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Two, I can’t get through this loophole by marrying a randomwoman because the priest won’t perform the wedding with me and a stranger.
Which leads to three, I’ve only written to two women with any consistency. My lawyer, Martina Mancini, and Amethyst.
Jynxson’s stare burns the side of my face. He follows both my official and unofficial fan clubs and has kept up to date on what they’re saying about me on social media. He’s also a romantic and almost as invested in Amethyst’s reply as I am.
I walk off the track to a space between two buildings everyone calls the blind spot. It’s one of the few areas accessible to prisoners where the cell phone jammers don’t work.
“Doesn’t matter if she accepts or not,” I reply under my breath.
“What does that mean?” Jynxson says to my back.
“Amethyst is delicate,” I mutter. “It’s one thing to talk dirty with a Death Row prisoner with no visitation rights, but this proposition might be too real for her.”
“You think she’s been stringing you along this entire time?”
I pause at the wall, my shoulders sagging. “No, but she might not have agreed to liking a bunch of kinky shit if she knew there was a chance we would ever meet.”
“Right. Like the difference between jerking off to the thought of McMurphy sitting on my face and the reality of knowing that Bossanova takes her raw every morning after she’s sucked off Montesano.”
I don’t dignify that comment with a remark. Jynxson is all talk. If McMurphy ever gave him a chance, he wouldn’t know what to do with her.
He shuffles on his feet and takes a few steps back. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Ignoring him, I call Amethyst’s number, resolving not to ask. By now, she should have received my letter containing my proposal of marriage, although the mail where she lives is unreliable.
She answers in five rings. “Xero?” she says, that soft, sleepy voice warming my heart. “I got your letter.”
My throat dries. “Oh?”
Silence stretches for several tense heartbeats. I hold mytongue, not wanting to push for answers. Amethyst isn’t like other women. She’s too delicate for this cruel world. It’s hard to tell if her mind shattered before or after she killed her abusive music teacher, but the act left her broken.
Sometimes, the letters she writes to me are sweet. Other times, they’re filled with fantasies dark enough to make a sinner like me blush. Take her Rapunzelita manuscript, which reads like a children’s story until the heroine comes into contact with the moon.
“My answer is yes,” she murmurs.
My breath catches. “Amethyst, do you know what you’re saying?”
“I’ll marry you,” she replies, her sweet voice a balm to the jagged edges of my soul. “And we’ll spend the last hours of your life together.”
Emotion clogs my throat, and I swallow hard. “You’d leave your house for me?”
“I’m not that much of a hermit,” she replies with a sad chuckle.
But she is. In the months we’ve exchanged letters, she’s never once mentioned leaving her home, not even to buy groceries. At first, I thought it was because the medication she took made her too drowsy to operate in the outside world. But when she stopped taking those pills, the most she ever did was have the occasional cup of tea with the old woman next door.
“I’ll be gentle,” I say, meaning every word. “Take things slow. It will be nothing like our phone sex. I know the difference between real life and dirty talk.”
Her breath quickens, making me wonder if she might change her mind. What version of Amethyst will I get when she visits me in prison? The victim or the vixen? It won’t matter. I will love them both.
“What will you do to me?” she whispers.
“I’ll treat you like you’re the most precious thing on earth?—”
“No,” she murmurs. “I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile and need fixing. I want it rough.”
Heat rushes to my cock. “You want me to strip you naked?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
