Free Nick of Time by John Gilstrap

telling you that for the last four months. But it’s not about what I want; it’s about what you want. Now come on, humor me. Who do you want to be? It can be anybody at all, real or imagined, present or past.”
    â€œI’m not good at these kinds of games.” Nicki heard the whininess in her voice and it embarrassed her.
    Brad planted his fists on his hips and cocked his head to the side. It was a gesture of good-humored frustration. He gestured to the bench and they sat down again. He tried to look at her, but Nicki couldn’t tolerate the heat of his eyes. “Hey,” he said. His voice was much softer now. Gentle, even. “Work with me here. This is supposed to be your escape.”
    Inexplicably, Nicki found herself close to tears. “I’m here,” she said.
    Brad laughed again. “Your body is here. Now, let your mind escape, too. Dream a little. Who do you want to be?”
    The whole concept was just so foreign to her. The urge to cry grew stronger. She didn’t know how to play this kind of game.
    â€œCome on, Nicki,” Brad urged. “Just this one time, loosen up. Give me a name.”
    Nicki sighed. He wasn’t going to cut her a break. Brad Ward in person was exactly the same as Brad Ward on the computer: kind, always understanding, but never giving an inch. Not on the important stuff, not on the stuff that he wanted for her. “Okay,” she said, finally surrendering to the ridiculous notion. “I want to go to a prom.”
    Brad beamed. “Perfect,” he said.
    â€œPerfect for what?”
    â€œPerfect for both of us.”
    Nicki was confused.
    â€œI get to be prom king.”
    Nicki loved the way his mind could just jump around like that, asking questions one second and then making proclamations the next. “What makes you think you wouldn’t be runner-up?” she asked.
    Brad didn’t drop a beat: “Because of the arm candy I’ll have with me.” He stood and held out his hand. “Time to go.”
    â€œWhere?”
    He beckoned with his fingers and she took his hand.
    â€œAre you going to tell me?” she pressed.
    â€œTo your fantasy,” he said, and they started toward the door.

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    March 2
    Okay, I’m not pissed anymore. Derek’s mother made him a pound cake. The guards let him keep most of it, and what was left, he shared with me. Gave me half. Exactly half. And he said that his mother was going to pray for me. Next visiting day, she’s going to ask to see me, too, so I can have someone to talk to.
    It’s hard to be pissed at someone who does something good for you.

Chapter Six
    D eputy Sheriff Darla Sweet thumbed the button on the microphone. “Unit six-oh-four is ten-eight, leaving the Lion.” She’d finished her dinner at the Shore Road Deli, and was back in service, leaving the Food Lion parking lot.
    The dispatcher, George Sugrue, sounded bored as he responded, “Ten-four, six-oh-four, nineteen twenty-one hours.”
    Darla allowed herself to relax after the channel clicked dead, relieved that George hadn’t pulled one of his adolescent radio pranks. He delighted in referring to Deputy Sweet as Darling or Sweet-cheeks on the radio. Darla had protested a dozen times to Sheriff Hines about it, but she’d never gotten through. In the Essex, North Carolina, Sheriff’s Department, you were either part of the in-group, or you were not. She was not. The fact that she had a four-year degree in criminal justice, or that she could out-shoot, out-run, and out-think every other deputy in the department couldn’t make up for the one qualification she neither had nor wanted: a penis. Not that they hadn’t all offered to let her play with theirs from time to time.
    Darla was living up to the commitment she’d made to herself to stick it out through two years. With that much experience under her Sam Browne belt,