“I write books.”
I was shocked. I know I shouldn’t have been, but I was. I loved to read, and writing for a living would be a dream come true.
“You’re an author?” I asked excitedly. “What kind of books?”
He shook his head. “Nothing you’d want to read.”
“What are they?”
“Romance.”
Romance was the only genre I read. My eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Really.”
I chuckled and looked away. After regaining my composure, I shifted my eyes back to him. With his arms crossed, and his head cocked slightly, he looked back at me straight-faced. His arms were tattooed to his wrists, his face was covered in stubble, and his muscles were swollen from his early morning workout. He reeked of male bravado, and looked like a man no one would want to piss off.
One thing he didn’t look like was a romance novelist.
“Seriously,” I said. “I want to know. I mean, if you don’t mind telling me.”
“I am serious,” he said, his tone flat and convincing. “I write steamy contemporary romance novels.”
It seemed he was being serious. At least he looked like he was. Still, I felt compelled to ask again. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“You write romance novels?” I asked, more trying to convince myself than have him actually answer me. “That’s what you do for a living?”
“It sure is. It was a crappy living at first. Now it’s pretty damned good. Took some time and quite a bit of dedication, though.”
I already found him intriguing. Now I found him a whole new level of intriguing, if there was such a thing.
“Under your name?” I asked excitedly. “Can I read them?”
“Sure. As long as you’re not easily embarrassed. Google TD Reynolds. That’s the name I write under. My early stuff is pretty hit and miss, but my new stuff is right up there with the rest of the independent published smut that’s out there.”
“You are serious, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “You asked.”
“I just…”
He leaned back and shot me a look. “You just what? You thought because I was a biker that I had to work at a Harley shop, deal dope, or bust skulls for a living?”
“I’m generally not that way. In fact, I was raised to think differently. But, yeah.” I smiled. “Kind of.”
“Me writing romance novels is no different than you working here,” he said. “If asked, most men would say you should be home doing laundry, making dinner, or working as a receptionist somewhere. Maybe a hairstylist. Not a prison guard, that’s for sure. I don’t want people having a mind filled with preconceived notions about me, so I try to look at everyone with an open mind.”
“I try to. But, it isn’t always easy. Especially in here,” I said in an apologetic tone.
“Well, I’m a biker, and I write romance novels. The fellas I ride with don’t know it, though.”
I was shocked. “They don’t?”
“I used to be a freelance editor. They all assume that’s what I’m still doing. I never really felt the need to tell them otherwise, and no one’s asked. They’d give me a mile of shit if they knew.”
I laughed at the thought. “I bet they would.”
“One of these days they’re sure to figure it out, though.”
“How’d you get started writing?”
“When Amazon made independent publishing easy, I wrote a coming of age novel. It failed miserably. A literary agent told me to write an erotic novel, so I did. Damned thing went to #1 in Erotic Romance. I’ve written forty or so since. Seem to have a knack for it.”
“Forty?” I gasped. “Over how much time?”
“Four years.” He shrugged. “Almost five.”
“Oh. Wow.”
One inmate began kicking his cell door, and then a few others followed suit. In no time, the cell block was filled with the sound of their pounding and screaming. As much as I didn’t want to, I needed to stop talking to Reynolds and return to my duties.
“Okay. I’ll look you up.” I pushed the cart forward a few inches, and then took one last look at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He grinned. “I look forward to it.”
I couldn’t wait to find his books. I wondered if they’d give me any insight as to who he was, or if the content of his romantic novels was nothing more than fantasies, hopeful scenarios, and fabricated tales.
Twenty-two hours later, I was driving back to work on zero hours sleep with a clit that was so sensitive I couldn’t cross my legs. Tate Reynolds may have had many talents, but the one that kept me up all night was his ability to write a sex scene.
I had a lot of questions for him, most of which I normally wouldn’t have the guts to ask. Considering there was a two-inch thick steel door separating us, and knowing I’d never see him again outside the walls of the jail, I hoped I could somehow manage the courage to do so.
In half an hour, I was going to find out.
I just hoped my clit stopped vibrating by the time I got there.
Chapter Two Hundred Nine
Tate
The sound of the key being inserted into the bean slot caught my attention. Almost finished with a set of pushups, I did four more and paused.
“Reynolds, it’s time for breakfast.”
My days began with one testosterone-filled conversation after another, generally shouted from cell to cell. When we were removed from our cells to spend time on the yard, muscles were flared, a pecking order was established, and arguments were settled.
Bobbi’s voice was the only thing feminine about the entire institution. I looked forward to hearing it every morning. In the months that I’d been incarcerated, I’d grown fond of the time we spent together. Sharing bits and pieces of my life with her kept me sane, and gave me hope that there was humanity within the walls of the institution.
I stood and turned to face her. “Let me guess? My favorite?”
She pushed the tray into the slot and grinned. “Oatmeal, eggs, and coffee.”
