Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

K andie

The cell door slams in my face. Dense doesn't even cover how I feel. Deep down, I knew he was going to do it. But arson? That's a class A felony. Ulysses knows good and well when he let me go down on him in the shower, then took me against the wall before eating me out in the same shower that he was going to charge me with arson.

"Dirty ass motherfucking cop," I spit the words out with all the hate I wish was in my heart instead of the hurt that's threatening to cleave it in two.

Disbelief has given way to pure, unadulterated rage. He didn't need to fingerprint me, but he did and took my picture after making me put on a white felon jumpsuit.

"It's Sheriff," he snaps cuttingly. "You were driving under the influence, and while doing so, you threw a fucking Molotov cocktail into the bed of my truck. Then you led me on a high-speed chase, driving recklessly and breaking every speed law in the state. With at least a hundred people looking on. So yeah, my little menace to society, your ass is arrested for every offense." Anger rides high on the sharp angles of his jaw by the time he finishes the litany of alleged crimes.

"And you chase me down, breaking those same laws, probably not even bothering to wear a seatbelt. Then you chase me down and fucked me, then again here. You're just as wrong, U. A felony? I could lose my business." Pain makes my voice raw.

"Yeah, but I had sense enough not to have any witnesses — at least not any credible ones," he grounds out, letting me know the chances I have if I decide to go up against the big bad Sheriff of Shelby-Love.

Stunned and feeling stupid, I watch him fill out actual real forms detailing all my crimes. My heart hurts so bad.

Safe? Did I actually think I was safe with him? He — I feel sick. Rushing over to the sink in the jail cell, I retch. Everything from the day comes up. My throat is raw like I drunk devil lye, like this one girl did when we were little. I wouldn't be surprised if my throat doesn't burn from the inside out and wither like hers did.

Betrayal slices through me. Tears well in my eyes, I stay with my back to him, trying my best not to let the pain I feel show, but I can't stop my shoulders from shaking with quiet sobs. I feel used.

The very thing I tried to avoid by not being the good-time girl all these years comes tumbling down on me like an avalanche. I hate myself for waiting for him. I can admit it at least to myself. All of that then have him fuck me and toss me away like I'm nothing.

"Let this be a wake-up call," the motherfucker says with a smugness that ensures I'm going to get my lick back.

"Bitch," I snarl at his retreating back.

Three a.m.

The witching hour, the moon be bright,

All the paddy rollers sleep tight,

Look left, then right,

Be smart, quiet, careful, and cool,

The way to freedom won't come again,

Don't stay the night,

And get snatch-up tight,

There is a sure way out the pin,

The floor is false,

Be sure to take a peek,

The path below is the one you seek.

Then free as a bird you will fly,

Just make sure this way you never come by,

If you don't want to get strung up high.

At exactly three a.m. after the last bed check, I slip off the cot. As far as cots go, they are comfy, but I prefer my own bed. Thank you very much. The poem my granddaddy told me one day during visitation back when my first arson charge along with the murder charge of the Sheriff and three deputies looked bleak and like it was going to stick, plays in the back of my head like a song on repeat.

When they forced my enslaved family members to make this jail during the Civil War, they had no idea the workers built tunnels to escape their enslavement and the possible lynchings that followed for the most minor infractions.

The powerful forces never wanted it discovered how people just up and disappeared. They just let people think it was vigilante mobs coming in the middle of the night when in actuality folks were escaping through the underground network of tunnels.

"That little poem has been passed down to most of the men in the family. I think you and Ma-Pete are the only ladies who had to learn it. If they try to send you upstate, use it and we will find you somewhere safe to be," he told me with a mix of pride and sorrow.

That's one thing about my grandparents. They never judged me just like they never did Daddy. They thought they were helping him when he first started having spells, as they call it. When they discovered how badly he was being treated, they stopped it all. By then, he didn't trust anyone but Mom.

I know they have a lot of regret. I know I used it to get my way with them sometimes.

"I'm going to do better," I whisper for the fifty-eleventh time. As quietly as I can, I push the bed over, thankful they put the pads under the feet to stop the incessant scraping when people toss and turn. There is more than enough room for an average-sized person, but with all this booty, there is no way I'm squeezing under the bed. Once it's moved out of the way, I dig my nails into the groove of concrete lifting, then sliding it over to reveal the tunnel. Turning, I step down the ladder built into the wall. Reaching back up, I drag the bed by its leg back into its original position. Stepping down a couple of rungs, I grab the groove on the underside of the concrete, pulling it back into place.

Making sure I don't see any gaps, I jump down onto the soft earth of the tunnel. Feeling around on the ground I pick up one of the flashlights, turning it on and head down to the tunnel several feet bypassing several more rungs that lead to freedom from the cells above.

