

  Monica sighed. “Okay, but it’s not all that interesting.” She waved a hand towards the door. “At least not compared to some of the other girl’s experiences.”

  “But I think yours is the heaviest one I’ve heard.”

  Monica’s eyebrows shot up. “You do?”

  “Yes. It makes me angry to think about it.” Sarita balled her hands into impotent fists as she thought about the experiences the women in this unit had endured. “How come you aren’t pissed off?”

  In a mea culpa fashion, Monica laid a hand on her chest. “Because I’m the only one to blame.”

  Chapter 2

  Sarita crossed her legs. Waiting with her hand cupped under her chin, she leaned forward, reminding herself of her four-year-old niece when she expected a bedtime story.

  After a deep inhale Monica spoke. “I arrived in this country about twenty two years ago with my parents. My mother came to study and my father had gotten a temporary work visa because of my mom. After three years we were supposed to go back to Namibia.”

  “How old were you at the time?”

  “About ten when we first arrived. Can I continue with the story?”

  “By all means.”

  “My mother had no intention of leaving the US, but my father had made some money and returned to his career in Namibia as an engineer. He left me, my mother, and twin sisters behind.”

  She grabbed her thin pillow and hugged it. “I later found out it hadn’t been for lack of love or trying. My mom had refused outright to let us join him. I lived in blissful ignorance about our immigration situation for most of my life. Everything came to light when I wanted to go to college. As hard as my mother worked, money didn’t flow into our household as easily as it left. I asked about scholarships and financial aid but, of course, my mom said I couldn’t apply.”

  Sarita shook her head. “That’s when the shoe dropped.”

  “Do you want to tell the story?” Her friend had very little patience for interruptions.

  “Please, go ahead.”

  “My mother told me that our status as illegal aliens had been the reason why I couldn’t apply for financial aid or scholarships. The news came from out of nowhere. All of that time I had no clue. For the years we were here, I went to school and even had a part time job.”

  “How?”

  “I applied for one with my social security number.” She held both hands in front of her. “Please don’t ask me how I got the social security card because I have no idea. One day my mom gave it to me as if it had been something I was supposed to have all along.”

  Being aware of the nefarious methods in which such documents could be obtained, Sarita had no intention of seeking for more details. “You said you have your degree in accounting.”

  Monica propped an elbow on her bent knee. “I ended up going to college part time and working full time as a receptionist to pay for it. I worked my ass off.”

  Her proud expression gave Sarita the impression that at any moment she’d reach behind herself and pat her own back.

  “Let’s get to the good part. How did you end up in here?”

  “I feel like I’m on a talk show.”

  “You are.” Sarita beamed. “It’s called Jailhouse Chat.”

  Monica’s eyes rolled skyward. “You can be so weird. Anyway, there was only one way we could think of to rectify the situation. I got married. You know the usual story where an illegal alien marries a willing and payable US citizen to get their papers. We did well on the interview, but they found out I’d been working. Did you know it’s illegal to lie on that form where they ask you if you’re a citizen?”

  Sarita drew her eyebrows together. “Um, it says it right on the paper.”

  “I know that, but I didn’t think they meant it. Not until they arrested me and had me thrown into jail.”

  “When did that happen?”

  Monica didn’t even pause to calculate the time period. “About three years ago. I have wonderful friends who bailed me out. I went before the judge a few months later and he ordered me deported. My lawyer told me it would take them a while to catch up to me due to all of the cases in the system.”

  She scooted back so that her spine rested against the wall. “I worked three jobs, giving myself one day off a month, so I wouldn’t break down. For the past two years I haven’t slept more than four hours a day.”

  What would it be like to have to work that hard? Although Sarita loved her job, if she worked beyond twelve hours in a day she felt drained. “Was it worth it?”

  “Hell yes. I’m now able to go back
to Namibia with some money in my pocket. This little prison stint has been a much needed vacation, allowing me to catch up on the rest and sleep I missed out on for the past two years. When I get back, I’ll set up my own accounting firm and build a house.” She patted her chest with both hands. “I can’t wait to be revered as a big woman in my community.”

