“There you go.” Setting down the picture, he continued his exploration. “Anyway, she might’ve been a whore, but she wasn’t all bad. She used to slip me extra paper, books she thought I might like, chocolate, stuff like that. And some of the other guys enjoyed more…personal favors from her. A woman wasn’t an easy—” he was about to say commodity, but caught himself “—treat to come by.”
She tilted her head as he fingered a stack of files. “If you think I have a file there on you, you’re wrong.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you so interested?”
Because, as much as he wished otherwise, he was interested in her. She must realize that already. If not, he wasn’t going to point it out. “These things…” He waved to indicate a cabinet that held a variety of handmade objects—baskets, pictures displayed on small easels, leather pieces, jewelry.
“What about them?”
“They’re gifts?”
“Yes.” She seemed proud.
“From inmates?”
“Mostly.”
That wasn’t difficult to guess. Many of the inmates he’d known made similar objects—weak attempts to make their lives matter when they didn’t matter at all. “Why do you keep them?”
“Because they’re special to me.”
Jealousy stung him but he also experienced an emotion that went far deeper. “They’re trophies of some kind?”
“Trophies?” she repeated.
“Tokens of the creators’ admiration and devotion. Proof of how many men have wanted you.”
She jumped to her feet. “Stop it!”
“Am I being too direct?” he asked, but he was glad she was angry. He wanted to make her angry because he was suddenly angry himself.
“It’s the implication I’m having a problem with. That’s the second time you’ve accused me of leading men on!”
“Isn’t that what you do?” Why else was she being so kind to him? He could only imagine she liked the risk of “slumming.” Or she enjoyed the thrill of bringing men like him—hardened, bitter men—to their knees.
She crossed over to him, coming close enough to jab a finger in his chest right below the medallion that hung from his neck—a Spanish eight-real coin from 1739, which was the only object of any value he owned. His father had left that behind. Not for him, exactly. He’d just forgotten it when he packed.
“You have no idea who I am, what I’m like. You know that?” she said.
Her touch sent an electric charge through him and nearly triggered the reaction he hoped to avoid. He almost dragged her up against him, but he knew that would scare the hell out of her, and fear wasn’t what he had in mind.
He swatted her hand away instead. “Then why do you keep them?”
“Because they mean something to me, okay? And so do the men who created them. They’re proof that beauty can be found where you’d least expect it. That most people have some good in them. That the amount of talent that goes to waste in prison is a tragedy.”
She was too close. He couldn’t think. He longed to take her in his arms and push her away at the same time, which made no sense. “That’s bullshit! The men who created these things aren’t significant to you. They’re just a bunch of lost souls grasping for something, anything, to make them feel they have value. And you believe you’re a bigger person for patronizing them. But you’d never open your heart to one of them, not really, and you know it.”
He was almost yelling when he finished. He could see the effect of his outburst, the way her face drained of color, and regretted it. But he was too far gone to change course, too torn by his own emotions to even apologize. It was better this way, he told himself. Better if she hated him. Better if she took him back to the damn motel and left him there. Then there’d be no chance of becoming the next man to contribute to her “collection.” The last thing he wanted was for some token representing him to be displayed here with all the others. Let her feel sorry for the poor bastards who’d made these arts and crafts. He wanted none of her pity.
What he wanted was her body, he told himself.
But, deep down, he knew he wanted much more than that.
What he really craved was her respect.
11
Her chest rising and falling much too fast, Peyton stood in the middle of her office long after Virgil had stalked out. She knew she needed to calm down. But she couldn’t. She was caught in a web spun by her own emotions and desires—one that challenged every instinct she possessed regarding self-preservation, not to mention sense of duty. She’d hoped to achieve some sort of equilibrium with this new person in her life. But she couldn’t. For one thing, he wasn’t someone to whom she could simply explain how she felt—because he understood more than she wanted him to understand, looked far deeper, to the hard truth, blanching at nothing. For another, in all her years in corrections, she’d never encountered anyone so at war with himself. That made everything more complicated.
She didn’t think of the inmates who’d given her these gifts the way he thought. She considered them friends, and there was nothing wrong with that. But she doubted she could convince him. What difference would it make, even if she could? Their argument hadn’t been about other men. It’d been about the two of them and how they felt whenever they were together. He understood that she was attracted to him. She’d made that obvious enough. He also understood that she was fighting it—that she wouldn’t, couldn’t, take a chance on someone like him—and he resented it.
She’d resent it, too, if she were him, wouldn’t she? Not only was he a victim of his mother’s and uncle’s actions, he was the product of an imperfect system. Her hesitation to get involved with him further convinced him that he didn’t deserve to be considered by someone like her, which wasn’t true. He’d said, You know what I want from you. If you want it, too, you don’t have to make me dinner. You don’t have to view me as an equal. Hell, you don’t have to do anything at all. Just ask. But now he acted as if he’d accept nothing less than her soul.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she counted her own heartbeat. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. It hammered away, refusing to slow down.
Go back to your room, close the door and lock it.
She promised herself she would. But once in the hallway she turned to the guest room and, swallowing hard, lifted her hand to knock.