Leave it to my confused fucking body to over-produce that shit while having a woman to my place for the first time. One of the least threatening events to ever happen to me.
“Everything is quiet to me,” I admitted as I fished for my keys. “After being locked up with a couple hundred people, apartment racket is like white noise.”
“Everyone was loud? Even at night?”
“Not as much at night. But you’d hear the buzzing of the doors opening. The jangling of keys from the C.O.s. People dreaming. Snoring. And occasionally trying to kill each other since they’re locked up and can’t get away.”
“Sounds horrible.”
“You know, you can get used to almost anything,” I told her. “After a while, shit just becomes your new normal. Besides, on the inside, if you are connected at a high enough level, you’re pretty safe. And if your family gives a shit as much as mine did, you always had money on the books.”
“The books?”
“For your commissary,” I explained. Then when her brows pinched, clarified, “It’s an account your family can put money in or you can earn money on so you can buy shit. Personal hygiene stuff. Food. Little luxuries. And if you know the right guys who got a knack for it, you can buy them some random-ass mix of food shit, and they can make a prison delicacy out of it.”
“Really? That’s nice. Making the most out of a bad situation. Can I ask a personal question?”
“Women are my thing. Nothing wrong with the guys who were happy to substitute, but that wasn’t my thing. Fifteen long fucking years…”
“I, ah, no. That, you know, I would never ask about that. That’s personal,” she said, going a little pink. “I was… God…fifteen years?” she asked, mouth falling open a bit. “I thought my dry spell was bad.”
“Well, you can imagine how fucking good it is after all that time, though,” I said, shrugging. “What were you going to ask then?”
“Oh, well, it’s stupidly tame in comparison to that,” she said. “I was just wondering if you got any prison tattoos,” she said. “I, ah, I noticed you have some.”
“More than some,” I told her. “Figure we got some time for you to find ‘em all. Then I can show you which ones I got inside. Spoiler, they’re the fucking best ones I got. The artists on the inside are insane. So much talent just sitting in cells,” I said, finally unlocking the door and stepping inside. “You coming?” I asked.
As much as I hated to admit it, even to myself, a part of me wanted her to say that, no, she wasn’t coming in. And could we go to a hotel instead. Anything to stop the strange nervousness sparking through my system.
But, of course, she didn’t say that.
She just followed me inside.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Whitney
I can’t say I had any idea what to expect of a mafia guy’s apartment.
I guess, if pressed, I might say that I expected a lot of black and either chrome or gold.
What I didn’t expect, though, was what Salvatore’s apartment actually was. Meaning… sparse. Almost empty.
It wasn’t a huge space, something that took me by surprise since I knew he definitely had a decent amount of money. But even more so than that, it was just so… impersonal.
White walls.
No drapes.
No carpet.
No pillows on the sectional sofa in the living area to the side of the door.
I mean, didn’t nice couches like thatcome withpillows? That was how they were typically sold, right? But if they’d come with his sectional, they’d found a new home.
There was a large TV. Because, well, he was a guy. And there was a pool table toward the end of the living space.
Then, and this was a crime in my humble opinion, the man had a poker table in place of an actual dining table. I mean afelt-toppedpoker table. The chips sat in a little spinning thing in the center next to a stack of unopened cards.