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1.
Porsha
My hands shake, causing the cup to shiver on the saucer and I take a deep breath, forcing a polite smile. “Here’s your coffee, Mr. Kowalski,” I say in a flighty tone. The prison director looks up from his computer when I put the cup down on his desk.
“Ah lovely,” he muses, his eyes shimmering behind his thick-rimmed glasses, “just when I needed a pick-me up.” Giving me a cheeky smile he adds, “Don’t tell anyone, Miss. Picaut, but you might just be my favorite intern.”
“Probably what you tell all your interns,” I say with a nervous snigger and he lets out a hearty laughter, proving my point. He sips on his coffee and I go sit down at the little desk set up in a corner for me where I do my own work.
Stretching my neck and cracking my knuckles, I drag a deep breath to get myself to relax. I need to calm down but whenever I’m at this place my nerves tend to be on edge. And I’m here quite a lot, three times a week to be exact. I study criminal psychology at the local college and this is where I’m doing my internship. My work revolves around inmates and their experiences of their first years in prison, how it makes them feel, practical things they wish would change...
Most of the grind, though involves doing little favors for Mr. Kowalski such as bringing him coffee but on Mondays and Fridays, I get to interviewhim.
Gerald “Giggs” Buchanan, 32 years old. Inmate at Angola since three years back and he’s got one more year left. He’s broody, moody and utterly addictive.
Licking my lips, I hide a smile when my heart starts pounding from just thinking about him. I think about him a ton, during the holidays, during random hours of the day...during random hours of the night. Glancing at the clock that’s on the wall, I hold my breath until it strikes three and then I turn to Mr. Kowalski.
He’s busy looking at his papers, blissfully unaware of my distress and maybe in a way that’s good because if anyone knew about my feelings for Giggs, I’d be in trouble. I squirm in my chair, needing the director to react but when he doesn’t I blurt, “Its three o’clock.”
“Indeed it is...,” he murmurs, all absent minded but then he jerks, calling for the guard and I rise so fast I almost stumble on my chair. I quickly preen myself, making sure my clothes are in order and that no tendrils of my wild hair are out of place. The guard enters the office, nodding his head at me to follow and I practically fly across the floor, so excited I’m bursting with eagerness when Mr. Kowalski clears his throat.
“Miss. Picaut didn’t you forget something?” he asks and I raise my brows in confusion. “How exactly are you going to take notes?”
Of course, my hands are empty and with a sheepish smile and a quick thanks, I grab my notebook and pen and step out of the office with flushing cheeks. The guard gives me a strange look and I figure, I need to get better at hiding my feelings. Only girls who are not normal get excited about meeting criminals and I plaster a suffering expression on my face as if this is a necessary evil. It gets the guard to look away at least.
With a lowered head and with my notebook pressed tightly to my chest, I follow the guard through door after door and there are so many that sometimes I just lose count. My body tenses as we pass prisoners and I try not to listen when they yell vulgarities at me and make even more vulgar gestures.
“Settle down ya nasty filth,” the guard orders but they don’t listen to him. Their focus is all on me, making me self-conscious and I chew on my lip, ignoring the awkward flutter in my stomach. Once we’re at the final door those flutters turn into pure, colorful butterflies and the corners of my mouth twitch from the need to fire a smile out of pure joy.
But I can’t smile, that would be too obvious.You’re not supposed to enjoy this, Porsha. Control yourself.
The guard unlocks the door and I sigh when my heart rollercoasters in my chest at the sight of him. Dark brown, messy hair, burly arms bulging underneath the sleeves of his jumpsuit, strident features and a stubble. Shrewd and frustrated indigo eyes turn my way, softening the moment they land on me and pierce through without apologizing.
“Hello, Mr. Buchanan,” I breathe while the guard moves to stand in the corner.
“Porsha,” he rasps and I swear his voice is more pampering and soothing than a bubble bath. He always calls me Porsha and I love how he’s never been formal with me as if he doesn’t want that barrier between us. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Giggs?”
Glancing at the guard, I nod, murmuring, “Giggs it is.” Walking over to the table, I feel myself turn warm from the way he’s looking at me. Or scanning me is more like it, as if he’s checking for things he finds enjoyable, collecting them in his mind, the way a collector does with art. “I hope you’re well today,” I add, pulling out my chair and his eyes play.
“I’m swell.” His eyes deepen with longing. “Now that you’re here.”
My pulse quickens and I wish the table wasn’t between us. I missed him during the weekend. Missed him so much that I declined my girlfriends invitations for going clubbing and spent the evenings writing letters to him. It’s what I do. I write to him and he writes me back. The college doesn’t know about it and neither does the director. It’s our little secret and we know each other more intimately than we’re allowed to show. Not physically, though. Physically we’re complete and utter strangers, our skins have never made contact even once. Glancing at his cuffed hands, I wish I could reach out and touch him. Just skim his knuckles with my fingertips.
It would be enough. It would be everything when we’re not allowed to touch at all.
We’re starved. I am, but nobody is as starved as Giggs and whenever I’m near him, electricity prickles between us until it feels borderline dangerous. If that man ever got out of his cuffs, out of the prison, free to do whatever he wanted with me...I get emotional just thinking about it.
“You look beautiful.” His gaze follows the modest neckline of my blouse but from the way he’s looking at me, I might as well be stripped and spread out on the table. “Is it new?”
“This old thing?” I gasp, dragging my hand down the silk. “Found it in the back of my closet.” Untrue, I bought it even though I as a student don’t exactly have the funds for fancy brands. But I bought it because it follows the curves of my body and I thought Giggs would appreciate it. Apparently I was right.
“It suits you. Got my attention right away.” He slightly tilts his head to the side. “Probably draws a lot attention, period.” His brows knot, his face suddenly tense. “Did those fuckers say anything to you?”
Oh no, of course that’s where his mind goes...”They didn’t say anything,” I lie, “they were sweethearts. Barely even looked at me.”
Giggs’s eyes narrow and I know he would’ve preferred it if I threw a tantrum and started yelling and pointing fingers at all the prisoners who were crude to me on my way here, but that would just get Giggs in trouble. He’s hotheaded, his bite sometimes worse than his bark. He wants to know so that he can threaten them, beat them up but I’m intent on keeping my mouth shut.
Truthfully, Giggs has already had enough trouble because of me.
