Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
When Kinkaid drops Hyde's food in front of him first, he shovels it into his mouth like it's his last meal before a famine. All the time, Lory's watching, sensing, working out what we're like, and measuring if she'll survive the thirty days.
Kinkaid brings out some bread. It's white and turns to paste when you chew it, but it's filling, which helps. I'm a big guy, and the rations here aren't designed to maintain a healthy physique. I urge Lory to take a slice, which she does shyly, breaking off a corner and popping it into her mouth. She has sweet, plump lips, still colored with the lipstick she must have put on earlier. Her nose is slightly upturned, giving her the refinement that I like. The glossy healthiness of her hair makes my fingers itch to stroke it. I bet she smells of strawberries or jasmine or some other womanly fragrance I can't remember.
“What do you think of the prison?” Hyde asks.
“It's big,” she says. “Pretty plain. No color except for the uniforms.”
“Helps them see where we are.” Hyde lowers his fork. “The fuckers are always watching.”
“Except in here,” I say. I mean it to sound like a good thing, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how they sound. With no cameras or screws, there's no one watching out for Lory's safety. She's truly alone with us.
Her muscles tighten across her shoulders.
Kinkaid returns with my food and then disappears to heat his own. It tastes bland, but without the guards watching or the other inmates around, it's the sweetest meal I’ve had.
“So, you like music?” I ask, trying to think of things to talk about. My flirting game is rusty as fuck.
“Yeah. I like some country, some folksy stuff, a little pop.”
“I like country music,” Hyde says.
“He can sing, too.”
Lory's brows quirk as she looks first at me, checking if I'm serious, and then to Hyde expectantly.
He tips his head back and starts with a song he sings when he wants to wind up me and Kinkaid. It's a Johnny Cash song about being in prison. Not exactly uplifting, but Lory watches Hyde with fascination. I swear, the kid could sing the back of a shampoo bottle and sound like a frigging angel.
From the kitchen, Kinkaid joins in. He has a deeper, harsher voice, but it doesn't matter. There's something gritty in their harmonization that suits the song. I thump my hands on the table in time to their singing, and Lory watches with wide-eyed fascination. This is good. When we're singing and working together, we seem less intimidating.
But just as her posture relaxes, Hyde abruptly stops so he can eat, and the silence descends again.
Usually I’m good with silence but today, it’s thick enough to choke on, and if I feel that way, Lory must be drowning.
“You got a man?” Hyde asks suddenly, pointing his fork at Lory, then waving it in a circle. “You got a man out there, Lory?”
Her shoulders tighten and the straps holding her dress up gape a little. “No. No man.”
“Family?”
“My sister has two kids. She doesn’t live close. My mom, but we don’t speak.”
Jesus. This girl is alone out there. As alone as any of us would be. Hyde’s momma overdosed and he has no idea who his dad is. Kinkaid’s waste of space sperm donor died in a drive-by, and his mom lives somewhere in Idaho, just far enough to never visit. My own family has been condensed to one sister who’s in the military and hasn’t spoken to me since I was convicted. I don’t think it’s possible to convince her I’m a good man. Her memories of our father have laid a tarnish over me that she can’t scrape away.
It doesn’t feel good to be alone in the world, but I have my friends, and they’re the family I’ve chosen. I hope Lory has friends. I don’t want to think of her as lonely, but she’s in this place, in this fucked up situation, so maybe she is. I swallow the bite of food in my mouth but my stomach revolts at the prospect of another. I lower my fork and try to think of something reassuring to say.
“When I first came here, it felt oppressive. But after a while, I got used to the smells and the sounds. Things that used to wake me up faded into the background. My memory of the outside faded, too. It'll be weird the first few days, but you'll get used to it. We'll help you.”
Lory, who has paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, stares at me with an assessing gaze. She’s trying to work out if she should trust me. I don’t know what she sees, but she nods and then carries on eating.