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Was it possible that in the past few months that that imperfect, tarnished, rough man had crept under her skin and wrapped his strong fingers around her heart?
Was it possible that a relationship that had started out as compromise and necessity, had become something else entirely?
Was it possible that against all odds and despite some serious intent to the contrary, Gia had fallen for Riker?
The thought took her breath away and caused a momentary spark of panic. Gia’s day to day had never been exactly predictable, but this? This was beyond the pale.
Gia loved Riker.
Every tough, inked, stubborn inch of him.
How unfair it was, that this realization had to come to her now—with Riker facing possibly years of imprisonment.
Well, Gia was just not going to let that happen.
Although, she rarely capitalized on it, Gia’s name afforded her a great deal of power and privilege. If she had to cash in on that, she would.
Gia was going to see Riker freed from prison.
No matter what.
Riker crossed another day off on hisWonders of the Worldcalendar– the only calendar sold in the prison commissary. He laughed at the irony of it– selling pictures of fascinating places around the world to prison inmates. The guy who managed the ordering must have one hell of a twisted and sadistic sense of humor.
Ninety days in – might as well be a fucking lifetime.
It was hard to be locked up. Much harder than Riker ever dreamed it would be. But the club had come through as promised, and that helped. A lot. It meant that he didn’t have to watch his back in the shower, or in the mess hall or in the mean corridors of this rat hole because he had a crew doing that for him. There was about a half dozen Aces serving time on Riker’s block and they let him know they had his six.
Steve Q ran the crew. He had the ripped, strong body of a line-backer. And in fact, before he had the bad break of catching his first charge, Q had been put on the roster as a walk-on for the Detroit Lions. A smooth character with a serious thing for anything Motown, he was also down in a big way with Detroit slang.AmadoomeantI’m going to do, his greeting for everyone waswhat’s up Doe, and he referred to anyone in corrections asthe popo.
Q was serving five to ten for an assault with a deadly weapon…that deadly weapon being his own steel- toed boot. He had beat the crap out of some shithead in a bar fight. Unfortunately, that shithead happened to be the son of a senator.
Q’s second in charge was Two Time Tommy. Tommy was loud, boisterous and always up for a good laugh. He was serving twenty years on a conspiracy charge. He had black, slicked-back hair, a goatee, and a snake tattoo that rose up from his belly-button, wrapped around his torso and ended at the bottom of his left ear lobe. Two Time Tommy said everything twice…how ya doin’, how ya doin’, I’m gonna go workout, go workout…like that. He was funnier than hell, and always up for a laugh. Even though Two cheated like hell at cards, Riker liked him a lot.
Riker started pushing iron with these boys. The weight yard was pretty much spent, but it did the trick. The equipment consisted of some seriously heavy barbells and plates, benches and racks and some dumbbells. The iron on the weights was rusted, cracked, and chipped. The benches were wobbly, and the bars were bent, but the mat was real leather and except for a few long cracks here and there, it was in pretty good shape. Best of all, the whole thing was covered with a fiberglass awning that was stretched tight to keep the weather out. Riker, TT and Steve Q worked out every day, in rain or shine.
Then there was Riker’s cell mate, Skippy.
If you looked upliferin the dictionary, it would have a picture of Skippy Zanovich posted front and center. Skippy, who was on the wrong side of eighty years old, was serving his second term of a two consecutive life sentence conviction with no chance of parole. Almost forty years ago Skippy had been convicted of killing his wife and the guy he found her in bed with. He hacked the shit out of them both with a pick axe. Because that wasn’t enough, Skippy sliced off the guy’s cock and then decided to shove that cock up his wife’s ass. According to Skippy, it wasthe overkill that ended his chances of ever seeing the outside again.
Ya think?
“So, your bike club sent you support, heh?” Skippy asked. However, it sounded likeTho your bike club thent you thupport.Skippy had a shit load of teeth missing.
Riker shrugged noncommittedly.
“You want some advice?”
“I got a choice?” Riker grunted. At that point he had had just a couple of days in, and Riker had a constant headache. Old mother-fucker never stopped yapping.
“Cardinal rule–do your own time.” Skippy had continued on. “Mind your own damn business. When you hear something, see something–you don’t say nothing. You can spot trouble a mile away in the joint if you’re observant. Be damn observant. Don’t ask for things, don’t take things, don’t lend things–that way you got no problem with collecting. Not you owing them or them owing you. Each fucking day brings ample time for you to react without thinking to an asshole inmate or guard who gets off on pushing buttons. Learn to filter that shit out. Keep your head down, your nose clean and your eyes open and you’ll do fine. Like the saying goesdo the time, don’t let the time do youand with any luck the trial will go your way and you’ll be outa here with time served before you know it.”
Riker did not take the well- meaning advice lightly, and he managed to do exactly what Skippy had advised him to do. Riker was big enough, well connected enough, and tough enough so that after a minor incident in the dining hall over an extra chocolate pudding cup in the very beginning, no one messed with him.
Riker’s biggest problem was time. Or more accurately, the way he felt it ticking away. Every minute he thought about Gia and the baby. His wall was covered with cards and letters and pictures she had sent him. He called her once a week, but true to his word he hadn’t let her come visit him again. Prosper and one of the other boys made the trip once a week.
Riker spent his days fighting the boredom and tedium. He spent his nights drifting in and out of various states of sleeplessness. If Skippy wasn’t talking in his sleep, snoring in his sleep or farting in his sleep, he was jerking off before he fell asleep. By the sounds of the grunts and the groans and the frustrated sighs, Skippy was not too successful at getting himself off. But hey, the guy was about a million years old and Riker had to give props to Skippy for giving it the old jail-house try.
Besides, who the hell could be expected to give themselves a satisfactory hand job when the sounds coming from the rest of the cells were real cock blockers. Riker didn’t know how anyone could think of beating off . Prison nights were like an audio horror show. A weird orchestra of sound bounced off the concrete walls like demonic rubber balls.
