The Wrong Kind of Love

I hear muffled voices in the background. "Shit, I have to go. I'm proud of you, doll."

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to commit his voice to memory. "I love you," I whisper through my tightening throat.

"Fuck, Tor..." he trails off, and my heart drops to my stomach. "You know I love you, don't ever question that." And then the line cuts off.

I clench the phone in my hand. He's right, I should move on, I should let him go, because this right here hurts so much. Marney's hand squeezes my shoulder. "It'll be okay, sweetheart," Marney tries to assure me, and I really want to believe him.

Jude

I've been in here long enough to have a plan to get the fuck out of here.

I can feel the shank cutting into my ankle with each careful step. I set my trey down and slide onto the end of the bench, my pulse drumming. I glance around the room and locate the guards stationed on the edges. Which is good. I need to make sure there's enough time to do some damage. I twist the top from my bottle of water and take a drink. The cold water runs down my throat.

Dante sits down across from me. I've never spoken to him, hell, I've only been out of confinement for two days. All I know is that he is in for rape, and that's enough for me... for Tor. I take a forkful of the mashed potatoes and glare at him. His gaze drifts up from his plate and his brow quirks up. I keep staring.

He wipes food from his mouth. "Fucking problem?" he asks.

I laugh as I lean down and pretend to scratch my ankle as I slowly pull the shank from my shoe. When I straighten up, I say, "Oh, I've got all kinds of problems.”

His head tilts to the side. "Is stupid one of them?"

"Nope."

I can feel the tension around us growing. The other inmates are intently watching as they continue to shovel food into their mouths.

I slowly stand up. "The biggest problem I have is pricks like you. So low you have to rape a woman just to bust a nut. Ugly ass motherfucker."

Dante jumps from his seat and launches at me. I grab him by the shoulder. Damn. He's big. I push him back before I throw a hard punch underneath his chin. His head jerks back, then I slam my fist across his temple. He stumbles backwards, stunned. Everyone around us shouts. Some inmates jump up onto the table and yell at the guards. I have four seconds, best.

I shove Dante to the floor and jab the shank into his neck. Blood spurts from the gash in his jugular, spraying all over me in the process. Hands grab my shoulder, my arms... and someone throws me to the floor. The shrill prison alarm blares over the speakers. I look up at the swarm of people surrounding me.

"Aw, shit!" an officer groans. "Get the medics."

I feel a kick in my ribs.

"What the hell, Pearson? Two days outta confinement. Goddamn..."

A smile tears at the corner of my lips, and I quietly say, "Next time it'll be one of the guards."

"Next..." I see the officer lean over me, glaring. "Next time? Oh, no you piece of shit. You won't be in this prison for a next time."

My grin deepens. This is exactly what I wanted.

Later that afternoon I'm crammed into a transportation vehicle, handcuffed. The door to the van slams shut, and I settle back, thoroughly pleased with myself. There Are only two other inmates. Two cops. I inhale and watch as we approach the gates. It's been six months since I was driven through them. Six fucking months since I've been free, since I've held Tor... I can only imagine what she looks like with a huge stomach right about now.

"What are you smiling about?" the prisoner sitting next to me asked. "We're going to hell. There's no shit to smile about."

I don't even acknowledge him. I just stare out the window. I am getting out. Somehow. Today.

We've been driving for nearly an hour. The four-lane highway merged into a backwoods, two-lane road thirty minutes ago. The only sound is the low lull of the radio in the front and the driver humming along to it. I'm beginning to wonder if I made a fucking mistake. How likely am I to get out of this fucking car alive, without being gunned down?

An engine revs outside and I glance back to see an eighteen-wheeler barreling down the road, quickly approaching us. The engine grows louder; tires squeal as it swerves into the oncoming lane to pass us. The truck veers over too soon, and the flatbed slams into the front of the van. I brace myself as the vehicle skids across the road.