How people who were forbidden to even read were able to do this is a marvel to me. Stopping at the next ladder I do something I've never done before. I make a right instead of keep going to forward to the one that leads to freedom.

There's no telling what Ulysses' dirty ass will do when he finds out I'm gone. He may even try to arrest me again. Tummy tight, I follow the short path to the only ladder in this area. Praying like my life depends on it I ease the false floor away or at least I try to. I know he left. Garcia told me when he came to check on me or to let me know the coast was clear. Anytime he's here I know I'm going to make it out with no problem. Hell, I bet he'd even leave the door open if I asked him but I never would. People forget Rory Garcia was one of the kids who I helped get free from Bishop Smith. As much as Ulysses and his ilk want to make me out to be bad, they just don't know there are some people who think the world of me.

Then why did that look on his face of disappointment matter so much? I don't know but I'm going to use the rest of my freedom rooting out all those feelings.

He likes to pretend he's a saint when he's meeting with a cartel boss behind the local flower shop. Let that weigh on his scale of righteousness. Oh, I forgot. It wouldn't matter since I'm the only person who knows and I'm not credible.

I almost don't care when I finally get the slab to move, opening up to his office. A rug was blocking the opening.

Pushing it to the side, I wince at the loud scrape. Waiting a tense second, I listen hard in case I need to jump back down into the tunnel. It would only be Garcia, but I'd never put him in that position and then he'd feel obligated to tell his boss the Sherriff which will blow a century's old secret.

"Fuck," I hiss, looking at the thick rug flopped over. It's going to be a dead giveaway when he comes back and sees that the arrest report is gone and the rug is moved. It won't take him long to figure out the false floor and the opening to the tunnel.

Looking around, I see a roll of duct tape on a nearby shelf. Creeping over, my body ready to spring at any moment, I grab the thick roll of tape. This is too risky by far, but at this point I don't trust Ulysses not to take his teaching me a lesson all the way to Julia Tutwiler Prison. Rolling some over itself, I place it just so over the concrete slab. Smoothing it down the best I can, making sure there are no lumps or indentation that he'd notice, I look, assessing my work — not bad.

Making my way over to his desk, I take the report that he's not filed along with the brand-new mugshot he took. Even in the picture, I look so forlorn. Not that his mean ass cared. He was licking his chops to teach me a lesson. Asshole.

I snatch up the paper and the picture he hopefully didn't process yet because that would be another problem and I'd have to get one of my tech savvy younger cousins, Maxim or Thaddeus, to hack into the county system to remove it. Thad's already in enough trouble and Maxim tends to be more of an upright citizen for the time being.

Stuffing the items into my pocket, I climb back into the escape hatch. "I promise I'll be good." I pray to Sky Daddy, hoping as I slide the concrete back in place the rug holds.

A few hours later, I'm turning the corner to my business in a bright sundress after a fresh shower. The tunnels beneath the jail diverge to several paths. A few go for miles in various directions leading out of town or deeper into Love land like Valentine's veterinary clinic, and one leads straight to the back of my grandparents' house to the tiny house they built for Kerania and me. To this day I have clothes and sundries stashed there for when I get in trouble.

Most days after I escape, I take breakfast with them, but I'm not trying to hear Pa-Pete fussing at me about his truck running out of gas or setting Ulysses' truck on fire. Which in itself would be bad enough, but I can hear Mama-Pete getting on me for cutting up over a man which Love women never do. "We've fixed it so they lose their minds over us, not the other way around," she would tell us when she gifted us our own scent of vanilla-rose.

I was mad is all and after the way he treated me after, I won't be making that mistake again. My head is back on straight. It was real nice while it lasted, but it will be celibacy for me from now on. I obviously tend to care more about people than they do about me. He showed me just how fucking judgmental he is with the whole, "Let this be a wake -up call," bullshit. He wasn't saying that shit when he was knee deep in me. I can't stand his ass.

Some of the pep has definitely left my step by the time I reach the landing of my loft. Pausing, I notice my door is ajar. Waiting, I listen for a few moments. Not hearing anything, I nudge the door with my toe. Slowly the door swings open with an eerie creek I never noticed before just now. I guess my senses are heightened under the circumstances of coming home to find my place has been broken into.

"What the fuck?" Looking around, I take in the destruction. My bed is ripped apart, my bookcase is empty. Every book has been thrown around the room. My special edition Cruel Prince is torn and ripped apart. A heavy ache settles in my heart. Everything I've worked for is destroyed.

They even cut into my bed. Walking over to get a better look, I stop cold. DIRTY WHORE is scrawled on the wall above my headboard in red paint that drips like blood on the wall.

With trembling fingers, I cover my mouth. This is pure hatred. This is not a prank. This is evil.

