Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
She missed that. Not a date with two men. That was just a fantasy.
She missed dating. And teaching high school, paying rent, grocery shopping, answering calls from her sister…
Vera.
God, she ached to hear Vera’s voice.
Two years with no news, no leads, no nothing. The loss of her sister left a hurt inside her so profound and excruciating it was more than she could bear.
Anguish surged through her chest, and her eyes caught fire.
Stop it.
Gulping deep breaths, she pushed it down, shoved it away, locked it up.
No tears. It’s a waste of good suffering.
It was her favorite quote from her favorite book. She glanced down at it in her hand, smoothing a palm over the hardback cover.
The Hellbound Heart.
The rare 20th Anniversary Edition had been signed by Clive Barker himself. God only knew how much it was worth.
Hector had given it to her four months after her arrest. A condolence gift, he’d called it, for the news she’d received from her attorney.
She’d been sentenced to five years for smuggling marijuana. The court made the decision without her being there because that was how the penal system in Mexico worked.
Her devastation had been inconsolable.
The attorney tried to get an amparo, an appeal designed to protect the rights of the accused.
It was denied.
In the weeks that followed, she’d fallen into abject despondency. She didn’t leave her cell, couldn’t eat, barely breathed.
She was innocent, serving a sentence for a crime she didn’t commit. She was stuck in a cold, dark place of uncertainty and violence with five years on her shoulders.
Then Hector showed up with the book.
Before Jaulaso, she’d never read the literary draft of her favorite Hellraiser movie. But there it was, a signed copy in his outstretched hand.
More books followed. He filled her cell with novels of all her treasured horror movies. In return, she made a full commitment to the structure of the cartel.
Teaching him English had been her first job, but it wasn’t the last.
Three years from now, she would be released from prison. But she would never be released from Hector La Rocha.
She could blame him for trapping her, for manipulating her into a life of crime. She could hate him with every fiber of her being. But it wasn’t his fault.
The military put her in Jaulaso. They turned an innocent schoolteacher into a criminal cartel member.
There would be no going back to Arizona or her high school teaching job or the American citizenship she’d worked so hard to obtain. She was in too deep.
A tear slipped from her eye, and she swatted it away.
Crying about it didn’t change a damn thing.
And no more fantasizing about the new guys. If there was any goodness inside them, this place would beat it out. Only the meanest, ugliest souls survived Jaulaso.
There was a reason she kept her distance. No investments. No attachments. No losses.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and she recognized the tenacious gait. Expected it.
She took her time returning her book to the crate with the others Hector had given her. Locating her cigarettes, she struck a match, took a long drag, and another.
Then she gave Garra her attention. “Are you spreading more rumors about me?”
“I do what is necessary to protect you.”
“Someday, all those lies will backfire. You need to stop.”
“I am one man against two hundred.” He stabbed a finger at the doorway. “Two hundred men who want to fuck you, kill you, and fuck you again when you’re dead.”
She flinched.
“The rumors add a layer of defense.” His gaze lowered to her arms. “Just like your tattoos.”
“It’s just artwork.” She ran a hand along the intricate black swirls that held no special meaning or significance.
“They camouflage your softness. Isn’t that why you got them? To make you look tougher? Harder? To fit in?”
He was right, of course. One of the things she learned early on was that inmates with smaller builds and passive dispositions became victims of daily beatings and sexual slavery.
She heard the screams, saw the bruises, and knew exactly how deep that pain went.
If a man didn’t come into the prison fighting with fists and teeth, he became someone’s fuck toy. As such, he was loaned out to other inmates for sex in exchange for commissary goods, such as soup, cigarettes, and other things that replaced currency.
She had no power to stop it, but as long as she had Hector’s protection, it wouldn’t happen to her.
If she lost Hector…
She shivered at the memory of her first night in Jaulaso. Her tattoos wouldn’t replace the shelter Hector provided, but they helped hide her fragility. They gave her confidence.
“The boss called a meeting.” Garra glanced back into the hall. “They’re starting to gather.”
She took a drag on the cigarette and crushed it out. Her presence was required at every cartel meeting. She didn’t always participate in the discussions, but sometimes her opinions were demanded.