“Thank God. I was afraid it was going to be eggs and bacon.”
I set the tray aside and looked her over. She was an attractive woman, and not simply because she was the only female in the prison. Her lips were blood red in color, and needed no lipstick to draw attention to the fact they were full and sensual. Her cheekbones were high, and with her application of blush accentuating them, she appeared jovial and kind. Her brown eyes all but demanded an admiring second glance each time I saw her.
She glanced down the cellblock and then met my gaze. “I’ve got questions.”
My gaze lingered around her face until I was afraid I’d make her uncomfortable, and then I looked away. “I’m sure I’ll have answers.”
“I read one and a half of your books last night,” she said excitedly.
I shifted my eyes to her. “Which ones?”
“Book one and book two of the American Muscle MC Romance Series. I really liked the guy in the first book, Levin ‘Crip’ McMaster.”
It was my most recent series, and arguably my best work to date. “That’s a pretty good series. I liked Crip, too.”
Her brows knitted together. “Pretty good? That’s an understatement. I haven’t slept yet. I finished book one, and went right to book two. Reluctantly, I put it down an hour ago, took a shower, and drove here.”
Any time someone said they couldn’t put down one of my books, I was flattered. To think I could tell a 300-page lie, and people became so enthralled in reading it that they couldn’t stop was a testament to my God-given abilities.
I looked her over. “Well, you look great for not having slept all night.”
She seemed embarrassed, but managed a smile. “Thank you.”
“You have questions?” I asked. “About the books?”
“I do.” Her gaze fell to the floor. After a moment, she looked up. “Are the stories based on anything?”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Not really, or not at all?”
I stepped closer to the door and then leaned against it. “The stories are made up. Every one of them. Some of my characters are modeled after people I’ve met. I’ll use their mannerisms and features, but the similarities stop there.”
“What about Crip’s crazy sex scenes?”
“What about them?”
“Are they…you know. Are they real?”
It was a question I was often asked in email messages I received from readers. It seemed women authors were given a dismissive wave when it came to sex scenes. Readers assumed they were simply the author’s fantasies. A male author, however, was believed to be writing a description of his previous night’s sexual antics. Nothing could be further from the truth.
I played dumb. “Real? What do you mean?”
“Are the sex scenes fantasy, or reality?”
“I suppose they could be either.”
“The sex on a motorcycle,” she said. “Was that based on personal experience?”
I chuckled. “No. That was sheer fantasy.”
She turned her head to the side, let out a long breath, and then looked at me. Her face was beet red. “That was the hottest sex scene I’ve ever read.”
“A lot of people said that in their reviews. It was a fun scene to write, that’s for sure.”
She glanced in each direction, and then looked at me. “One more quick question. Is the series finished?”
“They’re all stand alone novels. There was one more I wanted to write. You know, to kind of wrap everything up.” I shrugged at the thought of finishing the book in five years when I got out of prison. “Going to be tough in here, though.”
“That sucks. Well, enjoy your breakfast. I can’t wait to read about Bones. He was so funny in the first book.”
The character was modeled after my MCs very own Pee Bee, the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms. A monster of a man who stood 6’-8” and normally had the temperament of a teddy bear, he was a very comical man even on his worst days.
“He was a great character,” I agreed.
“Is he based on anyone? Who’s that tall, anyway?”
“Pee Bee.”
“Who be?’
“Pee Bee. It’s an acronym, kind of. The letter P and the letter B. It stands for Pretty Boy. One of the fellas I ride with is 6’-8” tall, and he’s pretty, so we called him Pretty Boy. Pee Bee for short. Bones’ character is based on him.”
“Is Pee Bee funny?”
“He’s pretty quick-witted, yeah.”
“I can’t wait to finish it.” She rubbed her hands together and grinned. “Three o’clock can’t come fast enough.”
“You should stop with that one and get some sleep,” I said jokingly.
“I will.” She glanced down the cellblock and then looked at me. “Okay, I better go.”
She pushed the cart past my window. Before I turned around, she stepped in front of my window again.
“Couldn’t you write it from your cell? The last book? With a pencil and paper? If you tell me what to do, I’ll help you get it to an editor or whatever.”
I found the thought of writing a novel on a notepad with a golf pencil unnerving. I was going to have an inordinate amount of spare time, but not all of it was going to be spent in the facility I was housed in. More than likely, I’d be shipped out in less than two more months. Her offer to help would mean I’d have to complete the hand-written manuscript in a matter of four weeks or so. A real-world possibility from my desk at home, but I had my doubts I’d be able to produce anything remarkable from my prison cell.
“I appreciate the offer. I’ll think about it.” I stepped away from the door and chuckled. “After you read a few more of those rags, you might not want to continue.”
“I doubt that’s the case,” she said. “You’re a very talented writer.”
I clenched my teeth and gave a nod, hoping to hide the pride that was filling me. “Thank you.”
“Okay.” She smiled. “That’s it. I’m leaving now. For real.”
