Bastards and Pretty Boys by K.Z. Snow

Author:K.Z. Snow [Snow, K.Z.]
Language: nld
Format: epub
Tags: erotic MM, Romance MM
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

I figured it had to do with an old drug connection. A deal that hadn’t been fulfilled, a delivery that hadn’t been made, a debt that hadn’t been paid. Some unresolved illicit business that was rapidly turning ugly.

Booker went back to his place to get dressed and retrieve my clothes for me.

Hanging out in our underwear didn’t seem wise under the circumstances, since a person or people kept showing up unexpectedly at both our places. Carrying two glasses of ice water, I met him on my deck, where I popped up the patio table’s umbrella.

Booker took a long drink while I slipped into my jeans and t-shirt. We sat down at the table.

“It started at R-H,” he said without preface. “A staff member … took a liking to me.”

So much for assumptions. R-H was the correctional facility. My breath stopped for a beat. “You mean an inappropriate kind of—”

“Yeah, that kind.” Booker’s mouth pulled into and out of a cheerless smile, like a rubberband stretching and snapping back into place.

“A guard?” I’d heard about guards taking liberties with inmates.

Booker shook his head. “No, Karl. He’s some sort of shrink. He told me later on that he was working pro bono at Reese.”

A head doctor. Okay, don’t assume… “Why were you seeing a shrink?”

“It isn’t uncommon,” Booker said wearily, “for inmates to be in therapy groups. Karl ran one. It was supposed to help gays adjust to prison life. After a couple of months, I was seeing him one-on-one. To this day I don’t know how he engineered it. There wasn’t anything unusual about me.”

Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. My throat had gone dry, so I swallowed some water. Booker sat with his forearms on his knees, interlinked fingers moving against and around each other as if he were trying to work a magic trick. And failing.

I leaned forward and grasped his hands with mine, enclosing and stilling them. He turned up those lovely eyes to me, and I knew I couldn’t let him down. I had to keep an open mind.

“Do you think he falsified your records?” I asked.

“Could be,” Booker said. “He had to dream up something that would justify private meetings. Ordinary inmates don’t get special treatment.”

“What reason did he give you?”

“He didn’t give me one,” Booker said sourly. “He hedged. I didn’t press the issue, because I wasn’t familiar enough with psychology or the penal system to ask the right questions. Besides, it was nice to get out of population and have some peace and quiet once in a while. I didn’t see the point of kicking up a fuss.”

And this shrink claimed to be working pro bono. Hm. Maybe the “for free” services only applied to these private sessions with Hosea Booker. “So, uh … how did he treat you?”

Booker’s face began to pull ever so slightly into a sneer. “Oh, he acted all fatherly at first, got me to talk about myself, was so supportive and encouraging. And then, little by little, he started crying on my shoulder, like I was supposed to give some of that caring back to him.

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