  “Don’t let humility weigh you down. How much were you able to save?”

  “The amount would make you green with envy. It guts me that Uncle Sam got his chunk of the money. Damn taxes.”

  Sarita chuckled. “And now you’re using the tax money you pumped into the system as your plane fare back.”

  “I had to get the money back somehow. A plane ticket to Namibia is expensive.”

  “What’s it going to be like after being gone for most of your life?” How could the woman be so accepting of her situation?

  Monica twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “I’m praying it will be like going home. I know I’ve changed and I barely knew the country when I left, but home is always home, you know?”

  “I wish I had such awareness. I’ve never been able to call anywhere home.”

  Monica’s over dramatic sigh shook the bed. “Poor, little, pretty, homeless Columbian girl.”

  “You’re not funny.”

  “You know I am, chica.”

  Their laughter died when a knock sounded on the door, right before Carter’s harsh voice seeped through. “Keep it down.”

  They looked at each other and broke out into another fit of giggles.

  Monica winked. “Your boyfriend told you to keep it down.”

  The thought of Carter as her man caused a charge of excitement to run through her. “He’s nothing but my prison guard.”

  “But you wish he could be more, don’t you?”

  Sarita kept her voice level. “No.” The teasing would be never ending if she let Monica know she desired the man.

  “You can tell me the truth. It’ll stay between us.”

  Sarita drew her knees to her chest resting her head on them. “I still stand by my answer. Tell me what happed to your mother and twin sister.”

  “I’m not going to tell you because some things are better left unspoken, if you know what I mean.”

  Uncomfortable under Monica’s intense stare, Sarita stood and walked the short distance to the door.

  “You know, Sarita, honesty suits you better than lies. You can admit it to me. After all I’ve seen you take a shit where the smell almost knocked me out.”

  Of all the indignities to experience while locked up, having a bowel movement with someone else in the same room ranked number one. “You’re poop doesn’t emit a rose fragrance either.”

  “Smells better than yours.” Monica snorted then regarded her with a seriousness she rarely showed. “I think he likes you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sarita moved back to the window seat and perused what she could of the city.

  Maybe if she didn’t make eye contact, Monica would stop talking.

  “Carter’s attracted to you.”

  Being in jail for this long had made her cellmate delusional. If the impossible happened and Monica was correct, it would still be a moot point. Nothing could happen between them. He was her guard, for goodness sake. “Do I need to ask the nurse to do a psychological evaluation on you?”

  “I’m as sane as you, which isn’t saying a lot. I know about love. I’ve been in it enough times to recognize the signs.”

  “How many times have you been in love?”

  “It won’t work, Cerez. I told you before I’m not easily distracted. He watches you when you aren’t looking and he thinks no one else is watching.”

  She restrained herself from flying onto Monica’s bed to pump more information out of her at a faster rate. “Really?”

  Monica pursed her lips as she nodded. “And from what I’ve observed, he seeks you out to harass you as a form of communication. You know he can’t just chat. It’s against the rules, and the anal retentive man is all about rules.”

  Carter had to be the strictest guard in the system. He wouldn’t even turn a blind eye to them sneaking food into their rooms. Earning him the moniker Confiscation Carter.

  “What else?”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Monica said. “No more information until you admit you have feelings for him.”

  Sarita would rather climb the bunk bed twenty times in a row than to admit such a thing. A minor attraction didn’t mean she cared about him. Liar. “All the girls in here drool over him. You’ve seen him.”

  “He’s all right.”

  Sarita’s back went rigid. What? That would be like describing Jason Stratham as cute when more appropriate words like super sexy and hot as hell should be used. “He could be on the cover of GQ he’s so fine. That athletic body, smooth caramel skin, and eyes that make a woman think she’s the only person in the world.”

  “Whoa, girl. Calm down. He’s not my type. I like my men dark as coffee with no milk, but sweetened with loads of sugar.” Monica smacked her lips as her eyes glazed over.

  Sarita snapped her fingers. “Earth to Monica, come in.”

