Page 11 of Thick

He raised his empty hands. “See any shackles?”

Every time we were taken anywhere, we were handcuffed and shackled. Yet, Perry stood before me with his hands at his sides and his eyes on my hand-written masterpiece.

I looked at him in disbelief. “They dropped their charges?”

“I’ve got a prison to run, asshole,” he said with a laugh. “Grab your shit. You can talk to your attorney about it. Yeah, you’re free to go.”

There were many things that should have been running through my head, but only one came to mind.

Officer Madden.

“Is Officer Madden still here?” I asked.

Her shift ended at three thirty, I thought. I didn’t know the specific time, but it wasn’t noon yet.

“She’s busy with court,” he said. “Grab your shit.”

There was only one thing I needed. I turned toward my table, picked up the stack of letters Stretch had sent me, grinning at the fact that he’d sent them under a false name.

One hand-written letter, every Wednesday, for each week that I was locked up. He’d done it the first time I was locked up, and this time as well.

He was one hell of a man, and an even better friend.

I looked at the name in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope and grinned.

G.F. Yurself

I smiled at the prison’s stupidity, and turned to face him. “Can you give her a message for me?”

“The guards aren’t allowed to interact with prisoners.” He shrugged. “Sorry, Reynolds.”

“I’m not a prisoner. I’m a civilian, now.”

“You’re a convicted felon.”

He was right. I was. More than likely there was something in the prison’s bylaws that prohibited guards from colluding with criminals. For as long as I lived, my decision to admit guilt to inciting the riot would loom over my head.

“Just tell her to read book six,” I said. “Can you do that?”

His eyebrows raised slightly. “Read book six?” He shrugged. “Sure. I can tell her that.”

I’d spoken to her every day for several months. Although I wouldn’t have suspected it, leaving her wasn’t something I was prepared to do. The thought of never seeing her or talking to her again choked me from making any further comments. Putting a message in the book was the only way I knew to contact her. Hell, I didn’t even know her first name.

I looked at him and gave a nod of appreciation.

Now, all I needed to do was write it.

Chapter Five

Bobbi

The second book in Tate’s series was infused with comedic banter between the hero and heroine, and between the heroine and the hero’s father. The romantic element of the story built slowly over the course of the book. The sexual tension – my sexual tension – was through the roof. Considering the hero was a hardened biker, I expected the pace was realistic. I enjoyed the book much more than the first, primarily because I could easily see myself as the heroine.

I began reading at a young age, and enjoyed every moment that I could immerse myself in a story. As I matured, my desire to read increased. For me, it was a means of escape. I could become a girl who fought against armed rebels to save her country from oppression – using nothing more than a pocket knife and a compass. A crime-solving detective with a prosthetic leg and a drug sniffing poodle. Or, a billionaire’s object of desire who lived in a penthouse overlooking Central Park.

Thanks to Tate, MC Romance was my new subgenre of choice. Becoming the Ol’ Lady of a man who wanted nothing more than to be free of society’s reach was my newfound desire. A perfect mixture of intrigue, suspense, and action filled the pages between the romantic plot, making the read a fast-paced race to the happily ever after finish.

After finishing the second book, I ate, exercised, and got some sleep. Living on the high created every time I finished a good book, I went to work feeling refreshed. Ready to talk to Tate about his ability to create a well-crafted story, I eagerly filled the food cart with the men’s meals and pushed it down the corridor toward the cellblock.