“Like that fight a few months ago? Over the M&M’s . . .”
“It wasn’t a fight, and it wasn’t about candy. That fucker stole cigarettes and orange soda from my bunk.” I kept my head down, but there were some things I couldn’t let slide. We had limited access to the commissary store—I couldn’t just replace what he’d stolen. And I couldn’t let it go. Not in here. Respect, Wills would say. So far, it was the only altercation I’d shared with Tiffany.
“You punched a guy over candy and cigarettes,” Tiffany said.
I had to smile at how ridiculous it sounded. “You make it sound like we’re a bunch of toddlers.”
Her posture relaxed a little. “Well, then I probably shouldn’t show you what I brought. None of it’s suitable for children.” She picked up some books from the bench and stacked them on the table. “They’re from a thrift store,” she added quickly, “so don’t wig out on me. They were cheap. You like that author, right?”
I flipped through the one on top, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, grateful to have something good to read. Books were the one thing I’d even consider trading cigarettes for. “Yeah.”
“The clerk recommended the other ones. He said if you like Hunter S. Thompson to try Tom Wolfe and . . .” She checked the spine of Slaughterhouse-Five. “Kurt Vonnegut. I read a little of it. It was weird, but I remember you telling me about that cockroach book, and probably not much is weirder than that.”
This time, I did laugh, the rumble in my chest a foreign feeling. A good one. “These are perfect. But . . .” I pulled the next in the pile in front of me—a Webster’s dictionary that looked heavy enough to knock out Wills. “How the fuck did you get this in here?” I asked. “And what’s it for, protection?” I curled it like a weight, but it was surprisingly light.
“Open it, but not all the way.”
I snuck a look under the cover. The first half of the book was intact, but she’d cut a square in the center, about two-thirds of the way in, stuffed it full of loose cigarettes, then lined the rest with books of stamps. I rarely sent outgoing letters, but guys like Wills could send two a day and postage wasn’t cheap. “Tiffany.”
The air conditioner cut out. “I know, I know.”
I’d told her plenty of times not to waste her money on me. She sold clothing on commission, so her paycheck depended on her hustle, and I kept telling her to put extra money in the bank. But she did stuff like this each visit, bringing me things I could use or sell, greasing the guards, adding to my commissary account. “How much did this cost you?”
“A couple Esprit tops with my Nordstrom discount.” She lifted her hair off her neck, resettling it over her shoulders. My eyes automatically dropped to her chest. “Don’t worry about it. The guards like me.”
“Is that how you get by them in those outfits?” I asked. She dressed to the nines for every visit, from her earrings to her shoes. At first I’d asked her to stop. The guys gave me shit for it, and according to visitation regulations, she wasn’t supposed to dress sexy. Somehow, she always managed to get by with a little cleavage or leg or midriff or something.
“What’s wrong with my outfit?” she asked. “You don’t like it?”
“You look good.” Today, her white t-shirt was tight enough that I could see the outline of her bra. It was definitely padded, her tits big and round, inviting my hands to curve around them, my cock to slide between them. I licked my lips. “Too good.”
“Well, I won’t apologize for that.”
The clock behind my head ticked on, a reminder that time was limited. I forced my eyes back to the contraband in front of me. Nothing killed the threat of a boner like a musty dictionary. “You know you can bring stamps in, right?” I teased her. “Don’t need to get all cagey about it.”
“It’s more fun this way. Speaking of fun.” She slipped a Playboy from the bottom of the pile. I was one of the lucky bastards whose girlfriend brought him porn and probably the only guy who didn’t care about it.
I took the magazine. A naked blonde I recognized from MTV looked back at me from the cover. Her knowing blue eyes and smile-smirk were familiar. “She looks a little like you,” I said. “Maybe in a few years.”
She vaulted forward to see better as I checked for the centerfold. “Jenny McCarthy?” she asked. “I think her boobs are fake. Do you like that?”
“No.” I closed it. “Thanks, but I told you, I don’t read these.”
“And I told you, I don’t believe you. But if that’s true, just trade it for whatever you need. But,” she lowered her voice to a breathy whisper, “not before you check pages eighteen and nineteen. Don’t trade it until you do that.”