Blood and Sympathy (3 page)

I sighed noisily. "How do you figure I owe
you?" I knew she had something over on me, I just wasn't sure which
wrongdoing she was calling me out for.

"You
borrowed
my car without asking,
and
you put it in a ditch." She grinned, obviously having way too much fun at
my expense.

"You forget, sister dear. Dad already knows
about that. Jeb told him he pulled me out of the ditch." She'd been
standing right there when Dad announced I was grounded--again--for being out
without permission, and for ditching her precious SHO.

"I know," she said, waving her hand
dismissively. "But, he doesn't know where you were, what you were doing,
and who you were doing it with."

The hell
? "Yeah, and neither do
you."
I hoped
.

Her smile grew as she opened the top right drawer
of my desk, withdrew my diary, and pushed it under my nose. "You really
should find a better hiding place for your admission of sins."

My mouth gaped, and I gave her a death stare.
"Bitch," I snarled.

"So, now that we've got that settled, read
the list of rules, and I expect you to have your first letter to Braden Sayer
in the next day or two." With that, she strode out of my room.

Heat flushed through my body and I whipped that
damn journal across the room. "Damn it to hell."

 After I calmed down, I sat on the corner of my
bed and began to skim the paper.

1) State your intentions in the first letter.
Be clear about why you're writing to the inmate. Inmates may ask you for a
romantic relationship. Be honest in the beginning if this is or isn't something
you're interested in pursuing. You can say you just want to be friends and will
not be giving them money, etc. Do not do anything you have any doubts about.
Remember, you're always in control.

2) It's important not to write to more than one
person in each prison unless you have asked. They don't have much to call their
own and become very protective and jealous of their few friends.

I wadded the list into a ball and tossed it into
the trash. There was absolutely no frigging way I'd make it past one letter.
Romantic
relationship
? Yeah, that was so not happening. I'd write Braden Sayer the
obligatory letter just to get my sister out of my hair, but that was all.

I picked up my discarded diary and scanned the
room for a better secret hiding place. Knowing that Olivia had read about my
sexcapades left a sour taste in my mouth. We shared a lot of things, but the
less she knew about my personal life, the better. Maybe she took notes. She
could use a few lessons in loosening up. If I had to guess, I'd bet money on my
sister being a nineteen-year-old virgin.

How was I supposed to begin my letter? Dear Mr.
Sayer? Hi, Braden? Yo, dude? I chewed on my lip and began. After several tries,
I settled on this:

Dear Braden,

My name is Claire
Copeland. I live in Hensteeth, Tennessee. You might remember me as Reverend
Copeland's daughter. I'm a senior this year and graduate in May--hopefully.
School keeps me pretty busy, so I won't be able to write to you too often, but
feel free to write me back.

Tell me about
yourself.

Also, they said I
should be honest from the beginning about this. I'm not looking for a love
connection or anything like that.

Hope to hear from you.

Sincerely,

Claire

When I finished, I knocked on Olivia's bedroom
door and handed her the sealed envelope containing my first, and last, letter
to Braden Sayer. "Here, I'm done." She arched an eyebrow at me.
"What? Don't give me that look. I did like you asked and wrote to
him."

"You need to put your return address on
here."

"My real address? I don't like the idea of
him knowing where I live. What if when he gets out he comes looking for
me?" I folded my arms in front of me and set my jaw defiantly.

"Claire. Braden Sayer used to go to our
church. I'm pretty sure he already knows where we live. Besides, the boys we've
been given to correspond with are model prisoners, not hardcore criminals on
death row. They're just lonely, and this is meant to help them fit into society
when they're done serving their time." She held the envelope up to the
light. "Is there really something in here?"

"Yes," I snapped and shot her a nasty
look. "I suppose you wanted to read this, too, like you did my diary. Which,
incidentally, I've hidden now."

She rolled her eyes. "I hope you found a
better hiding place than under your mattress. That's the first place everyone
looks."

