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)
“You sure you want to go through with this?” Josh asks. It’s the most he’s said to me since we got here, but he’s always been a person of few words. Even when he was a scrawny kid, he barely spoke. In homes like ours, having too much to say usually resulted in a blow to the back of the head or worse. A few of those tend to knock your tongue right out of your mouth.
“There are a million places I’d rather be,” I admit. “But I’ve got to do this.”
His nod is the end of the conversation.
In the darkness, waiting for a fate I can’t predict, I’m swamped by a tsunami of loneliness. Life isn’t supposed to go this way. I saw what my mom’s life was like and I swore I’d do better.
I pictured myself with a good kind man, but they’re not easy to come by, at least, not in my circles. I pictured myself in a nice house, with children and maybe a pet or two. A bustling bright place filled with warmth and laughter. I held onto that image, like it was trapped in a snow globe, and I shook it only when the walls around me felt too dark or tight. Sometimes, I could escape into that scene and keep despair at bay, but today, it’s beyond my reach.
A stressed-looking man, in a crumpled brown suit jacket and yellowing shirt, waves frantically at me. The stage is empty. The auctioneer reads the content of the form I filled out about myself: my age, twenty-six; my occupation, server; my vital statistics, which amount to short with a narrow waist, big butt, and flat chest; and my hobbies which I tried to make appealing to men—sports, cooking, dancing.
I guess it’s my turn.
When I’m up on the stage, my heartbeat drowns out the rumble of male voices and the auctioneer’s frantic commentary. My palms are sticky, and my dark brown hair clings to my temples with sweat. Looking at the sea of faces before me terrifies me. Knowing my luck, if I fix my eyes on a particular man, he’ll be the worst one in here, and he’ll be the one to win. So, I don’t look. I leave it to fate, and when the auctioneer bangs his gavel, and I’m ushered into the arms of a military-looking man in his fifties, I have no idea what I sold for or where I’m going. Until we get outside.
4
LORY
PRISON BLUES
Blackstone Penitentiary looms on the horizon like a dystopian world after the apocalypse. A sinking feeling settles in my chest as Warden Grady’s car rumbles along the dusty road toward the jail. The surrounding landscape is barren and lifeless, with scrubby weeds sprouting between the cracked asphalt and looming fences that seem to stretch for miles. The sun is setting, casting long shadows over the sprawling complex of concrete and steel ahead and a fiery glow around the jail itself. It glints off the high, chain-link fences topped by razor wire, which gleam menacingly in the fading light.
The warden isn’t a chatty man. In the first five minutes of riding in his car, he explained three things: he hadn’t purchased me for himself, I’d been bought to repay a debt, and I now belong to three hardened, most likely violent men, and will spend my thirty-day term incarcerated with them in an all-male prison.
After that, we both went silent.
The skin around my fingers is sore from biting. The space where my heart should be echoes and lower, it burns as though it’s fallen into my stomach and is cradled in acid. My leg jumps like it’s trying to disconnect itself from my body, but all I want to do is laugh. Not the type of laugh like you’d make at a joke, but the maniacal kind that gushes out with the shove of fear.
I thought Evelyn’s other suggestions were the worst I could face, but this? This is beyond what I imagined.
Three men who are doing hard time for serious enough offenses to be incarcerated at Blackstone.
Three.
For thirty days.
And there’s no escape.
As the main gate comes into view—a massive structure with thick bars and security cameras angled in every direction—armed guards focus their attention from a nearby watchtower, their figures silhouetted against the dusky sky.
A low, mechanical buzz signals the gate opening, and I watch as it slides shut behind us, trapping me inside.
Warden Grady crawls slowly into his designated parking space and turns off the engine. He’s a big man who must have been fit once upon a time but has thickened with age. His pants strain over his thighs, and his jacket is open. It’s too hot for what he’s wearing, but I suspect that’s not the only reason he’s sweating. He must oversee this place, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune from getting into trouble over what he’s trying to arrange.