Inside

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.

“What about them?”

“They’re gifts?”

“Yes.” She seemed proud.

“From inmates?”

“Mostly.”

That wasn’t difficult to guess. Many of the inmates he’d known made similar objects—weak attempts to make their lives matter when they didn’t matter at all. “Why do you keep them?”

“Because they’re special to me.”

Jealousy stung him but he also experienced an emotion that went far deeper. “They’re trophies of some kind?”

“Trophies?” she repeated.

“Tokens of the creators’ admiration and devotion. Proof of how many men have wanted you.”

She jumped to her feet. “Stop it!”

“Am I being too direct?” he asked, but he was glad she was angry. He wanted to make her angry because he was suddenly angry himself.

“It’s the implication I’m having a problem with. That’s the second time you’ve accused me of leading men on!”

“Isn’t that what you do?” Why else was she being so kind to him? He could only imagine she liked the risk of “slumming.” Or she enjoyed the thrill of bringing men like him—hardened, bitter men—to their knees.

She crossed over to him, coming close enough to jab a finger in his chest right below the medallion that hung from his neck—a Spanish eight-real coin from 1739, which was the only object of any value he owned. His father had left that behind. Not for him, exactly. He’d just forgotten it when he packed.

“You have no idea who I am, what I’m like. You know that?” she said.

Her touch sent an electric charge through him and nearly triggered the reaction he hoped to avoid. He almost dragged her up against him, but he knew that would scare the hell out of her, and fear wasn’t what he had in mind.

He swatted her hand away instead. “Then why do you keep them?”

“Because they mean something to me, okay? And so do the men who created them. They’re proof that beauty can be found where you’d least expect it. That most people have some good in them. That the amount of talent that goes to waste in prison is a tragedy.”

She was too close. He couldn’t think. He longed to take her in his arms and push her away at the same time, which made no sense. “That’s bullshit! The men who created these things aren’t significant to you. They’re just a bunch of lost souls grasping for something, anything, to make them feel they have value. And you believe you’re a bigger person for patronizing them. But you’d never open your heart to one of them, not really, and you know it.”

He was almost yelling when he finished. He could see the effect of his outburst, the way her face drained of color, and regretted it. But he was too far gone to change course, too torn by his own emotions to even apologize. It was better this way, he told himself. Better if she hated him. Better if she took him back to the damn motel and left him there. Then there’d be no chance of becoming the next man to contribute to her “collection.” The last thing he wanted was for some token representing him to be displayed here with all the others. Let her feel sorry for the poor bastards who’d made these arts and crafts. He wanted none of her pity.

What he wanted was her body, he told himself.

But, deep down, he knew he wanted much more than that.

What he really craved was her respect.