Chapter 5
Bede
Bede moved up the steps to the wooden platform. Galen was right behind him, silently directing him as to where the line for the buffet dinner began.
The sizzle beneath his skin, the urge to fight, seemed to dissipate within Galen’s nearness. Normally Bede would have turned that closeness into a shoving match, because having someone so close that he could feel their breath on his neck was worthy of retaliation.
But somehow, this time, when Galen took a breath, Bede took a breath. He felt a flicker drawing him closer, as if there was more to discover there, but Bede shook this off. It wouldn’t do to count on it, and besides, he was at the buffet line.
The food laid out on a steam table was an array of temptation, so unlike prison food that for a moment Bede found himself dizzy. To begin with, there were BBQ ribs with crisp edges, juicy meat. Nothing dry or gray, like in Wyoming Correctional, where food was punishment.
Here, the mac and cheese had a crispy crust, rather than consisting of noodles lying in a soup made of fake cheese. There was warm cornbread, still hot from the oven. Fresh butter in little tiny paper tubs. Baked beans that looked heavenly.Coleslaw that actually looked appetizing, rather than a gray soup of old cabbage and Miracle Whip.
Bede took too much of everything onto his plate, just about smiling when he sat across from Kell and Marston at one of the long tables. There was probably some sort of pecking order for seating arrangements, but he was too hungry to pay it any mind. He’d figure it out in time. Screw Marston and his scowl. Not worth Bede’s time. Not with food in front of him.
In the meanwhile, not paying much attention to the general chatter around him—though he should, he really should, as it was important to get a bead on who everyone was, how important or dangerous they were—he ate. And ate some more until his stomach was pleasantly groaning.
In prison, he’d made himself eat everything on his tray to keep his strength up, no matter how bitter or made of gristle. Here, it was easy. His foodie nature could have a good time, and he’d work off the extra pounds doing whatever stupid shit they asked of him.
“Save room for chocolate cake,” said Kell, his voice cutting through the fog of Bede’s gluttony. “You don’t want to miss out.”
“Is every meal like this?” asked Bede, scrubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. He ignored the fact that Marston was still glaring at him.
“Every meal,” said Kell. He pointed to the quart bottle of milk in front of him. “You can have some of this if you want.”
“No thanks. Iced tea is what I like.”
He took a sip, relishing the crisp clear taste of unsweetened tea as he looked around the mess tent, more cozy than spartan, as he scoped out the place. Taking in the placement of the tables, who was sitting with whom, as he had pretty much every day of his life.
Every man was focused on his meal, and a low chatter swirled in the air amidst the clank of a fork on a plate, the clink of ice in a glass. He was going to get spoiled and quickly, too.
The chocolate cake was amazing, as promised, and the general din faded as the chocolate kicked in. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone had gotten up to clear their place.
When that man moved out of the way, Bede could now see that Galen was sitting by himself at the end of the next table over, half-slumped over his slice of cake. He ate slowly, eyes closed, as if he were experiencing a rush of pleasure, a sugar buzz, and it was all too much.
When he opened his eyes, cake finished, he cast a half-sleepy look Bede’s way. It was almost a come-hither expression Galen probably didn’t know he was making. It was on the verge of being flirty, and Bede looked away. That expression was not on purpose, of course not.
“You coming to the campfire this evening?” Kell asked. “It’s totally cool.”
Bede looked at Kell, and at Marston on the other side of him, a silent watchdog.
“Sure,” he said. Over the prison phone, Kell had told him in detail what the campfire entailed. How much fun it was. All of this had seemed rather lame to Bede, but considering how high-end and lush everything else in the valley was, it probably wouldn’t be so bad.
“You might need a jacket,” said Kell. “It gets cool when the sun goes down.”
“You might need to wash up,” said Marston, looking pointedly at Bede’s front. “The program provides clean clothes, you know.”
Bede looked down. A small smear of bbq sauce was emblazoned right in the middle of his t-shirt. Then he looked up.
Everyone else was wearing crisp, clean snap-button shirts of various colors, cool blue, cool white. He alone was still in his prison-issued, once-white t-shirt.
He alone hadn’t showered and shaved because he’d been busy helping Kell move into tent number eleven and there’d not been time.
Before he’d gone into prison, he’d worn high-end clothes and taken pride in his appearance. Now, he stood out, like some newbie who was just asking to get jumped at the first opportunity. But he couldn’t show he was embarrassed, no way.
“And you might back the fuck off.” Bede looked around. Nobody but Marston had heard him. “Just back the fuck off.”
Marston stood up, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape. Bede stood up as well. He wasn’t intimidated, even if Marston was half a foot taller, and brawny by anyone’s standards.
