Bobbi

Perry stomped into the observation station with a sheet of paper in his hand. Upon reaching his work area, he attempted to throw it amongst the mess of paperwork that was smeared across the surface of his desk. Instead of landing where he intended it to, it was caught by a gust from the air conditioning system. As it floated toward the floor, he kicked at it, missed, and all but fell on his ass.

I laughed silently at the sight of his idiotic behavior. “Everything okay?”

“You can go get your boyfriend and walk him to the gate.” He reached for the piece of paper that had fallen to the floor. He crumpled it in his hand and then waved it in the air. “Just got word they dropped his charges. Wonder who he’s paying off.”

I struggled to hide my excitement. “I’m sure the chief of police is on his payroll.”

“Wouldn’t doubt it.”

I was thrilled that Tate was being released, and even more so that I was going to be the one to tell him.

I stood. “You really want me to do it?”

“You bitched last time that you didn’t get to say goodbye. Take him to the gate and give him a big hug.”

I turned toward the door. “I’ll give him one from you, too.”

“Don’t bother.”

Briskly, I walked to Tate’s cell. When I reached it, he was doing sit-ups. It was painfully obvious that he’d spent a lifetime sculpting his body, but I wondered if his regiment was different when he was at home.

“Is that all you do?” I asked.

He jumped to his feet, stretched his hands over his head, and popped his back. “What else am I going to do in here?”

I turned the lock on his door. “Write another bestseller?”

He gave an apologetic shrug. “Fingers cramp writing with a pencil.”

I pulled his cell door open. “How about writing it from home?”

“They dropped the charges?” His eyes widened. “Seriously.”

“They sure did.”

He glanced around the cell, and then realized he had nothing to take with him. He turned to face me and grinned. “I’m good to go?”

I stepped aside and waved toward the cell block. “As good as it gets.”

He brushed the wrinkles from his khakis and walked through the door. “How’s your schedule in the next few days?”

I pushed the cell door closed and locked it. “I don’t have a schedule.”

“What do you mean?”

I started walking toward Receiving and Discharge, and he followed, step for step, at my side. “I go home at 3:30, exercise, read, and wait for my neighbor to come over.”

He gave me a cross look. “He neighbor, or she neighbor?”

He seemed jealous. Not terribly so, but enough that his jaw tensed and his eyes thinned.

“He neighbor,” I said, somehow remaining straight-faced as I spoke.

“What’s his story?”

I strolled toward the door as if we were on a leisurely walk along the beach. “Oh, nothing much. He comes over with low calorie snacks.”

He paused and shot me a look. “Your neighbor brings you snacks?”

I nodded and kept walking. “Low calorie snacks.”

In a few steps, he caught up with me. “Low calorie snacks? And, that’s it?”

“Sometimes he stays and talks.”

“Then he leaves?”

“Eventually.”

“How long does he stay?”

We reached the door that led to R&D. I pushed the key into the switch, turned it, and waved my arm toward the open door.

He motioned toward the door. “Ladies first.”

“You walk in front of me,” I said. “It’s policy.”

“Oh.” He chuckled. “Right.”

He passed through the door and paused. I caught up to him, and we walked side by side to the discharge desk.

“Personal effects for Tate Reynolds,” I said.

“Twice in a week,” MacMillan said with a grin.

“I like the food,” Tate said.

“If you knew what was in the oatmeal, you wouldn’t eat it.”

I laughed. “He loves the stuff.”

MacMillan walked to the back of the cage and quickly returned with a clear plastic bag. He dumped the contents on the counter, and then read from the sheet of paper that accompanied it. “One pair of blue denim jeans. One leather belt with buckle. One wallet with driver’s license. One straight razor. Two hundred and seven dollars in US currency. Two black beaded bracelets. One leather bracelet. One black plastic watch, G-Shock brand. Two sterling silver ear rings. One white ribbed tank top. One pair white socks. One pair black lace-up leather boots. One cell phone, LG brand.” He looked at Tate. “Look like we’re square?”

“Yep.”

I looked at his phone. “You carry a flip phone?”

“I do.”

I looked at the ivory handled razor. “And a straight razor?”

“My dad gave me that one.”

“You’ve got more?”

“I collect them.”

“But you carry it?”

“Everywhere I go.”

I surveyed the pile of personal items. There were no keys.

“You don’t have any keys,” I said.

“Bike’s at the shop.”

“Where’s the shop?”

“Oceanside.”

“That’s what? Eighty miles?”

He shrugged. “Ninety.”

“Long taxi ride.”

He grabbed his jeans, boots, and shirt. “It’s a longer walk.” He tilted his head toward the bathroom. “Is that locked?”

“No.”

“Be right back.”

In a moment, he emerged from the bathroom. The difference was overwhelming. Wearing dark washed denim jeans, the bracelets, a wife beater, and boots, he took a few steps toward me. Inspecting his straight razor as he walked, it seemed he was a different person. Without looking up, he slipped it into his back pocket.

He rubbed his growth of beard, glanced at me, and grinned. His beard no longer looked out of place, it was sexy. It seemed his tattoos were more colorful. He raised his hands over his head, stretched, and popped his back. As he lowered his arms, he hooked his right thumb in the pocket of his jeans and cocked his hip slightly.

Just like in the book.

I looked him over with eager eyes. He was no longer inmate Reynolds.

He was Becker Wallace.

I became flustered and my face went flush. I tore my eyes away from him and fixed my gaze on the doors ahead of me. “Are you, uhhm. Are you…are you ready?” I stammered.

“Suppose so.”

“Follow me.”

I led him through the doors, and to the front steps of the wing. “That’s Bauchet Street. It leads to Vignes. Vignes will take you to--”

“I know my way out of here.” He inhaled a deep breath, tilted his head back and let it out. He looked at me. “What time you get off work?”

I checked my watch. “An hour and ten minutes.”

“I owe you a ride and a cup of coffee,” he said. “Pick me up at the corner of Vignes and Cesar Chaves, and I’ll add dinner.”

“Done,” I said without hesitation. “I’ll be there and 3:35.”

He walked halfway down the steps and then turned around. “See you then, Officer Madden.”

It dawned on me that he didn’t even know my name.

“Bobbi.” I smiled. “Call me Bobbi.”