Inside

14

A blanket of fog covered Highway 1, forcing Peyton to creep around the turns of the snakelike road hugging the rocky coastline. She couldn’t see the ocean to the right, or the towering redwoods to the left. Even when she rode the bumper of the car in front of her, she could barely discern its taillights. But she’d made herself wait until it was late enough that she could approach the motel without fear of being spotted and was relieved to finally be on her way—until she arrived. Once she’d parked around the corner and hurried to Virgil’s door on foot, she grew nervous because she had no idea how she’d be received.

“It’s me,” she murmured, following a brisk knock.

He opened the door, but he didn’t speak. Setting his knife on top of the TV—he’d come prepared in case she was someone else—he stepped back so she could enter.

The warmth of the room embraced her as she closed the door. The television was on, but Virgil wasn’t watching the kind of station most of the ex-cons she knew would pick. What with all the X-rated movies available on pay-per-view in this motel—she suspected that was part of the reason Rick Wallace preferred it—she thought a man in Virgil’s shoes would be taking in as much skin as possible. Pornography was expressly forbidden on the inside in any form, so it wasn’t as if he’d have another chance in the coming months. Instead, he was in the middle of a program about Egypt on the History Channel.

“I’m here to see if you’ll change your mind,” she said bluntly.

“About…”

Although he was dressed, she kept picturing him without his shirt as she’d seen him in her home last night. Her mind brought up other images, too, erotic images of them together, which made it strained and awkward to treat him as though he hadn’t had his mouth on her less than twenty-four hours ago. “Going inside Pelican Bay.”

He sank onto the bed and propped himself up on his elbows.

“No response?” she said.

“The fact that Laurel’s babysitter was shot gives me more reason to go in, not less, Peyton.”

She liked the way he said her name, the familiarity of it. “But you don’t understand. The people here… There’s not a lot going on this time of year. And thanks to the isolation, Crescent City’s like the typical small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business. Especially when that business has to do with the prison that supports us.”

“So?”

Why was he making her spell it out? “That means there’s less anonymity here than in some places. Folks notice the smallest details. Not only do they notice, they share every observation with others.”

Sitting up, he found the remote and muted the TV. “Someone’s said something to you?”

It was too warm in the room for the snug-fitting leather jacket she’d worn. She shrugged out of it as she explained what had happened with John. “His sister saw you at Raliberto’s with Wallace, and he read a text Wallace sent me about you,” she said when she came to the most significant part.

“I’m going in as Bennett, not Skinner,” he told her. “He’ll never connect me with that text. Chances are he’ll never connect me with the man his sister saw at the taco place, either.”

“Maybe not right away. But he can feel there’s been a change. And he’s asking questions. That makes me nervous.”

“Why would he be so curious?”

“General boredom. Like everyone else. And he was reprimanded for being overly zealous in breaking up a fight two weeks ago. One of the inmates wound up with a cracked skull that might’ve had nothing to do with the original altercation. John’s about to be disciplined for it, so he’s looking over his shoulder.”

“He’s got an abusive streak and he’s afraid it’ll cost him his job?”

She’d been afraid he’d jump to that conclusion. The investigation wasn’t complete, so she didn’t know for sure, but she sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case. “If I thought he was truly abusive, he wouldn’t be working at Pelican Bay. He panicked and used more force than necessary. It won’t happen again.”

“There’s a good chance you won’t hear about it even if it does.”

“How would he keep it from me?”

“There are ways to hurt people without cracking their skulls.”

“Don’t act like you know more about Pelican Bay or the people who work there than I do,” she said. “You haven’t even been inside. Not yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. One prison isn’t that different from the next.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to get into a pissing contest with you, okay? I’m against having you go in. That’s all I’m here to say.”

“You’re spooked because of this guy. John. It’ll be fine.”

“You can’t be sure it’ll be fine.”

He got off the bed. “It’s not your decision, anyway.”

The wait, the pressure and the fear for his sister, not to mention that he probably felt somewhat responsible for Trinity Woods’s murder, had to be driving him crazy. He’d been on edge ever since she’d arrived. So had she. Add to that the tension between them—which they couldn’t relieve in the same way they had last night—and the surfeit of emotion threatened to erupt into an argument.

An argument over nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Peyton focused on her purpose. “Why not leave, go and get Laurel, disappear?”

“Because it’s not that easy—not without resources. And, in case you haven’t noticed, a man doesn’t build up a lot of resources in prison.”

“You’re sticking it out to get your compensation money?”

“No. Considering all the red tape, I don’t have much chance of getting that money. I’m doing it because life on the run is not what I want for my sister or her children. Someone who’s always lived in an ivory tower wouldn’t understand, but—”

“Excuse me?” she broke in. “I’ve never lived in an ivory tower.”

“You’ve never lived the way I have, either.”

“I work in the same kind of place.”

“By choice. You get to leave at the end of each day and pick up a hefty paycheck for your trouble. I don’t feel sorry for you.”

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I’m only trying to help.”

“And I don’t need your help. I’ve told you that before. Quit treating me like some sort of…pity project. I’ll make it on my own.”

Feeling as if he’d just slapped her, she tensed. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“I’m doing the best I can to protect the people I care about, okay? If it works, Laurel will have a new identity. She’ll be able to remarry and live the rest of her life without fear and without running. I owe her that.”

“You do? Why?” she challenged. “Did you ask for this?”

