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.

Thanks to Tate, MC Romance was my new subgenre of choice. Becoming the Ol’ Lady of a man who wanted nothing more than to be free of society’s reach was my newfound desire. A perfect mixture of intrigue, suspense, and action filled the pages between the romantic plot, making the read a fast-paced race to the happily ever after finish.

After finishing the second book, I ate, exercised, and got some sleep. Living on the high created every time I finished a good book, I went to work feeling refreshed. Ready to talk to Tate about his ability to create a well-crafted story, I eagerly filled the food cart with the men’s meals and pushed it down the corridor toward the cellblock.

I wanted to be a police officer for as long as I could remember. There were two things that prompted me to choose it as a profession. First, I’d always enjoyed helping others. I saw law enforcement as an occupation that would allow me to measure my successes in doing so. Secondly, I was fascinated with people. A career in law enforcement would give me a broader understanding of cultures, beliefs, and human nature would be my reward.

My weight prevented me from being accepted into the academy. As much as I tried to make changes to alter that fact, I was eventually forced to accept it. So, I owned it and became a prison guard. My second choice of professions fed one of my desires, however.

My fascination with people.

I pushed the food cart to the first cell. Jerry Porter Price created a collection of videos depicting sexual acts with young boys, all of which clearly displayed his active participation. The videos were then sold to other men who desired to view such disgusting filth. As the electronic files crossed Tate lines when they were emailed, the crime became a federal offense.

He was confined to his cell twenty-four hours a day. Prosecution realized if he was released into population, that retaliation for his crimes by the other inmates would be swift and deadly. There were other ways, however, that the inmates chose their own means of justice.

I unlocked the steel slot, let it slap against the door, and smiled when the sound caused him to jump from his sleeping state.

His tray was specially prepared by the cook, who was an inmate incarcerated for a six-month stint on bankruptcy fraud. It wasn’t merely society’s belief that Jerry Porter Price was a vile human being, it was the belief of the staff and the inmates as well.

I had no idea what was in his food, but I knew it wasn’t good. I pushed the tray into the slot – satisfied that he was at least getting a portion of what he deserved. As he rose to his feet and began to speak to me, I turned and walked away.

He lost his right to have any meaningful interaction with me when he touched the first boy.

The second cell housed Tracey Tillman. A meth cook who lived in a camper in the middle of the Mojave Desert, he was facing life in prison for the amount of drugs he sold an undercover DEA agent.

I couldn’t fathom the amount of lives he had ruined with the drugs he manufactured. The lives lost. The families that had been torn apart. The innocent people affected by the actions of the addicts who took desperate measures to obtain the drugs they were dependent upon. It made me sick to think about it.

I opened the slot, allowed it to slam against the door, and shoved his tray through the slot. He began to speak to me, but I turned away before he made eye contact. Pleased that I once again escaped a moment of interacting with him, I pushed the cart to the next cell.

James Grossman. After two years of unemployment, and a few hundred missed job opportunities, the thirty-seven-year-old father of three robbed a bank. Using nothing more than a note, he obtained $1,200 from the teller.

Before he escaped, he was caught by an off-duty officer who happened into the bank.

I turned the key, lowered the slot to the open position, and pushed his tray through the opening. “Time for breakfast.”

“Thank you,” he said.

I smiled. “You’re welcome.”

It saddened me to think about his children growing up without him. I realized what he did was wrong, but sentencing a man who wanted nothing more than to feed his family to ten years in federal prison seemed extreme.

After a few cells of sleeping inmates, I pushed the cart to cell number twenty-four. Surprised that Tate was sleeping, I unlocked the slot and let it bang against the door, hoping to wake him. As he stirred, I grabbed his tray and pushed it into the slot.

“Reynolds, it’s time for breakfast,” I said.

He turned to face me. “No one named Reynolds here.”

My face went flush with frustration, and then disappointment set in. I turned away, grabbed the handles on the cart, and pushed it forward – but not to the next cell. Standing between the two cells, I slowly filled with anger.

The way Perry treated the men was uncalled for.

Certain that he took Reynolds to the SHU for some minor infraction, I decided after my distribution of the meals that I’d let him have a piece of my mind. Senior officer or not, he needed to know that his actions and attitude did nothing but encourage the inmates to react unfavorably toward him.

I passed out the remaining meals, trying the entire time to hide my disappointment. After returning the cart to the kitchen, I stormed into the observation station.

Peering toward the cellblock while he twirled his ring of keys by the chain that connected them to his belt, Perry looked the part of a warden at one of yesteryear’s second-rate institution.

I barely made it through the door before I unleashed on him. “You took Reynolds to the hole?” I snarled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He turned to face me. His mouth twisted into a half-assed smirk.

I glanced at the blur of swinging keys and then met his gaze. “Quit swinging those God forsaken keys and answer me,” I seethed.

His eyes narrowed.

“Well?” I asked. “What did he do? Have enough guts to challenge one of the snide remarks you always make?”

“Shouldn’t get attached to the inmates, Madden.”

“I’m not attached to anyone,” I snapped back, although it was a lie. “We were in the middle of a conversation about something.”

He stopped twirling his keys. After crossing his arms and looking me over, he arched an eyebrow. “What were you talking about?”

I doubted he knew anything about Tate being an author. I wasn’t about to enlighten him on the matter, either. “Nothing, really. We were just talking.”

He chuckled a laugh. “Well, that’s a conversation that’ll never go anywhere.”

“What did you do?” I asked, my voice thick with anger. “Pepper spray him and take him to the hole?”

He looked me up and down. “You better change your tone, Madden.”

I pressed my fists against my hips. “Answer me.”

“He shipped out.”

There was no way he’d gone to court, been convicted of his crime, and then been assigned to a prison since we last spoke.

I cocked a hip. “Excuse me?”

“Prosecution dropped the charges. He’s a free man. Shipped out yesterday. Sheriff gave him a ride to impound to get his bike. He rode out of here like a rocket.”

My throat tightened at the thought of never seeing him again. “He left?”

“Scurried his ass out of here like a rat from a sinking ship.”

He didn’t have any idea what manner he left in. There was no way he could have seen him. He was trying to get under my skin, and as much as I hated to admit it, he was doing just that.

“Did he say anything before he left?”

He glanced at the floor. After a moment, he looked up. “Nothing that I can remember, no.”

“He just left?” I couldn’t believe that he simply walked out without saying anything. It didn’t seem like him. “When was it?”

He unfolded his arms. “While you were doing paperwork yesterday afternoon.”

“I was right here? In this office? You didn’t think to walk him by here and let him say something to me? If they dropped the charges, he was a free man. You could have let him say something.”

He shrugged and turned away. “I wasn’t aware I needed to. I took him out through R and D.”

“The long way?” I gave him a look. It was obvious he took measures to make sure Tate didn’t see me on his way out.

It wasn’t surprising, considering the things he’d said about Tate and the men he rode motorcycles with.

Tate Reynolds’ file, or jacket as we called them, had every bit of information on him that the federal government could gather. I had access to his name, where he lived, and his closest of kin’s names and addresses.

I wasn’t about to turn into a stalker, or a creep. His personal life needed to remain just that. Personal. Despite my attraction to him, I needed to remember that he had a life before he showed up, and him returning to that life was more important to him and his family than anything.

My fleeting thoughts of there ever being anything between us were nothing more than a one-sided dream. I needed to forget about talking to him and learn to embrace the bits and pieces of him that were expressed through the characters of his books.

I had more than forty to go.