Blood to Dust

“Easiest mask to get on the market.”

“And why Beat?”

This, I don’t answer.

“Let’s see. . .” She nibbles on a fry, bobbing her head backward and contemplating. Her neck is thin. Pale. Fine. I’d love to choke it. “Ink is called Ink because he’s a tattooist—wasn’t difficult to milk that one out.”

“Fuck-tard.” I inhale, rubbing my face. That’s another reason why I keep him away from her. Is it any wonder he ended up in San Dimas? The guy’s so stupid it’s borderline illegal. I’ve lost count of the times he’s gotten us into trouble with his stupid mouth. Be it at a bar or just picking up fights with the teenagers on bikes across the road. This week he tells her what he does for a living (it’s not even true. He hasn’t worked in a parlor since he was released), next week he’ll be sharing tips on how to sneak out of here.

“You probably thought of names together, so that means your name has a meaning, too. Beat, huh? Music? But you’re too silent to be the partying type. Maybe you like to beat people up. . .but then you wouldn’t be so shocked about Seb smacking me for fun. And maybe. . .” She leans closer. “Maybe I fell captive in the arms of an avid reader. Wouldn’t that be something?” Her shoulder brushes mine. Something weird stirs inside me, signaling that my body’s awakening from its normal dormant state.

“Beat generation fan. But who’s your favorite? Fante? Bukowski? Burroughs?” She leans closer. My mouth twitches. What. The. Fuck? “Which one of these authors plays the strings to your lonely heart, Beat?”

“You done psychoanalyzing?” I stand up, taking her hand and jerking her up. “You’ve got fifteen minutes of peeing, shitting and showering. Hurry your ass up, Sigmund Freud.”

She follows me up, and this time doesn’t stumble on the stairs on her way to the bathroom. Quick learner.

“I need a few extra minutes to wash my dress. And maybe I could borrow a clean shirt from you while it dries?”

I don’t want to pamper her, but these are the kinds of things you are granted in prison, no questions asked. “I’ll wash it. I’m keeping an eye on you after your little stunt yesterday.”

“What if I need to use the toilet?” her tone turns panicky.

“Then you should be happy to know I shared a cell with a guy who took shits less than a foot away from me while I was eating f*cking dinner. In other words—I couldn’t give a damn.”

When we get to the shower, she peels off her dress. Her cream lace panties are thrown to the floor. Silently. Confidently. Assertively.

Her nipples, pink like cotton candy, spring free from her lace bra, and my eyes drop to the blindfolded girl’s *. Completely shaved—or maybe waxed—her * is like a delicate flower. A sudden urge to rub my nose against it hits me hard. She reeks of privilege; her sleek body screams it. She walks like a rich person, talks like one, and her body is milky-white and scar-free.

Though by her odd behavior and deadly enemies, I have a feeling that despite her exterior, her interior is virtually disfigured.

Being a twenty-seven-year-old man who hasn’t tasted * in five years sucks ass. My balls immediately tighten to the sight of her body, and I let out a surprised growl. I feel my cock twitching, and almost stumble back in awe.

What. In. The. Actual. Fuck?

After I got out of prison, I tried everything to get my mojo back. One night stands. Strip clubs. Hookers. I got a lot of offers from women, thanks to a face that can only be described as so pretty, I had to cover myself up with bad ink just to keep my ass from being torn by San Dimas’s Gay for The Stay crowd.

Women courted me.

Old, young, beautiful and ugly. The model type, the curvy type, the everyone’s-type type. But ultimately, none of them made me hard. You know, really hard. Hard and wanting and seeing everything through the fog of red, agonizing desire.

Don’t get me wrong—I do get hard. All the time.

I get hard when I think about slitting the throats of Godfrey and Sebastian. I get so f*cking horny when a vision of me, blithe and free, driving in a convertible sports car without worrying that the Aryan Brotherhood will spot me pops into my head. I jerk off to the beat of independence, freedom and peace of mind.

But never to a woman.

To put it nicely—the vehicle drives just fine, but the GPS is out of service. No compass, no guidance, no turn-ons.

I tried porn. Straight porn. Gay porn. I even watched porn involving a cow and a sheep I wish I could erase from my memory. Nothing turns me on.

And now there’s a hot, blonde girl in my bathroom—naked and blindfolded, her nipples as erect as my dick is—and it terrifies me that I’ve finally found someone I’d like to dirty up, rub some of my filth on. Because she’s pretty much the only person in the world who’s completely off limits. Hell, I’d have fewer issues if I screwed the living, fully-grown cow I watched the other day.

But my balls. . .they demand to be emptied inside Country Club.

“Get in.” I shove her into the shower angrily, and turn on the showerhead. This time she’ll have to do it blindfolded. I pick up her filthy dress from the floor and twist the knob, rinsing it in the sink. She hums something I don’t recognize underneath the stream of water and rubs her arms and legs behind the shabby plastic curtain, occasionally patting the tiles to try and find the soap. I bend toward her, flapping the curtain away and reach for the soap so I can give it to her, my hand brushing her bare stomach.