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Her heart panged in her chest. Eight-and-a-half fucking years of her life would be spent behind these concrete walls. That’s if she were granted parole. So far, the way things were going, she’d end up doing her whole ten years behind bars.
Two violent fights in less than a year surely didn’t make for an ideal parolee. She cursed under her breath, realization finally setting in. She needed to figure out a way to stay out of the crosshairs of crazy bitches. Or learn how to fuck them up, when they came at her sideways, without getting caught.
Being fake and kissing ass would never work for her. But, she was socially competent enough to manipulate others into getting what she wanted. The problem was, she’d made a lot of enemies in such a short time. And she already racked up numerous “keep separates” because she had so many hoes wanting a piece of her for her assaults on Snake and that Coletta bitch.
She was quickly learning that there were prison rules, and then there were the unwritten rules, rules that if broken could get your head bashed in, or worse—killed.
She hadn’t come to prison to only end up leaving out in a body bag. No, no, no. These bitches were ruthless. She’d have to watch her back at every turn now, thanks to all her new haters.
She groaned inwardly.
There was nothing she could do about that fact, now. She’d already made a host of enemies and tarnished her prison record. And she damn sure didn’t give a shit about any of these females hating on her. What else was new?
Yeah, she was beautiful and articulate and had a banging body. And? Since when did that become a crime? Obviously, since the moment she’d stepped onto the prison grounds. Well, these hoes had another thing coming if they thought she was easy prey. She wasn’t a punk and she damn sure wasn’t going to be punked.
Period.
Still, she knew she needed to do better, move better. Not let emotions dictate her actions. What she really needed was a contingency plan; some allies, and some sort of scheme to help her adapt to her current situation; to survive, in this hellhole.
But who, what, and how?
Her greatest fear was ending up broke, like some of these females in here. Having to beg for scraps, or sell her ass for a bar of soap and two soups.
Please God.
She had to wonder if coming in and out of lockup was going to become her MO during her whole prison stay. No, no. Hell no!
Well, shit. She hoped not.
She slid her hand beneath her pillow and pulled out the condom wrapper she’d held on to from three nights ago. She pursed her lips. She wasn’t sure what she’d do with it. But one thing she knew for sure: it was surely a gift of sorts.
Unfortunately, she knew she couldn’t leave it in her cell for COs to find, if and when they felt the need to run up in here and ransack it while she was in the shower, although she had nothing but her bra and panties, a pink jumper and her shower shoes in her cell.
Still, they’d come barging in at will and tearing up her bed and flipping over her mattress just for the hell of it. Miserable fucks.
She slid her hand between her legs and slowly rubbed her clit until she felt herself becoming wet. She licked the tips of her fingers, then continued swirling them over and around her protruding nub until she brought herself to orgasm.
When the rippling in her belly subsided, she rolled the condom wrapper, then slid it inside her pussy, her safe place, her personal locker for all things valuable.
She lay in her bunk, on her hard-ass mattress, for several long minutes afterward—thinking.
For some reason, Warden Kate came to mind. And she found herself wondering if she’d been too harsh toward her when she’d visited. She definitely hadn’t won any congenial awards for her presentation. All she wanted to do was do her time, and get back to her life.
Still, a part of her toyed with the idea of requesting to see the warden so that she could apologize to her for the way she’d spoken to her. The warden had done her no harm, so she hadn’t deserved her shitty attitude. The least she could have done was be civil.
But, if she were being honest with herself, seeing the warden had somehow drudged up old feelings and reopened wounds she thought she’d healed from. Staring in the warden’s eyes and seeing her own mother staring back at her caused her stomach to churn. And she’d become pissed—and saddened—at that fact.
She hadn’t thought of Vivian in years, not since her death almost eighteen years ago. Then in waltzes the warden in all of her fanciness, and there stood her mother all over again.
They’d never been close. Heaven grew up feeling abandoned by her. And when she’d finally come of age to realize that it wasn’t debilitating migraines her mother suffered from all those years that had kept her nearly incapacitated but hangovers, she’d been angry with her. Feeling betrayed and lied to. She felt as if her mother had chosen her drinking over her.
Her mother had hidden her drinking very well during the early part of her childhood. The falling down the stairs and breaking her ankle and even when she’d swerved off the road and hit a tree with young Heaven sitting in the backseat, it was due to her so-called migraines. Always, always, blaming shit on migraines she never had.
Heaven was fifteen when she’d found her mother’s stash of vodka. Different brands and bottle sizes, stuffed beneath expensive panty-and-bra sets, hidden in shoeboxes, under her king-size bed—she had a bottle hidden in practically every room in their two-story brick home.
She’d been either too drunk or too hung over to pay attention to any of them, and Heaven resented her for it. Considered her worthless.
When the booze finally ate through her liver, Heaven was seventeen. Her mother died three days after her eighteenth birthday. She hadn’t given a damn about trying to understand the disease of addiction. All she knew—and understood—was that Vivian Lewis was a fucking closeted drunk.
