Page 8 of Thick

“I used to be a freelance editor. They all assume that’s what I’m still doing. I never really felt the need to tell them otherwise, and no one’s asked. They’d give me a mile of shit if they knew.”

I laughed at the thought. “I bet they would.”

“One of these days they’re sure to figure it out, though.”

“How’d you get started writing?”

“When Amazon made independently publishing books easy, I wrote a coming of age novel. It failed miserably. A literary agent told me to write an erotic novel, so I did. Damned thing went to #1 in Erotic Romance. I’ve written forty or so since. Seem to have a knack for it.”

“Forty?” I gasped. “Over how much time?”

“Four years.” He shrugged. “Almost five.”

“Oh. Wow.”

One inmate began kicking his cell door, and then a few others followed suit. In no time, the cell block was filled with the sound of their pounding and screaming. As much as I didn’t want to, I needed to stop talking to Reynolds and return to my duties.

“Okay. I’ll look you up.” I pushed the cart forward a few inches, and then took one last look at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He grinned. “I look forward to it.”

I couldn’t wait to find his books. I wondered if they’d give me any insight as to who he was, or if the content of his romantic novels was nothing more than fantasies, hopeful scenarios, and fabricated tales.

Twenty-two hours later, I was driving back to work on zero hours sleep with a clit that was so sensitive I couldn’t cross my legs. Tate Reynolds may have had many talents, but the one that kept me up all night was his ability to write a sex scene.

I had a lot of questions for him, most of which I normally wouldn’t have the guts to ask. Considering there was a two-inch thick steel door separating us, and knowing I’d never see him again outside the walls of the jail, I hoped I could somehow manage the courage to do so.

In half an hour, I was going to find out.

I just hoped my clit stopped vibrating by the time I got there.

Chapter Four

Tate

The sound of the key being inserted into the bean slot caught my attention. Almost finished with a set of pushups, I did four more and paused.

“Reynolds, it’s time for breakfast.”

My days began with one testosterone-filled conversation after another, generally shouted from cell to cell. When we were removed from our cells to spend time on the yard, muscles were flared, a pecking order was established, and arguments were settled.

Bobbi’s voice was the only thing feminine about the entire institution. I looked forward to hearing it every morning. In the months that I’d been incarcerated, I’d grown fond of the time we spent together. Sharing bits and pieces of my life with her kept me sane, and gave me hope that there was humanity within the walls of the institution.

I stood and turned to face her. “Let me guess? My favorite?”

She pushed the tray into the slot and grinned. “Oatmeal, eggs, and coffee.”

“Thank God. I was afraid it was going to be eggs and bacon.”

I set the tray aside and looked her over. She was an attractive woman, and not simply because she was the only female in the prison. Her lips were blood red in color, and needed no lipstick to draw attention to the fact they were full and sensual. Her cheekbones were high, and with her application of blush accentuating them, she appeared jovial and kind. Her brown eyes all but demanded an admiring second glance each time I saw her.

She glanced down the cellblock and then met my gaze. “I’ve got questions.”

My gaze lingered around her face until I was afraid I’d make her uncomfortable, and then I looked away. “I’m sure I’ll have answers.”

“I read one and a half of your books last night,” she said excitedly.

I shifted my eyes to her. “Which ones?”