HUNTER (The Corbin Brothers Book 1) (108 page)

Most of all, it made me uncomfortable that both Marlee and Pitt had taken part in AA. It was like a strange, secret club. I didn’t want to belong to it. I didn’t have a problem. I really didn’t. I just liked drinking, that was all. Was that a crime, or a disease? Surely not.

“Work at the commissary starts Monday after breakfast, at nine,” Pitt said. “And you’ll start going to GED classes in the afternoon, after lunch, at 2. You’re about ot get pretty busy, Wanda.”

“It’s good to be busy,” I said. “Better than sitting around all day, like I have been doing.”

“That’s the spirit,” Pitt said. “You could check out the library, too.”

“Reading’s not really my thing, either,” I said. “I’m a numbers woman.”

“It takes all types,” he said, ushering me out of the office.

“How’d it go?” Marlee asked once I returned to the cell. “You in the kitchen?”

“No,” I said. “Commissary.”

“Hey,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “That’s pretty damn impressive, Wanda. How in the hell did you swing that? The commissary’s a good job. Girls would kill to get that. A lot better than cleanup crew, at least.”

“I’m good with numbers,” I said. “That’s all. As soon as he heard that, he wanted me in the commissary. I’ll start that Monday, along with GED classes.”

“Very nice,” Marlee said. “And Tuesday you’ll go to a meeting. You’re getting involved. That’s good.”

I tried not to cringe at the mention of the meeting. “Yeah, really good, sugar.”

“Aw, don’t worry,” Marlee said, misinterpreting my discomfort. “If you don’t like it at the commissary, I’ll see what I can do about pulling strings to get you into the kitchen.”

“What would I have to do in return?” I asked suspiciously.

“Help me with my food budgets,” she said cheerfully, as if I should always expect a caveat with whatever she offered me. “They’re hell. I always get the numbers mixed up and the prison administration pissed off at me. If I wasn’t so good at cooking, they’d fire my ass.”

“Sounds like a deal,” I said.

Work at the commissary started off just fine. Marlee walked me there after breakfast to show me where it was. I’d never had any reason to go there with my lack of funds.

Another inmate was there—an older woman with a shock of white hair and a pleasant face, her eyes magnified behind thick glasses.

“You must be Wanda,” she said pleasantly. “I’m glad I’m getting some help here. It’s too much work for just one person. I’m Cheryl.”

“Nice to meet you, sugar,” I said politely. “I’m happy to be here.”

“You’re good with numbers?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Each item has a price,” she said, waving her arm at the shelves of snacks and other sundries. “It’s just like working at a store, only no money ever changes hands. You deduct the price of each item from each inmate’s account. That’s the only way anyone gets anything—through their accounts. There might be certain inmates who try to take advantage of you since you’re new. But don’t let them. Just tell them that they can only purchase things using their account. And there’s a limit—two hundred dollars per month per inmate. The system will help keep track of that.”

“I think I understand,” I said, looking at all the items. There were snacks like beef jerky, candy, cookies, and all manner of chips and pretzels and popcorn. The commissary seemed to be running a little short on coffee, which seemed to be a popular thing to buy. There was a whole shelf devoted to Willow’s precious noodle packets, and it made me halfway miss her. I was sure I just missed the promise of her hooch even more.

Besides the food products, there were tubes of toothpaste, toothbrushes, hairbrushes, combs, shampoos, soaps, cups, bowls, plates, stamps, and stationary. Stationary was a pretty idea, but I didn’t think I’d have anyone to write to on the outside. Officers would probably shred anything I tried to write to Johnny French before it even reached his office.

Another shelf had games on it—checkers, chess, dominos, and decks of cards.

“We do inventory about every week, on Friday,” Cheryl said, distracting me from all the things I couldn’t buy. “We figure out what to order, and how much we should order. Besides that, it’s just like running a store. You ask an inmate for her number, enter it in the computer, and deduct the amount of the item from her account. As simple as that.”

“I think I understand,” I said. “It sounds right up my alley.”

At the nightclub, I kept the girls’ money in a safe in my office. As they needed it, I made a notation of how much they were asking for to make sure everyone was getting her fair share. It was a good system, I thought, especially in the beginning, after some girls complained of others stealing their wages. Sure, there had been issues with my system. But I couldn’t think of a better way to do business, particularly since the girls were living and working there.

I helped Cheryl put more items on the shelves, particularly the coffee.

“We all need a little caffeine to help us get through our day,” she said, smiling.

I preferred alcohol to coffee, but I didn’t say anything. With my luck, Cheryl would be in AA, too, a member of the club I wanted nothing to do with.

Inmates started lining up outside of the window, and Cheryl threw open the shutters.

“Open for business,” she announced.

She manned one computer and I watched her enter the items, fetching what she told me to fetch. I was sure that I understood the system, watching her enter the numbers before turning around to retrieve the item.

“Ready to work on the other computer?” she asked. “We’re getting slammed here.”

I glanced out the window to see that it was true. Inmates shifted from foot to foot, the line winding down the hallway.

“I’m ready,” I said, feeling confident.

My first customer was Tama, of all people.

“How much for that ass?” she asked, leaning against the counter.

“Not for sale,” I said coolly. “Name your item or move on.”

“I’ve named my item,” Tama said, her eyes shining in a way I knew all too well. “I’m waiting for you to give it to me.”

“I’m not interested,” I said.

“What about for a little hooch?” she asked slyly. “I heard that loosens you up quite a bit.”

That gave me so much pause that she cackled.

“Move along,” Cheryl said, eyeing us.

“You just come and find me when you’re ready to make a deal,” Tama said, raising her eyebrows suggestively as she walked away.

