Stepbrother on the Force

I despise people who make calls on the bus, trapping all the other riders into their conversation. But here I go, doing it myself.

“Matt,” I say, as quietly as I can.

“Nic,” he says. There’s something…from his tone, I can tell: he knows about Dane.

“Dane,” I say.

“Yup,” says Matthew.

“You know?”

“Yup.”

That chill comes over me again. “Did you have something to do with it?” I ask, instantly furious at the possibility.

“That’s not my—”

“You did this!” I shout, wishing he were here so I could smack that smug look off his face I know he has without seeing it. “You hate Dane, have always hated Dane, and now you’ve got him locked up!”

“Nic—”

“He didn’t do anything!” I scream, and then I hang up on him. My face turns beet red because the two old ladies next to me are staring, and you know whatever they’re thinking it’s probably not a compliment. And my blood is fucking boiling. How dare Matthew try to run my life like this? I can just picture it, him sitting down with the drug cops, giving them a description of Dane, telling them to do whatever it takes to get him off the streets. Cops do favors like that for each other all the fucking time, does he think I don’t watch TV and know how it works?

I’m totally taken over by this rage at him, my body is shaking and it’s hard to keep from screaming out a rant at the little old ladies who are still cutting me sideways looks.

It’s my life, Matthew! My life to live however I want to! My choices to make however I want!

Thank god the bus pulls up to my stop and I can get off—nothing like having an attack of claustrophobia on public transportation. The stop is right outside the jail. It’s a big ugly building with barely any windows. I’ve never been in there, and suddenly it seems like a big line to cross, you know? Like it’s one thing to have a boyfriend who uses, and another to have a boyfriend you visit in the fucking slammer.

First I have to put my bag through security and then they take it away from me anyway. I walk through two different metal-detectors and then get frisked by a stony-faced woman who looks like she despises her job, the world, and everyone in it. The place is all mint-green tile that makes my stomach churn even more, and there’s a terrible, horrible smell. Like—it’s the smell of losers, you know? Of desperation. Giving up.

I get herded down the hallway with a bunch of other women who’ve come for visitation, and then into what they call the Reception Room. Wooden chairs that look like people have chewed on them. Scratched-up tables. Guards with guns. I wonder if Chickie is in here too.

Cheerful it ain’t.

I give a form to another miserable-looking woman behind bullet-proof glass, and she tells me to sit down and wait.

So that’s what I do. I sit there waiting to see Dane, the guy I’ve been telling myself I love, while looking away from that mint-green tile that’s making me want to puke, and doing every trick I can think of to stop thinking about Matthew, because all that does is make me want to hit somebody.

No one gives a fuck. That’s the thought I keep ha

ving, sitting here in the City Jail. No one cares about me and these other women who are spending hours sitting here waiting to see their loved ones. It would make me angry except I already have enough stuff on that docket, thank you very much. I get some stale chewing gum out of a machine and the taste of that is pushing my stomach closer to the edge instead of settling it.

Finally Dane comes in, with a guard right behind him. He gives me a weak smile when he sees me, and holds up a hand in a limp wave.

“Half hour, no touching,” says the guard, and walks away.

And my first thought is, “Touch him? Are you fucking kidding me?” No idea where that came from.

“Thanks for coming, babe. It means so much to me,” says Dane, reaching for my hand across the table.

“Guard said no touching,” I say, thankful to have an excuse. “So what happened?”

“I wasn’t doing anything. I was just walking down the street minding my own business. Going to see about a job. And all the sudden the street is full of cops and they’re shooting. I’m lucky I didn’t get hit.” And then—puppy dog eyes.

“Jeez,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else. I hate seeing him in here. This place—it’s as awful as you’d guess it would be. And if I find out Matthew had anything to do with it….

“Listen,” says Dane, now reaching both hands across the table and taking mine and holding them, “I’m going crazy in here, you know?”

“Yeah, I can see why.”

“It’s bad, babe. I’m on the fucking edge, you know? So I was thinking, look, if you could bring me a little present, I would appreciate the fuck out of it.” He gives me an intent look. The brown of his eyes is like, I don’t know, like quicksand or something. Like I might get sucked in so far I suffocate.

“Are you asking me to bring you…what I think you’re asking?” I whisper.

“The guards are on the take, big surprise,” he says, patting my hands nervously. “So bring some cash with you just in case. It’s no big deal.”