“Lights out soon.” He waved his baton at the cot. I laid down, putting my hands behind my head, and closed my eyes to wait for them to disappear. It took an achingly long time for them to shut the lights off and do their night rounds, but finally, I had some privacy. Sitting back up, I dug under my bed, running through the pile of legal papers until I found a piece of notebook paper I’d written on this morning. Word for word, the article that Hawkins had taken from me. I went to the window to read the article by moonlight.
Lovelace and Stanton have been dating for the last year, so the public proposal was no surprise. According to undisclosed sources, this proposal came shortly after Stanton purchased a 10,000 square feet mansion on Lake St. Claire. It is presumed that he purchased the multimillion-dollar home as an engagement present to Lovelace.
I ran my tongue over the front of my teeth, absorbing the information. He bought my Daisy a mansion. Did he think she wouldn’t be interested otherwise? Maybe it was my own wishful thinking. That she didn’t really love him, but the money he came with. But the article stated thatthey’d been dating for a whole year, contradicting what I’d wanted to believe.
I read the dates again. Did she agree to date him after I was deemed guilty?
One could only hope.
Daisy is no stranger to wealth and fame, either. The Prima Ballerina comes from a long line of ballerinas. Her parents were esteemed dancers before their untimely, separate deaths. Magdalena Lovelace was murdered by a fan when her daughter was an infant. Daisy’s father, Juan, committed suicide five years later, after a motorcycle accident left him paralyzed from the waist down. She was raised by her paternal grandmother, Lolita Lovelace, another former professional ballerina.
“Ballet is in my blood,” Prima Ballerina, Daisy, says. “There was never any other option for me. My soul was drawn to it, like Gatsby was drawn to the green light.”
I remained by the window and closed my eyes, resting my forehead against the stone wall. I could almost hear her voice. Dance was in her blood, correct, but did it have her heart? No.
I did.
The last sentence of the article told me everything I needed to know. She was calling to me. I knew it in my bones. That quote wasn’t for the news. It was for me and me alone.
She was still my Daisy; and I was still her Gatsby.
I returned to bed and slid the paper back between the others under my cot. I ran my hand under the frame and pulled my box of contraband from where it was taped. Silently, I went about assembling my tattoo machine. I flicked the switch, and it hummed to life. I said a silent prayer to a god I never truly believed in and dipped the needle into the ink.
Fucking die already, Dennis.
I dragged the makeshift machine against my flesh, slowly, carefully. I had nothing but time to perfect the art form, and had grown to crave the pain of a new tattoo. One day, I’d have real equipment, and a real shop, with real clients. But for now, I only had my own skin to work with. With only the moonlight to guide me, I worked through the night until I was satisfied that it was perfect. Putting everything away and hiding it once again, I lay back in my cot and breathed a sigh of relief, calm for now. The moth resting on a tiny lantern on my thigh would serve to ground me to my goals for now until I saw her again.
Until they put the final needle in my arm, I’d never give up on us.
I still believed in the green light.
Chapter 4
Gatsby
“Is it itchy?”Chip looked up from his card game with Scott to stare at my mask curiously. “That would drive me insane.”
Scott turned and eyed me up and down. “So this is the most popular inmate this prison’s ever seen. This is what has all the girls mailing you their panties?”
I took their comments with gritted teeth, saying nothing. Instead, I admired the blue sky and the lazy clouds. Even though my full face wasn’t exposed, it felt good to feel the fresh air on my skin. It’d been a long time.
“Girls love a bad boy with pretty eyes.” Chip laughed. “Come, sit and play cards,” he offered.
I scanned the table. I only had an hour of yard time.
“He’s too good for us.” Scott snickered. “Or are we just not cool enough?”
I glanced back at the guards watching me like hawks. I’d just earned the privilege to be around other prisoners; I couldn’t get it taken away this quickly.
Chip and Scott cackled. I stepped away from the table. I looked around the yard full of death row inmates. All ofthem had no cuffs. I was the only one with my wrists, ankles, and face shackled. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t take my mask off because of the padlock on the back.
Ignoring them, I walked over to a pair playing chess. I sat down and watched them silently. They were older men, presumably in their forties. I’d seen them walking past my cell before. They only glanced at me before continuing their game.
“You’re new.” The man on the left addressed me. He wore glasses and his graying brown hair was cut in a straight line. When I nodded, he hedged, “What’s your name?”
I licked my dry lips under my mask. The look on both men’s faces told me they knew but were giving me the chance to speak. “Dumas.”
“Well, Dumas, I am Hargenson. This is Cunningham.” He nodded to the Black man with tattoos on his neck. They were roses, mixed with some small script I couldn’t read from where I sat. I wanted to move closer, but given my reputation, I didn’t want to startle him.