"I didn't hide it there. How about you just
stay out of my room and not worry about what I'm doing for a change?"

I stalked down the hall to my room and promptly
removed the journal from between the mattress and box springs and rethought my
strategy.

Braden
Sayer

Even though Brogan is here too, we don't see each
other very often. We get along best when we don't talk. He has it in for me,
says I sold him out. I don't bother reminding him that it's because of him
we're here. The two of us are like oil and water, and the less time I'm around
him, the better things are for everyone.

They said there's a good chance I might be able to
go home a few months early on account of good behavior. Uncle Jeb says I can
come live with him. He's got an old trailer on his property I can stay in. He
tells me I'm going to have a lot of catching up to do with my life--specifically
with the opposite sex--and figures I'll want my own place. Wonder what he'd say
if I told him the idea of being alone with a woman scares the bejesus out of
me.

What woman in her right mind would want anything
to do with a guy my age that's not only a virgin, but an ex-con? Somehow, I
doubt they're going to be waiting in line for a piece of me.

I've been working hard to get my GED before I
leave, and besides woodworking, I've also been tinkering around with small
engines so I can help earn my keep when I get to the lake.

The scent of pine hung thick in the air as I
concentrated on sanding the music box I was putting together. Mr. Collins stood
over my shoulder watching me work.

"I've never seen anybody as particular as you
are," he said, shaking his head.

"I want it to look nice. If it goes out the
door with my name on it, I don't want people to think I do shit work." I
continued to inspect the wood for any rough patches.

"You're a perfectionist, that's for
sure." The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile and he patted me on
the shoulder. "My wife's birthday is coming up, and I think she'd like one
of these."

I shrugged. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, she collects owls. If you can make me a
pretty red one with a pair of owl cutouts, she'll be tickled to death."

I paused to blow the dust off the piece I was
working on and pushed the safety glasses up on top my head. "Okay. Is
there a particular song you want it to play?"

"That's easy," he said with an indignant
snort. "She's a Tennessee gal through and through, so 'Rocky Top' is what
she'll be expecting it to play."

"Sure thing, Mr. Collins." I held up the
piece of pine I was sanding and told him, "I've already got a good start
for you right here."

I worked for a while longer until it was time to
eat. I didn't feel like staying in the cafeteria, so I grabbed some chips and a
sandwich before heading back to my room. There was a letter waiting for me, and
I assumed it was from Uncle Jeb--he was the only one I ever got anything from,
but the handwriting wasn't his usual chicken scratch.

My forehead creased when I took note of the return
address: Claire Copeland, 42 Devil's Fork Road, Hensteeth, TN. I stared at the
envelope, baffled as to why the preacher's daughter would write to me. Then I
remembered that stupid pen pal thing Alex had roped me into signing up for.

I shook my head and smiled. The mouthy one--the
one I liked best--had decided to write me. Alex had asked that I make an
effort, write at least one letter, and if it wasn't something I wanted to keep
doing, he wouldn't push. I couldn't imagine having anything in common with a
girl like Claire, but I'd write her one, obligatory response, she'd see what a
loser I am, and that would be the end of that.

I was immediately struck by the smell of cherries
when I opened the envelope, and it smelled pretty damn good. It wasn't
overpowering or anything, not like she purposely had sprayed perfume on it
before she mailed it. No, the scent was more subtle, with just a hint of
sweetness. For a split second, I wondered if that's what she smelled like after
her morning shower.

Her words were short and to the point, and just a
little on the presumptuous side
. She wasn't looking for a love connection or
anything like that
. I blew out a noisy breath and took a bite of the ham
sandwich before replying.  

Dear Claire,

Thank you for writing.

I do remember seeing you
and your sister in church when I lived in Hensteeth. I bet you'll be happy to
have high school behind you so you can focus on going to college in the fall. I'll
just be glad to get my GED before I get out of here.