My hands shook as I took the next inmate’s order, having to ask her to repeat her number after I entered it incorrectly. It wasn’t fear, though. It was desire. I wanted that hooch bad enough to seriously consider pimping myself out for it. Wasn’t that what I’d always done, after all? As soon as I figured out that I could use my body as a means to an end, that’s what I’d done.

If Tama could actually get me hooch, maybe I’d consider it. That’s how thirsty I was.

“Good job today,” Cheryl told me as she locked up the commissary and we walked to the guard’s station to turn in the keys. “What the deal with you and Tama?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I don’t know why she’s so interested in me. I’m not really into women.”

“It’s hard to be in here for so long without physical contact,” Cheryl mused. “Most women who sleep with each other here aren’t into other women. They just need some sort of affection, some connection with another human being.”

I wondered if I’d ever reach that point—giving it up to another woman for free. There’d have to be something in it for me. Sex was always like that for me. There had to be a tradeoff. Otherwise, why waste my time?

I went to the cafeteria and sat with Willow’s friends out of habit. They seemed to tolerate my presence, even if they didn’t talk to me. I didn’t mind. I liked enjoying Marlee’s food without having to talk to anyone else.

Tama plopped down next to me.

“Find somewhere else to sit, sugar,” I said. “That seat’s taken.”

“Nobody’s sitting here,” she scoffed. “I have as much right as anyone else to it.”

“My cellmate’s going to sit there as soon as she fills her tray,” I said, hoping it was true. Marlee usually ate in the kitchen, but she sometimes floated around the cafeteria, getting feedback from inmates about the meal. She’d sat by me a couple of time “to cool her heels.” She was on her feet a lot all day, preparing the food.

“Well, I’m sitting here now,” Tama said. “Let’s talk more about arrangements. I know you’re interested. I saw your face at the commissary.”

“That face was about the hooch,” I said loftily, “not your cooch, bitch. Get out of here.”

Several of Willow’s friends overheard me and hooting, laughing and slapping the tables.

“Tell her, girl,” one of them crowed.

Tama’s face darkened. She was a swarthy woman—big, like me. I started to get worried. Tama also looked a little younger. If it came down to something physical, would I be able to take her? I wasn’t so sure.

“You be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to you,” she said. “You don’t have to be alone here. You can have friends, you know.”

“I’m just not interested,” I said, focusing on my tray. Maybe if I ignored her diligently enough, Tama would leave me alone.

The hand that squeezed my breast was impossible to ignore. I hissed and recoiled standing up from the table and grabbing my tray.

“We’re done here,” I said. “Do you hear me? Don’t approach me again.”

“You’ll be singing a different tune once you know what I have to offer,” Tama said, looking me up and down. I hated the way her eyes roved my body. It made me feel dirty. “I can make you feel so, so good.”

“No thanks,” I said. “The next time you touch me, you’ll be singing a different tune. You’ll be spitting out your own teeth for weeks.”

I stalked to the garbage can and dumped my tray.

“Hey! What was wrong with lunch?”

Marlee was there when I turned around. I realized that I’d barely touched my food, but I wasn’t hungry. Not after Tama’s advances.

“It was all delicious,” I assured my cellmate. “I’ve just got to get going to the GED class.”

“I know it was delicious,” Marlee said. “I made it, after all. I just get concerned when I see inmates throwing away perfectly good food—especially inmates who told me they loved my cooking. You weren’t lying to me, were you?”

“I lost my appetite,” I said. “That’s all there is to it. It’s definitely me, not you.”

Marlee laughed. “Famous last words,” she said. “It’s me, not you.”

“I’ll see you later,” I said, waving her off.

The GED class was in the library, and I was insecure, at first. I didn’t like going to the class because I didn’t like people knowing I didn’t finish high school. Hell, I’d barely started it. But there was such a crowd in the class that I felt a little better. There were plenty of girls who were in my exact situation.

Chatting in between worksheets, they talked about the different reasons they didn’t finish.

“I had a baby,” one of them said.

“I had to work to help support my family,” another said.

“I just hated it,” another laughed, shrugging. “Never thought I’d need to know this shit.”

I breezed through the math portion of the class, having enough success for several of my classmates to ask for my help. But the reading and writing portion killed me. Numbers were finite, predictable, and reliable. But words could do anything. They could shift into different forms, take on a myriad of tenses with little warning. And spelling? Forget it. I labored through reading a short article, then had to reread it several more times to understand it enough to respond to the questions that accompanied it.

“The best thing to do about struggles with reading and writing is to read and write,” our instructor told us. “Read whatever you can get your hands on. It doesn’t have to be literature. It can be a magazine, a newspaper, a romance novel.”

Several inmates tittered at that.

“I encourage each and every one of you who are having troubles with reading to check out a book from the library today,” the instructor continued, undeterred. “Take it back to your cell. Read it whenever you get any free time. Remember—it can be anything. Pick something you’re interested in.”

We all fanned out through the library, searching for books that interested us. Unless there was a book full of numbers—or full of hooch—I was really not interested. Finally, I pulled the slimmest novel off the shelf that I could find, checking it out with the inmate manning the desk.

“You read that one before?” she asked me, pointing at the book. I hadn’t even read the title.

“Nope,” I said, examining it dispassionately. “Is it any good? The GED instructor said we all needed to check out books for homework.”

“That one’s awesome,” the inmate said. “Super romantic. Really beautiful. It’s like poetry.”

“Poetry?” I said, my head jerking back down to the title. “This was in the fiction section. Maybe I better get something different.”

“No, no,” the inmate said. “I said it was like poetry. It’s really beautifully written. The language is like a song. It’s not difficult to read. You should definitely give it a try.
A Message to Jasmine
is like my favorite book.”