No man I know gets a manicure—unless he’s cleaning up bloody hands. And there’s something strange—a wary, shifty look in those electric blue eyes, dodgy—watching someone without seeming to.
I’ve seen it a lot in prison. In fact, I’ve mastered growing eyes in the back of my head. When you’re on the inside, you can’t ever relax. Whether it’s guards, other prisoners, or especially your cellmate.
Always alert. Never letting your guard down, because the minute you’re distracted is when you get shanked.
Is Braden a shanker or a shankee?
There’s only one way to know.
I drop the towel and wiggle myself into the tube top. I wear the cut-offs without panties, since the ones I was wearing are hanging out to dry. The caked makeup is clumpy, but I do myself up as best as I can, including the gloppy mascara.
And then, I knock on Braden’s door.