Who hates me this much? A pool of liquid is on my pillow. The moment I lean in, I get a whiff of the scent and immediately feel the need to retch. It's semen.

Only when I rush back outside nothing comes up because I already threw up everything earlier in the jail.

Legs wobbly like Jell-O, I ease down on the top step, scared I'll fall if I try to go down the other twelve. Casting my eyes around, I search the area behind the shop. Whatever evil bastard did this probably wants to see me break in real life.

Fishing my phone out, I press the icon of my cousin Oz.

"Hey, firebug," he drawls in a mix of accents ranging from southern Bama to Western Cape, where he now lives.

"I need some help." There is a deep pause. Not because he won't help. I never ask for help.

"We're on our way." He's bringing the rest of my badass male cousins.

Minutes later, they are silently assessing my loft, their faces murderous.

"Okay, baby girl, why don't you go down to your shop while we clean this mess up," Oz says as his brother, Nebraska, and four more of my male cousins spread out over my tiny loft. It suddenly seems like a CrackerJack box with all these over six-foot behemoths taking up this tiny space.

"I can help—" I begin frantically looking around, trying to see what I can salvage.

"Nah, Kandie girl," Nebraska cuts me off smoothly. "Trust that the motherfuckers who did this are watching. They want to see you upset. We are not going to give them the satisfaction. Take your pretty self down to your shop and be unbothered. Ya hear me?"

Looking around, Nehemiah and his brothers, Benjamin, Nikodemus, and Malachi, all nod in agreement.

"Okay—" Looking around, sadness engulfs me. "I just need a sec?—"

"The fuck is going on?" comes the thunderous tones of Ulysses from the entrance of my loft.

"The fuck you doing here, Sheriff?" Oz demands bristling, turning fully with fists clenched like he's ready to charge Ulysses like a raging bull.

Astonishing like he has a death wish, Ulysses steps fully into the overcrowded space. Ignoring my cousin, he takes in the destruction. His ice-cold blue gaze misses nothing. In short strides, he is in front of me as if he's trying to block the horror from my view.

"Look at me." His hands are on my neck, tilting my head up so that I'm meeting his fierce gaze.

"I'll going to kill the motherfucker who did this. I don't give a fuck who it is. Do you understand me?"

I swallow, the tightness in my throat overwhelming. My face is hot. My nose stings. He wipes the tears falling unchecked down my cheeks.

"Do you believe me?" he urges. Mouth hard, eyes fierce, I do. I believe he will do exactly as he promised. And I want him to.

Nodding, I step into his hard chest. He doesn't hesitate. Strong arms cover me. I shudder, a sob breaks free. Warmth fills in the shattered places I didn't know were still there, so jagged and raw until this very moment. A feeling of safety envelopes me. Even in this space, once loved, now obliterated by hate and evil, I feel protected by him.

He holds me like that for a long time. Eyes closed, I can hear my cousins moving around us, clearing away the mess the vandal left.

He just holds me while I cry, my shoulders shaking from my silent sobs.

"I got you, wildcat." His whisper is a rough brush against my hair.

Encased in the haven of his arms, I know to my soul it's true.

I nod, a strength I've always had to hold close rising again. "We may get knocked down, but Loves don't stay down," my daddy would tell Kerania and me. "Kandie, why don't you take the Sheriff down to the shop and make sure everything is squared away down there," Oz calls over from my kitchen where it seems like every dish has been smashed and my KitchenAid mixer looks to be dented. Wow. That motherfucker must be really angry with me.

I don't bother to argue with them. I cover Ulysses' big hand, tugging him forward.

"Aye," he calls out to my cousins, who all pause to look at him. Oz straightens from tossing my two broken chairs into a growing pile of debris.

"Yeah?" His face is stoic, but he can't hide the way his eyes darken when they come to rest on our clasped hands before meeting Ulysses' hard gaze.

Ulysses turns to my bed. I worked six months to afford saying, his voice dead, "Throw that bed away, fucking burn it."

"Planned on it, partner," Nebraska says from over by the door.

"And as soon as we find the coward who did this, they are joining the burn pit," Oz says with quiet promise.

"Fuck, yeah," says my other cousins, joining in with various promises of destruction.

"We know who it ain't though, don't we, Sheriff?" Oz winks, turning from us.

A frown puckers my brow. Turning to Ulysses, I look up at him. "What is he talking about?"

"Nothing," he mutters. This time it's he who is tugging me.

"Coldblooded," Nebraska laughs and my other cousins all join in like they all know the funniest thing. Like they did when they had got up to some type of illegal activity they kept to themselves that the rest of the family wouldn't find out about until much later when a body would turn up floating down river of the Tombigbee.