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gave way on the left hand side, bringing a splintered board up
against his bare, bound foot. "Motherfucker!"
"Goddamn!"
Sir changed his pace, a few quick rabbit strokes signaling
the end. "Holy holy holy," he breathed, collapsing onto
Grant's back after sending a warm flood deep inside Grant.
That did it for Grant, who lost it again. "Hot damn," he
said, collapsing under Sir's weight. "Hot fucking damn."
* * * *
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They showered after, separately, awkwardly.
Grant broke the silence. "Might be good if I knew your
name." He smiled. "Now that I'm not calling you Sir and all."
Sir smiled. "Darien. Darien Rios. And you're Grant."
"Grant Grandmaison."
"Grandmaison." Darien wrinkled an eyebrow. "French,
yeah?"
"French Canadian," Grant said. "Whole family."
Darien started to laugh. "That's kind of funny."
"What is?"
"Grandmaison, working at the big house." Darien grinned.
"Do you hear that a lot? Inside?"
"Nah. Every now and then I'll get one or two who'll think of
it, but most don't." Relatively few French speakers made it to
Upstate. Thinking about work made his head hurt, just a little
bit. He looked at his watch. "Shit, man. I'd better book for
home, if I'm going to get any sleep before I have to go back
there. Can you give me a lift to my truck?"
"You sober enough to drive?"
Grant grinned. "I think I sweated all the alcohol out of my
system." He glanced toward the sweaty, rumpled wreck that
was Darien's bed. "Or something."
Darien laughed. "Fair enough." He stood up. "I think it was
more something than sweating, though, seeing as I did all the
work."
"I'll make it up to you next time." The words were out
before Grant thought about it. "That is," he said, stammering,
"if you'd like to have a next time."
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by Chris Owen, Tory Temple, CB Potts
"I'm by the club pretty regular," Darien replied. "I'm sure
I'll see you around."
Part Three
Most COs pride themselves on being observant. They have
to have a good eye. Noticing details a suspicious bulge in a
waistband, a new, shallow depression in a corner of the
yard can be, and often is, the sole difference between life
and death.
But even the most observant corrections officer doesn't
come close to an inmate. Captive eyes don't miss a trick.
With nothing but time on their hands, inmates watch
everything, everywhere. They're looking, all the time, even
when it seems like they're not paying the least bit of
attention.
They keep an especial eye on the COs. Knowing where the
guards are at any moment creates opportunities namely in
those locations where the guards aren't, or can't get to, in a
timely fashion.
They watch for more than mere presence. They've got an
eye open for opportunity. Inmates are always watching, in
the hopes of spotting a chance to get something, anything,
over. A CO with things on his mind might not notice the
contraband you're smuggling into your cell. A CO with a
pounding headache and half-hung over makes attempting
escape seem a little less impossible.
The relationship between captive and captor is, by its very
nature, complex. Each party has competing goals, objectives
that are diametrically opposed to the other. It's a constant
source of tension. It makes the COs hyper aware of the
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inmates, and, much to Grant's chagrin, the inmates hyper
aware of the COs.
* * * *
"Grant, man, buddy!" Albert lived in the first cell on the
tier, a six by nine room he called his corner office. He was
blessed with a mouth four times larger than his brain, and
knew far too well how to use it when he wanted to make
some noise. "What the hell happened to you?"
Grant forced a smile. "What do you mean, what happened
to me?" You never want to show weakness inside an injury
is just opportunity unrealized to an inmate. He shrugged,
feeling the square-edged kiss from Sir's belt twinging, sharp
and bright on his stomach. "I'm fine."
Albert laughed. "You Po-Pos is all liars." He leaned up
against the cell front, squeezing his face against the bars. His
cheeks puffed against the metal, fleshy bulges that made
Albert look happier than he really was. "Now don't be lying to
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