  “Sorry. Back to your man. The others lust after him, like they do the other male guards. But you like, like him don’t you?”

  “Did we go back in time to high school without my awareness? Like, like?”

  “If you insist on being mature about this, let me speak in the way of a sophisticated woman. How about more like snobby rich lady? Darling, are you attracted to Carter?”

  Who would be around to entertain her when Monica left? “Of course, I am. He’s handsome.”

  “Our language in high school was clearer and more direct so I’ll go back to it. Do you like like him?”

  Sarita’s shoulders slumped. For the past three days she had avoided analyzing her unexpected feelings for him. Now the issue had been forced upon her to either claim or deny. “Yes. If we were on the outside, I’d be a flirting machine.” Bracing her hands on her cheeks she shook her head. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Maybe it’s lust.”

  The dam had been opened. Sarita may as well let it all out. “I don’t think so. I’m on the verge of falling in love with him. I’ve been here all of three days. We hardly talk, but I feel as if I know so much about him.”

  “Love? Really? I thought it was a crush.” Monica’s deep frown didn’t need clarification. “That’s so sad.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The good news is that today they’re serving chicken.”

  Sarita stared at her cellmate as if she’d grown another boob. Then they broke out into a new round of laughter.

  ***

  Laughter came out of cell number four like crying drifted out of others. Matthew Carter couldn’t help wondering what could be so funny. They were in jail. No one in their right mind should be that entertained while locked up. He had to remember these weren’t criminals he guarded. They were Immigration and Customs Enforcement detainees waiting to be sent home.

  They’d only ended up on the ICE unit to restrict them from running away and avoiding deportation. Their soft non-criminal natures made working on this floor almost relaxing. Cerez with her full hips and large brown eyes had to be the softest of them all. Carter snapped himself back to attention. Her presence on the unit disturbed him. He’d spent seven years working as a detention officer on both male and female units. In that time, he’d guarded some incredibly beautiful women yet never once fantasized about one of his charges, until Cerez. What was it about her that made him think about breaking the rules, asking her personal questions, and revealing as much as he could to her? The answer kept eluding him.

  Her beauty and curvaceous body mesmerized him, but the external trappings hid something more magnificent.

  From what he’d observed in the past few days, he’d describe her as intelligent, witty, kind, and radiating with a contagious energy that entrapped him every time she came near. What
surprised him most had been the respect she showed all of the other inmates.

  As wonderful as she appeared to be, she’d broken the law and would soon be sent back to her homeland of Columbia.

  Why couldn’t he have met her in some bar or been introduced to her by a friend?

  She didn’t know his first name. What would it be like to hear her melodious voice calling him Matthew or Matt? Even when she called him by Carter, goose bumps burst out on his skin.

  He went to the desk and wrote his shift report, all the time listening for the inevitable giggling from cell number four. Although he’d never know the cause, the sound of their laughter made him smile.

  Chapter 3

  “Checkmate!” Berlinda exclaimed with her characteristic little head jiggle. “I win again. That’s twice in a row, and you weren’t even hard to beat. What’s wrong with you, Sari?”

  Sarita focused her gaze on the Indian woman. Her mind hadn’t been on the game; instead she’d been keeping tabs on Carter. Right now, Jessica the flirt stood with her chest out, twirling her hair. The desire, to snatch the blonde hair off the bimbo’s head and ship her back to Switzerland without it, overwhelmed her.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m a little distracted.” So this nasty feeling in the pit of her stomach was jealousy? What kind of wacked-out world did she live in where she meets the guy of her dreams in jail? “I wish they’d let us out of here already.”

  “Me, too. Being locked up has shown me the true worth of freedom.”

  “I know.” Sarita pointed to the window across the room. “It’s a tease that they let us look at it through the window, but we can’t experience it.”

  Berlinda’s vigorous nod sent her thick, dark hair flowing into her face. As Sarita watched her sweep the hair back, she tried to recall the young woman’s story. “I’m sure I’ve asked you this before, but everyone’s stories get all mixed up in my head. What brought you here?”

  “I overstayed my student visa.”

  “That’s it?”

  “For six years.”