Corrupting Cinderella (38 page)

“I don’t know.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I'm twisted the fuck up and exhausted by the shit going on between Hope and me.

So it's the worst time to get the okay for something I've been waiting on for a while now. The Superintendent of Southaven Supermax has finally determined I am fit to visit the only member of my charter currently inside.

Because my Road Captain and Treasurer have nice, squeaky clean records, they usually make the trip out to Central New York to visit Grinder. But the old goat keeps asking for me, and the right thing to do is honor his request.

My record is not so spotless, so like a good little productive member of society, I sought permission in writing from the Superintendent to visit my former sponsor.

Permission granted.

It's been a few years since we've had a face-to-face. We went into the slightly more pleasant Eastwood Correctional together. I did my damnedest to get the fuck out and never go back inside, while Grinder—well, he sought protection for us from some very expensive sources. The things they demanded of him are what got him the ticket to Southaven.

So yeah, I've got a bit of guilt about the fact that I'm out free enjoying my life, while Grinder is sitting in one of the shittiest prisons—literally—New York State has to offer. Some of that guilt is offset by the fact that I never should have gone inside for what I ultimately got nailed for.

But not much.

Inside or not, Grinder is still a brother. Forever Kings, Kings Forever. We do what we can for him from outside. We keep his offender account plush so he can get whatever he wants from the commissary. His ol' lady, Rose, has nothing to do with the MC any more. Wants it that way. I still check on her from time to time. Make sure she has whatever she needs. She's not so fond of my face or voice. Any reminder of LOKI really. So she gets a check in the mail. They never get returned.

We have a private attorney working on Grinder’s appeals, even though all of us know it's pretty much a dead end. He's done so much bad shit on the inside—hence the extended vacation at Southaven—that his original conviction could be outright overturned—null and void—and he'd still be inside for years to come.

Since I've had a couple near misses in the last few years, maybe this trip to the Supermax will do me some good. Remind me why I work so damn hard to keep myself and my brothers straddling the line between legal and illegal, rather than falling headfirst into bad shit that might bring fucktons of quick, easy cash but also the potential for lots of years spent in places like this shithole.

Christ, my rageful brother Wrath wouldn't last a day inside without beating the fuck out of someone and getting thrown in solitary for an extended vacation of his own.

Since I took control of the Lost Kings, I've worked hard to insulate myself with people in positions that can help me and my brothers avoid Grinder's fate. If New York ever gets its head out of its ass and legalizes weed, I'd sleep a lot easier. I already have things in place to turn us legit as soon the legislature and governor give the green light.

Yeah, it's a long drive out in my comfortable but unfamiliar rental car, so I have lots of time to think over all this shit.

And avoid thinking about where I stand with Hope.

I left my cut at home. I’d like to avoid the hassle of an ass-probing strip search, so I’m in complete compliance with the facility’s endless visitor rules and guidelines. Besides my ink, nothing on my body associates me with LOKI. No jewelry. No thinly veiled logos or sayings. Nothing. And it feels fucking weird. Like my identity is somewhere in limbo back in Empire, waiting for me to return. I've got a simple, plain black sweatshirt on and black track pants. No zippers or buttons to attract the attention of the metal detector. No pockets to attract the hands of the guards. I'm even wearing plain black underwear, since the rules specifically stated visitors should be wearing underwear. I don't even want to ponder what incident led them to including
that
in the official guidelines.

The scene inside is as depressing as I expected. I suffer a bit of guilt over making Teller and Murphy do this trip every month. They barely knew Grinder. But at least maybe it helps them understand why I prefer to avoid the things I do.

I timed my trip so I'd get here right after count, and the waiting area is full of visitors who had the same idea. Voluntarily walking myself inside a prison is not sitting well with me, but I suck it the fuck up and make my way through the metal detectors. The visiting room I'm escorted to is different than I expected. No metal cage separating us. Regular tables and chairs. I guess Grinder's been behaving himself.

I stand up to greet him. We're allowed a quick handshake before the guards gesture for us to sit down.

Time inside has not been kind to my friend. At six-two, he's always been a big guy, but now he's thin and gray.

"Long fucking time, Rock," he greets me in the same slow, rumbling voice I remember.

"Yeah," I agree, because what else am I going to say? He knows why I haven't come to visit.

"I hear the MC is doing well."

"We're solid."

"Thanks for making sure my account is full."

"Of course."

"You seen Rosie lately?"

"No, man. She don't want to see anyone associated with the MC."

"You take care of her?"

"Send her money. She takes it."

He nods. "That's good."

"She come visit?"

"Never. Don't want her to see me here."

I can understand that. That’s kind of a dead end conversation topic.

"So what'd you do to get into the fancy visiting room?"

His mouth quirks, and a hint of the guy I remember makes a brief appearance.

"Got myself up to level three now. Comes with all sorts of privileges. Even allowed to wear my own underwear, instead of that state-issued crap."

It feels horrifically inappropriate to laugh, but I chuckle anyway. Grinder seems to appreciate it.

"That's good, man."

"It is. There's talk I might get shipped back to a regular facility to finish out my sentence."

