Free Hard Time by Cara McKenna Page B

feet were dragging me toward the window display and the red dress.
    I couldn’t wear that to the prison—it was a knee-length halter. If Shonda lost her mind and actually let me into the dayroom, I’d cause a riot.
    I pulled the door open, greeted by country music and a blessed blast of AC.
    “Good afternoon!” said an older woman, Debbi perhaps, coming out from behind the counter. I was the only customer. I bet I’d been the only customer all morning.
    “Afternoon.”
    “I saw you looking at that dress in the window.”
Whore
, she added in my imagination.
    I nodded. “It’s pretty, but I need something more conservative I could wear to work. Do you have anything else in that color, maybe a top? Short sleeves are okay, but nothing low-cut.”
    She showed me some options, but everything was pretty summery, embellished with beads or cutouts or just too revealing.
    As she went out back to check for something, I poked through the racks.
    And I found it.
    It was cream colored, a soft knit top with three-quarter sleeves and a boat neck, not wide enough to flash any bra strap. And splashed off-center across the front was a huge red poppy, bright as a maraschino cherry against vanilla ice cream.
    “Sorry, nothing,” she said, reappearing.
    “I’ll try this one,” I said, holding up my find.
    She led me to a booth and pulled the curtain closed. The top fit like a glove, and I scrutinized the shape, assuring myself poppies weren’t vaginal-looking, as flowers went.
    It wasn’t a red top, per se.
    But the flower was bold.
Bold as a flag whipped in a bull’s face.
    Still.
It’s not all red. I’m not a
total
whore. Just a partial one. Just a
splash
of whore.
    I liked it. I’d wear it—if not tomorrow at Cousins, then elsewhere. I changed back into my tee and headed to the counter.
    “Do you have this in a size bigger?” It fit perfectly for what it was, but what it was would let a convict guess my measurements far more accurately than any of the other outfits I’d worn.
    “That’s the last of its kind, I’m afraid.”
    I drummed my fingertips on the hanger and bit my lip. I could throw a cardigan over it. Just let a little of the red peak through. A little wink of whorefulness.
    “I’ll take five dollars off,” the woman said, and that was all it took to tip me.
    “Deal.”
    * * *
    “Cute top,” Shonda said, holding it out before her.
    It was my fourth Friday at Cousins, and for the first time, she’d let me keep my bra and panties on during the strip search.
    As I pulled my jeans and the top back on I asked, “This isn’t too snug, is it? I could keep my sweater on, but it’s hot today . . .”
    She laughed. “A parka’s snug enough for these men. They’ve all been guessing what’s under your clothes, Anne. If you want to give them an extra hint, that’s up to you. You’re not violating any codes in that, but decide for yourself how much attention you’re willing to draw.”
    I’d worn the thing. I wanted some attention. Some very, very specific attention, from one set of male eyes among the couple hundred I’d encounter today. But since I’d bought the top, something strange had hatched inside me. Something invasive, with creeping vines. The tendrils had taken over, wrapping me in a sensation I hadn’t felt in five years—feminine mischief.
    Five years.
    Five years since I’d wanted to feel sexual, and invite that attention.
    Five years since Eric Collier had been with a woman.
    A long time since a woman had felt like a woman, and a man like a man. A long time for two people to shut their needs in the dark, I thought, buttoning my cardigan over most of the red blossom. Most but not all. It was so hot inside it. And I wanted to bloom.
    Shonda led me across the dayroom floor. Collier’s energy led my eyes to his. That dark gaze dropped, just for a second, finding so much more than the simple shape of my breasts that the other men sought. His stare shot back up to my face, and I saw