There's not much I can
tell you about myself that you'd find interesting. I'm seventeen, and I'll be
eighteen next January. In my spare time, I like working with wood and making
music boxes. I sell them in the gift shop. I also tinker with small engines so
I'll be able to help my Uncle Jeb at the marina when I come home.

I'm relieved to find
out you're not looking for a love connection. I'm sure a girl like you wouldn't
have a thing in common with me, anyway.

Hope all is well with
your family. I imagine Olivia's in college by now? Uncle Jeb speaks highly of
your father all the time.

If I haven't bored you
to tears, feel free to write back when you get a chance.

Sincerely,

Braden

That was pretty lame, but there was no reason for
me to make myself out to be something I wasn't. Being from the same small dot
on the map, I'm sure there wasn't anything about me she didn't already know.

I folded the note, stuffed it into an envelope and
hoped when she opened it that she didn't get a whiff of me and my surroundings.
Not that I smelled bad, but I sure didn't smell edible. Before I went to lift
weights in the gym, I dropped the letter in the outgoing mailbox, and squelched
the feeling of hopefulness that she'd bother to reply. Still, I couldn't help
but wonder what she looked like all these years later.

Claire
Copeland

Alistair was waiting in his truck for me to sneak
out, and I stalled as long as I could. I had hoped dad would turn off the TV
and go up to his room for the night so I could go out through the front door.
When I couldn't wait any longer, I ended up crawling out my bedroom window,
tiptoeing across the porch roof as quietly as I could. Alistair wouldn't wait
forever and lately I'd barely been able to wipe my ass without asking for permission
first.

I was still grounded over the ditch incident, and
I wasn't supposed to be anywhere but my bedroom. It was Friday night, and there
was no way I was staying home like a damn prisoner while everyone else was out
having fun.

In the process of climbing down the trellis at the
corner of the house, it snapped and pulled away from the railing, spilling me
to the ground. "Fuck that hurt," I muttered. Luckily the living room
was on the opposite side of the house. I paused a few beats, holding my breath.
When the kitchen light didn't come on, I shot to my feet and scrambled down the
lane.

It was dark and I ran blindly toward the uneven
rumble of Alistair's pickup up the road where it sat idling with the headlights
off. The passenger door squeaked open and I climbed inside.

"'Bout time, Clair," he said as he put
the truck in gear and pulled away slowly.

I glared at him and lit a cigarette. "Fuck
off. It couldn't be helped."

He cracked a beer and took a long swig before
passing it to me. "It's all good. Things will just be getting started
about now anyhow."

The party was on the other side of the lake, and
if I squinted above the tree line, I could see the orange glow from the
bonfire. I chugged the rest of his beer and wiped my mouth with the back of my
hand. I giggled and handed him the empty can. "Damn that hit the
spot."

He frowned but kept his mouth shut. He squeezed my
knee and said, "Grab another one if you want."

I shook my head and nuzzled closer to his side.
"Nah, I'm good."

His hand slid up my thigh and he pressed against
my sex making me squirm in the seat. His eyes shifted to the rearview mirror.
"Want me to pull over?"

I chewed on my lip, pressing myself against his
hand. "If I don't get some from you now, I probably won't get any
later," I said breathlessly.

He growled something unintelligible and turned
into a field, cutting the lights. He left the truck running and hopped out,
walking around to my side of the pickup while I shimmied out of my jeans and
pushed open the door. I stepped out, my back to him, and planted my elbows on
the front seat. He tugged my panties to the side and dipped his middle finger
inside me. "So fucking wet, baby," he murmured.

I was hornier than hell, and it was freezing out, so
I was impatient to have him inside of me. "Hurry up, Alistair," I
urged, wiggling against his thrusting fingers.

He chuckled and brushed his thumb against my clit,
causing me to jerk and let out a gasp. With his free hand, he unzipped his
pants, dropping them far enough to slide his cock out. He teased it against my
opening, rubbing it up and down my wetness. "You ready for me, baby?"