Trust Me (Last Stand #1)(47)
Author: Brenda Novak

He was taking some cereal from the cupboard when she stepped into the kitchen. As the sound of her movements drew all eyes, her fingernails curled into her palms.

“Would you like something to eat before you go?” David asked.

“No, thank you.” Swallowing against a dry mouth, she tucked her hair behind her ears, suddenly conscious that she hadn’t even combed it.

His expression was unreadable, but he had to be as mortified as she was. “I’ll call you later.”

“No, it’s okay.” Staring into that room, with the three of them staring right back, she felt like an interloper.

“But we need to make arrangements for the fund-raiser.”

“No…uh…I’m covered for that, remember? But thanks. I appreciate your putting me up for the night.”

Stubbornly refusing to let the smile slip from her face, she nodded at Georgine and Jeremy. “Nice to meet you,” she muttered again. Then she dashed through the entry and let herself out.

It was Friday. He’d made it.

Leaning up as far as the limited space between his bed and the ceiling would allow, Oliver stared through the bars of his cell at the two guards conversing on the catwalk across from him. He’d spent a restless night, with the minutes dragging by like days, but morning had arrived at last. And he was still alive.

Because he hadn’t given Vic an opportunity. He’d skipped his art class the night before and pleaded illness to avoid his final day of fixing teeth. He’d also refused his trip to the yard—time usually spent in the library anyway—and gone without meals. Now he was famished, and exhausted from all the tossing and turning, but he was going home. Nothing else mattered.

Kicking off the blanket, which was too thin to keep him warm in the drafty, cavernous building, anyway, he climbed off his bunk. “This is it,” he told T.J., who was barely beginning to stir. “Jane will be here to get me in a few hours.”

“You’re a lucky man,” T.J. muttered.

It wasn’t luck. He used his head, unlike the others in here, who thought brawn was all that counted. Men worried about who had the biggest muscles or the biggest penis. They never cared who had the biggest intellect.

Shows how stupid they really are…. “Vic figured he had me. But I’m the one walking out of here. I’ll be home tonight, making love to my wife.”

“Oh, yeah? Who’s been making love to her while you were in here?” T.J. asked, then laughed at his own joke.

Oliver was sitting on the stainless-steel toilet, which had no actual seat. He had to relieve himself—badly—but now his body wouldn’t cooperate. “Jane isn’t like that. Jane’s been waiting for me.”

“The way you’ve been waiting for her?” T.J. hooted even louder. “I hope she’s been more careful about what she’s put in her mouth than you have.”

T.J.’s words made visions of what he’d done flash through his mind, only now he was seeing his actions in a whole new light—through the eyes of someone living on the outside. He knew what others would think of the favors he’d granted. What his father would think: that he was a weakling, a homosexual, a loser.

“It’s not the same,” he said, trying to convince himself. “It—it’s different in here.”

“What happens in San Quentin stays in San Quentin, eh?” T.J. got up and shoved Oliver off the toilet. “You keep telling yourself that, okay, little buddy?” he said as he peed. “But I know how much you enjoyed it. What about all the ‘playing doctor’ that went on in your dental office? You examined more than teeth up there, huh?”

“Shut up!” Oliver longed to retaliate. He was tired of being pushed around. But he restrained himself and started cleaning up the mess T.J. had made around the toilet, as usual. He’d write about this later, take care of it when he could, he told himself as he sat down again.

“What’s your daddy gonna think about his dentist boy now? Are you gonna tell him how many guys you f**ked in here? That no one gives better head? That’s something to hang your hat on right there. I won’t be the only one who’ll miss you.”

The singsong quality of T.J.’s taunts carried Oliver back to elementary school. I bet you play with dolls…. He knew not to respond. He’d learned at a young age that the torment grew worse if he did. But he was too rattled this morning, too hungry and desperate and eager for his imminent departure to maintain any emotional distance. “My dad thinks a lot of me. He always has. He knows I’m no fag.”

“If you ask me, you like guys a lot more than you like women.”

“Shut up!”

“Is that what you write about in that little journal of yours? Are you keeping track of how many times you sucked my cock?” he asked and knocked the small stack of Oliver’s belongings, which Oliver had piled neatly on his shelf, to the floor.

Oliver stared at his father’s letters, which were strewn at his feet. Such chaos made him anxious, upset. He wasn’t a fag. His father understood that. “He knows I shouldn’t even be in here, that I’m innocent.”

“Skye Kellerman knows you’re innocent, too, right?” He laughed.

The sarcasm dripping from those words caused Oliver to tighten his jaw as well as his colon. His father’s letters were all over the grimy floor. He was already constipated. How could he relax and use the toilet with his belongings in such a state?

Don’t listen. Ignore him. I’ll get the letters. Soon. They’ll be fine. Count to ten—

T.J. interrupted. “Open your eyes when I’m talking to you.”

Oliver kept his eyes firmly closed and continued to mumble to himself. Until T.J. kicked him. “Hey, you. She’d laugh if she could see what’s become of Dr. Burke in here. I should send her a picture of you sitting there, trying to take a shit and being too uptight to do it.” He rubbed his hands. “Or better yet, I should send her a detailed description of you giving me your best deep throat last night. Moaning and groaning as if—”

“Shut up!” Oliver stood at the same time he tried to pull up his pants, but he was in such a hurry that he nearly fell, which only made T.J. laugh louder. “You promised you—you wouldn’t tell anyone about that!”

“No wonder Skye would rather stab you than spread her legs. Look at your sorry little pecker!”

One minute, Oliver seemed to be thinking coherently, reminding himself to keep cool. The next he was slugging T.J. with every ounce of strength he possessed. “You bastard! I hate you!”