“He’s our protection.”
“Trust me, darlin’”—Ricky laughed, putting his arm around her shoulders—“that boy ain’t gonna cause any problems if it means he’ll have to deal with Dee-Ann Smith for even two seconds.”
Toni thought about that as they headed toward the exit, pushing past tourists and locals rushing to their flights. And Toni realized . . . Ricky was absolutely right. No one wanted to deal with Dee-Ann if they didn’t have to.
Devon “Junior” Barton had been on Iowa’s Death Row for more than ten years. He’d started out with life, but after killing a couple of fellow inmates, he earned a cell on death row. Not that he cared. Junior didn’t care about much. He hadn’t cared about the addicts he’d sold drugs to. He hadn’t cared about the dealers he’d hired that, when they’d cheated him, he’d beaten to death with pipes. He definitely hadn’t cared when he’d strangled the life out of his third wife or that his daughter had been watching when he’d done it.
Junior Barton didn’t care about much. What was the point? He did get bored a lot, but there were always those who wanted to save him. The religious ones who wanted to save his soul—they were always fun to torment. And the ones who just wanted to save his life because they thought the death penalty was wrong. And, when he was really bored, he could write his daughter and with just a few well-placed words, turn her life into a flashback nightmare that sent her screaming to her therapist.
It really didn’t matter to him; it was all just a game.
So when that really big C.O. suddenly appeared at his cell and told him he had visitors at one in the morning . . . Junior didn’t really care. He’d assumed it was time for a beating from the guards, but this particular guard—a big black guy named Gowan—didn’t spend much time around the others. He didn’t speak much in general and most of the other inmates gave him a wide berth. The crazy ones never threw shit at him when they flipped out, and the dangerous ones never tried to cut him or gouge out an eye. There were other big, black guards at this prison, but this particular one . . . he was different.
So when Gowan kept walking until they reached the same room where Junior had met that priest he knew he could easily make fall in love with him, he began to wonder what was going on. And he wondered if it would be something fun.
“Sit,” Gowan ordered. He was an abrupt kind of guy but never rude. He didn’t get enjoyment out of torturing inmates like some of the other guards. He just did his job.
Junior sat down at the long table and waited for Gowan to shackle him to one of the metal legs, but he didn’t. That was the strangest thing of all because everyone knew that if Junior had the slightest chance, he’d cut a bitch. Cut a face right off . . . and had. A doctor that was helping him after a fight. She’d been kind of pretty, too, but not anymore. Not once he was done with her.
Gowan stepped back by the door and stood there, waiting.
That’s when Junior realized that no other C.O. had ever taken him anywhere without a partner. Usually more than one.
What was going on?
Curious, but Junior didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask Gowan what was going on. Mostly because he didn’t care.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes or so, the door opened and three people walked in. One was another really big guy. He looked like a biker Junior once knew. Maybe. Another was a female. Really pretty. Long black hair with some red and white streaks in it; tall; big tits that sat high on her chest. He bet she had a tight pussy, too. Man, would he love to find out. The third person was a woman, too. She had short hair, but wasn’t really pretty, and had lots of scars, but it was her weird eyes that he noticed first. Her eyes reminded him of a pit bull he once used for protection. That dog had the same colored eyes.
The three strangers walked into the room, and the hot one sat in the chair opposite Junior. The biker stood behind her with his back against the wall, and the one with the dog eyes sat kitty-corner from the hot one.
“Mr. Barton?”
Junior didn’t answer, just stared, waiting to see where this was going.
“I won’t bother with introductions,” she went on, a smile on that pretty face. That pretty face just begging to be destroyed. “Instead I’ll get right to it. We’re here for information. About one of your old cell mates.” She studied Junior a moment, then said, “Frankie Whitlan.”
So that’s what they wanted. They wanted good ol’ Frankie. Junior didn’t have friends, but neither did Frankie. But they both understood the world they lived in and how the barter system worked.
“I haven’t seen Frankie Whitlan in a lot of years. Not much I can tell you about him.”
“We’re not looking for anything recent. Just some details that perhaps no one else would know but the man who once shared a cell with him.”
“And what do I get out of giving you information?”
“What would you like . . . within reason, of course?”
“You could start by getting on your knees and sucking my cock. Then we can take it from there.”
The biker’s entire body tensed and he growled. A low, rolling growl that made Junior laugh. Guys always thought they sounded scary when they growled.
The hottie smiled. “That’s not going to happen, sweetie. Sorry.”
“Then I don’t know what you’re hoping to get.”
“You’re really not going to help us, are you? I can see that in your cold, dead little eyes.”
Junior didn’t answer because there was no point. The hottie seemed to understand him perfectly.
She looked over her shoulder at the biker, and Junior prepared himself to get slapped around by the guy.
The biker pushed away from the wall and walked toward Junior . . . then past him and to the door. The hottie got up and followed him, leaving Junior alone with the plain girl.
That one waited until the door closed behind her two friends and the guard, then she brought one long leg up and dropped it onto the metal table.
“That’s a mighty big foot you’ve got there, princess,” Junior remarked.
The plain one didn’t say anything, just brought up the other leg, crossing them at the ankle, and folding her arms over her nonexistent chest.
Junior stared at her and waited. She stared back.
And she kept staring . . . and staring . . . and staring . . .
Cella sat on Crush’s lap and rested her head on his big shoulder. “Mom invited us for dinner this weekend.”
“Okay.”
“Are you coming for me? Or are you coming because you get to hang with my dad and hear more stories about the good old days of shifter hockey?”
“Why does it have to be one or the other with you?”
Cella laughed and snuggled in closer.
“How long should we leave them in there?” Pete Gowan asked. He was beginning to look a little nervous.
“Give them a few more minutes.”
“Yeah, but . . .” The leopard male shifted from one foot to another. “I’ll have to explain if anything happens to him.”
“Would I leave you hanging, Gowan?” Cella asked her fellow feline.
“Yes.”
Crush laughed. “At least he’s not delusional.”
“Quiet, you.”
After another fifteen minutes, there was a knock on the door. Gowan quickly opened it and then, just as quickly, all three of them choked from the smell and turned their heads.
Once Smith was out of the room, Gowan slammed the door shut. “Before I go back in there,” he snarled, “what did you do, canine?”
Smith shrugged. “Nothin’.”
“Then why,” Cella demanded, “did he shit himself?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know. He suddenly pissed himself and then took a shit.”