In the Slammer Ch. 04

I had more pressing issues on my mind. When the judge had handed down his sentence, who would have thought that my biggest problem in jail would be trying to choose between the girl I was locked up with every night and the one I was banging in the storage room.

How could I resist those luscious, movie-star tits that Rachel wagged so playfully in my face? How could I resist those long, lovely legs that she wrapped around me. How could I resist the way she got all soft and loving after I fucked her, as if I'd filled her up to the very brim so that there wasn't even an inch of space left for posturing or snobbery or meanness.

If anybody had learned her lesson in this place, it was Rachel. She'd learned it the second she walked through the door: jail is nothing but a waste of time. I was positive that the first thing she'd do when she got out of here would be to ditch that two-bit gangster boyfriend of hers and get herself a real gangster. A legitimate one. A tycoon. A rock star. Hell, she didn't even need a boyfriend. She had enough moxie and smarts and innate meanness to make it on her own.

And of course when she did she'd leave me in the dust. But for now, she and I had something going, something pretty hot, and I'd be a fool to walk away from it.

And Dolores? She was rough, moody, not rock star material by any means. But if I had to be locked up with someone, I could have done a lot worse. She was fun to be with. I got a kick out of her. She was as strong and as willful as Rachel, probably as smart too, just in a different, quieter, less refined direction. I didn't really mind that she wasn't putting out. I had to admit that her being a virgin didn't really make her any less of a woman---or any more of a little girl---than anyone else in the place.

But what about what Annie had said about my falling out of the sky being the hand of something? There couldn't really be anything to that, could there? Computer glitches don't happen on purpose, do they? Just to throw people into the same jail cell? People who are somehow meant for each other?

Then how come I always found myself thinking about little things she said? How come the first thing I did whenever I got in from work patrol was to look around for her? How come our crummy little cell, with its barred window and ratty blankets, always felt so much like home whenever the two of us were there together?

Lots of time for thinking in the slammer. Lots of time for just watching the clouds roll by. And somehow, on the long walks down from the timber line to the pickup point, amidst the brambles and the fallen branches and the drying puddles and the stalks of new grass, somehow, things had a way of sorting themselves out.