"No shit?"

"Hoping I can transfer down to Pine."

"That would be nice. A lot closer, so more of the guys could come visit."

"Please, they're all too young to even remember me now."

I snort at that. It's not really true. The guys remember Grinder. We just don't talk about him a lot.

"How's Wrath?"

"Ornery as ever."

"Z?"

"Still sticking his dick in anything that moves."

"You?"

I'm not sure how I feel about discussing Hope with Grinder. Part of me doesn't want to rub my happiness in his face. Part of me doesn't want anyone inside these walls even knowing she exists and that she's important to me.

"Been seeing a girl for a little while."

He cocks an eyebrow at me. "Club girl?"

"Nah. Farthest thing from it."

"How's that working out?"

I almost choke on the answer. "Most days, pretty damn good. Sometimes, a little rough."

Real fucking rough.

He nods thoughtfully. "Rosie didn't know shit about MCs before we met."

"I remember you telling me that." Seemed strange to me, even back then. Now it’s uncomfortably familiar.

From what I remember, Grinder’s ol’ lady was in med school when they met. Way he told it, she hopped on the back of his bike and never looked back.

"So fucking smart." He shakes his head, flexes his hands. "Bet she wishes she'd never met my dumb ass, never left med school. She'd probably be a doctor with a nice little private practice like she always wanted, if it hadn't been for me."

"That was her choice."

He gives me a level stare. "Nah. Hated anything that took her away from me. Made her fucking miserable until she quit."

That’s some pretty heavy self-realization Grinder’s got going on. I guess sitting in a cell for twenty-three hours a day, six days a week by yourself will do that to a guy—if it doesn’t drive him insane first. Turning over his words, I can’t help but think about my own situation. I'd never do that to Hope. In fact, I keep trying to push her back
into
her career. Still, this whole conversation is stirring up a storm inside of me.

A big one.

"If I ever get the fuck outta here, you gonna have a place for me?"

"Of course. What kind of question is that?"

He shrugs. "Nice to have something to look forward to."

We talk awhile longer. Nothing of any consequence, but I sense he just enjoys the company. Again, I feel like shit for not coming out more often. The guards let me grab a bunch of snacks from the vending machines, so for the rest of the visit we consume a lot of crap that comes out of crinkly wrappers. At three-thirty, all the visitors are kicked out. Grinder promises to keep me up to date on his transfer request. I promise I'll be back out to see him soon.

I intend to keep that promise.

My body feels like it’s connected to a live wire the whole ride home. I have never been so fuckin’ anxious to get off the road. Everything in me is screaming to go see my girl and fix this fuckery between us before I lose her for good.

Hope doesn’t want to see me. She made that damn clear. I can’t stand this, though. I have to see her. I just need the right excuse.

The perfect plan comes to me, and I discard it immediately. The guys will slit my throat if they ever find out.

It’s a bad fucking idea. But I can’t shake it.

I think it’s the last play I’ve got.

I miss Rock like crazy.

I’m trying so hard to understand him. Why he does the things he does. Our relationship has been so complicated from the very beginning. Even after my husband’s death. Rock and I have such differing viewpoints on so many things.

The one thing we certainly agree on is sex. The sex is freaking amazing.

But is that enough?

Almost immediately I’m ready to kick my own butt. We have more than sex. He sees things in me
I
don’t even recognize and loves me for them. Although his life with the club confuses me, I respect his devotion to the people he considers his “family.” He cares about something bigger than himself, and over the years I’ve found that to be a rare quality in people. Anyone can spout off nonsense about how they’d die for their loved ones, but Rock means it right down to his very soul. It’s hard not to admire that level of commitment.

His obsession with keeping me safe comes from a good place. A place of protecting me, not controlling me. There’s a difference, and I know in my heart he’s on the right side of that very thin line.

I’m not sure what to do about it, though. Every day that goes by without a word from him scares me. Maybe I finally pushed him away for good. Maybe he’s decided I’m too much work, and he’s back to his former ways of screwing dancers and club girls who aren’t so complicated and pissy.

The thought makes me sick.

I need something to take my mind off of our situation. A distraction in the form of my crazy friend Lilly would be perfect.

It only makes sense that since we both work downtown, Lilly and I would occasionally get together for lunch. Yet for some reason, we never do. Now that I am down here more frequently but still don't have a lot of clients, I have more free time on my hands, so when she asks me to come meet her, I'm happy to say yes.

Lunch with Lilly should help me take my mind of the situation with Rock. I feel like I’m dangerously close to caving in to every one of his demands, and I don’t like what that says about me.

Sophie is traveling again this week, so it will just be the two of us. Or so I think. When I finally make my way through the concourse to the food court where many state workers spend their lunch hour, she's sitting with a straight-laced younger guy I don't recognize.

"Hope! Over here." She stands up and waves frantically. I take a second to adjust to the sight of Professional Lilly. Boobs snuggled down under layers of fabric, hair twisted into a professional knot, skirt an inch below her knees. I glance down at my own pants and blouse and feel a little underdressed next to her, which is pretty hysterical when you think about it.