He hadn’t expected that question. It took him off guard—she could tell—but he quickly rallied. “She’s the only person who’s ever been there for me.”

“When are you going to be there for you?”

He scowled. “You’re not making a damn bit of sense.”

“Then let me be clearer. I don’t want to see you hurt!”

He rolled his eyes. “Come off it. At least be honest. What happens to me has no bearing on you. We’re not even friends.”

Virgil had plenty of reason to be upset. But his responses were more personal and much harsher than Peyton had foreseen, and she wasn’t willing to put up with it any longer.

“Forget I ever came here.” Grabbing her coat, she turned to go, but he moved up behind her and put a hand on the door, holding it closed.

“Let me out,” she said, but only halfheartedly. She didn’t really want to leave. She wished she could lean into him, that he’d be as tender with her as he’d been last night.

But what he was feeling didn’t even resemble tenderness. She knew that when he spoke. His voice was low, grating. “I thought you didn’t date anyone who worked at the prison.”

Now he was looking for something else to fuel his anger. “I don’t.”

“Then what was John doing at your house?”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer. You have no say over what I do or who I see.”

“Did he bring a keepsake for your cabinet?” he asked, his lips brushing her ear.

She held the door handle in a death grip but didn’t turn it. “He brought me dinner, okay? That’s it. Now please let me go.”

“You just told me you turn him down whenever he asks you out.”

“I do.”

“It doesn’t sound as if you turned him down tonight.” Taking her coat, he threw it on the chair, but she didn’t face him. She wasn’t sure how their clash of wills would play out if she did.

She rested her forehead against the wood panel. “He’d already brought dinner. I didn’t have the heart to send him packing. He’s recently divorced, lonely. I think he’s looking for a friend.”

He slid his hand up under her T-shirt, leaving a swath of gooseflesh as he skimmed his fingers along her bare skin. When she didn’t resist, he changed direction and slipped his hand into her jeans, where his touch became far more intimate.

Get out of here before it’s too late. He was no longer holding the door. She could go. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind for this kind of contact, and neither was she. But knowing tonight was probably the last time she’d see him before he was incarcerated, she hoped for a better parting, one that would allow them to feel okay when they assumed their respective roles.

“Friendship isn’t what he’s trying to get from you,” he murmured. “He wants this.” His tongue plunged into her ear as two fingers claimed her with enough force to make her cry out. But it didn’t hurt. Pleasure burned through her veins.

“How do you know?” she breathed.

“Because I want it, too.”

Scarcely able to speak above the racket of her heart, Peyton squeezed her eyes shut. “We can’t…make this mistake again.” She wasn’t sure who she was talking to. That comment hadn’t really been directed at him. She was just grasping for a way to hold on to her resolve. But he answered.

“You’ve already given it to me once. What’s one more time?”

“It’s one more time.”

“Good thing you’re too nice to say no.”

She wanted to correct him. She wasn’t going along with this because she was “nice.” Nice had nothing to do with it—or him. Especially right now. She could sense his anger, but she didn’t complain, even when he peeled down her jeans and took her from behind without ceremony or foreplay.

Although she’d never been treated this roughly, feeling Virgil unleash his frustrations gave their coupling an eroticism that caused every nerve to quiver. He made sure she knew he was the one in control, but she felt safe with him at the same time. Physically, anyway. Emotionally, she hadn’t felt safe from the beginning.

The rhythm of their lovemaking escalated so fast they were out of breath within seconds. Then it was over as suddenly as it had begun and he withdrew as if he didn’t care any more about her than if he’d used a blow-up doll.

Stunned by such intensity followed by…nothing, she fixed her clothes while waiting to see if he’d say anything. Or kiss her. Or hold her. Or coax her to the bed.

He didn’t. He went into the bathroom without so much as a “thanks for the quick piece of ass” and closed the door.

He’d done this on purpose, she realized. He wanted her to hate him. And, in that moment, she did.

What the hell had he just done?

Cringing as the outside door banged shut, Virgil stared at the haggard image looking back at him in the bathroom mirror. He wanted to go after Peyton, to apologize, even beg her forgiveness. But he wouldn’t let himself. He deserved to have her go, would deserve it if she never spoke to him again. There wasn’t any point in pursuing her, anyway. She couldn’t possibly want him in her life, especially now. He’d acted no better than the other inmates he’d served time with—which, in a perverse way, was exactly what he’d been aiming for. He didn’t have anything to offer her. He needed to understand that and so did she.

He’d made his point. But he felt terrible about it.

“You’re a complete asshole, like she said,” he muttered, and splashed some water on his face before slumping against the wall. Did he really think that little power play could diminish her, make her any less than she was? That the harshness of his actions could obliterate how he’d begun to feel about her?

Not really. He didn’t want Peyton to matter as much as she did, so he’d taken steps to ensure that she stayed out of his life. It wasn’t fair to encounter someone like her when he was at such a loss, not after everything he’d been through. He wished he could relegate her to a different part of his brain or scare her away entirely. When he was bucking against her, telling himself he’d been using her from the start, it seemed to be working. He lost himself in lust and anger, had actually believed, for a few seconds, that he’d stamped out every other thought or feeling.

But in that final moment, he’d reached for her breast and felt something else, as well—something that let him know he hadn’t won the battle he was waging. The regret that’d washed over him then had left him feeling worse than ever.

She hadn’t put his medallion in a glass case with all her other keepsakes. She was wearing it.