I watched as she disappeared from my field of vision. After hearing two more bean slots slam open, I flushed the oatmeal down my toilet, rinsed the bowl in the sink, and peeled one of the eggs. While I nibbled at the egg and sipped my tepid coffee, I considered how much my life had changed in the last six weeks.
I needed to embrace my incarceration, but it wasn’t coming easily. Having been locked up once before gave me an insider’s look at what was to come, and there wasn’t anything about it that I found appealing.
Writing novels with a pencil and a scratch pad could very well be my answer. I finished my egg, set the other aside for later, and grabbed my notepad. Beneath the tip of my pencil, the story began to come to life.
Becker Wallace was the next character in line for a book. When he was eighteen, his parents died in a car crash. An only child, he turned to the MC for comfort, guidance, and a sense of belonging.
He found that – and more – within the ranks of the club. A humble man with a thirst for simply living life, Becker adhered to an old-school philosophy that had been taught by his father, who was forty-nine years his senior.
I wrote a chapter, and then another. With aching fingers, I continued to scribble my thoughts onto the paper pad. Soon, the morning vanished. Before I knew it, a key turning my cell door’s lock caused me to divert my attention toward the metallic sound.
Much to my surprise, the bean slot didn’t open. The door did. Wearing a look of contention, Perry stood outside my cell door.
“Grab your shit,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Grab all your shit, Reynolds,” he barked. “You’re leaving.”
I was sure he’d devised a way to send me to the SHU. More than likely based on one of the other inmates claims that I’d committed an act of extortion for forcing them to give me their hard-boiled eggs in trade for protection on the yard.
“Your wife going to meet me up in the SHU? Give me a handy through the bean slot? Tell me she’s got soft hands. I love a soft hand stroking my cock, as long as it’s not mine.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “Prosecution dropped their charges. You’re going home.”
My heart faltered. “Excuse me?”
“Prosecution dropped their charges. Bad evidence or something. Your attorney’s in the cage, and he’ll explain everything on your way out.” He motioned toward my notepad. “Grab your shit.”
“You’re serious?”
He raised his empty hands. “See any shackles?”
Every time we were taken anywhere, we were handcuffed and shackled. Yet, Perry stood before me with his hands at his sides and his eyes on my hand-written masterpiece.
I looked at him in disbelief. “They dropped their charges?”
“I’ve got a prison to run, asshole,” he said with a laugh. “Grab your shit. You can talk to your attorney about it. Yeah, you’re free to go.”
There were many things that should have been running through my head, but only one came to mind.
Officer Madden.
“Is Officer Madden still here?” I asked.
Her shift ended at three thirty, I thought. I didn’t know the specific time, but it wasn’t noon yet.
“She’s busy with court,” he said. “Grab your shit.”
There was only one thing I needed. I turned toward my table, picked up the stack of letters Stretch had sent me, grinning at the fact that he’d sent them under a false name.
One hand-written letter, every Wednesday, for each week that I was locked up. He’d done it the first time I was locked up, and this time as well.
He was one hell o
f a man, and an even better friend.
I looked at the name in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope and grinned.
G.F. Yurself
I smiled at the prison’s stupidity, and turned to face him. “Can you give her a message for me?”
“The guards aren’t allowed to interact with prisoners.” He shrugged. “Sorry, Reynolds.”
“I’m not a prisoner. I’m a civilian, now.”
“You’re a convicted felon.”
He was right. I was. More than likely there was something in the prison’s bylaws that prohibited guards from colluding with criminals. For as long as I lived, my decision to admit guilt to inciting the riot would loom over my head.
“Just tell her to read book six,” I said. “Can you do that?”
His eyebrows raised slightly. “Read book six?” He shrugged. “Sure. I can tell her that.”
I’d spoken to her every day for several months. Although I wouldn’t have suspected it, leaving her wasn’t something I was prepared to do. The thought of never seeing her again choked me from making any further comments. Putting a message in the book was the only way I knew to contact her. Hell, I didn’t even know her first name.
I looked at him and gave a nod of appreciation.
Now, all I needed to do was write it.
Chapter Two Hundred Ten
Bobbi
The second book in Tate’s series was infused with comedic banter between the hero and heroine, and between the heroine and the hero’s father. The romantic element of the story built slowly over the course of the book. The sexual tension – my sexual tension – was through the roof. Considering the hero was a hardened biker, I expected the pace was realistic. I enjoyed the book much more than the first, primarily because I could easily see myself as the heroine.
I began reading at a young age, and enjoyed every moment that I could immerse myself in a story. As I matured, my desire to read increased. For me, it was a means of escape. I could become a girl who fought against armed rebels to save her country from oppression – using nothing more than a pocket knife and a compass. A crime-solving detective with a prosthetic leg and a drug sniffing poodle. Or, a billionaire’s object of desire who lived in a penthouse overlooking Central Park.
Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set Page 101