Bob Grimes was staring at himself in the mirror of his holding cell, clad in a jailhouse jumpsuit. Fully aware of what he’s done. Even though he was ignorant to the media coverage of his high profile case, he was determined to take accountability for his actions.
Turning on the hot water, steam snaked past his gorgeous face, wrought with bags under his reddish itchy eyes.
A six feet, seven inch hunk of a man that has thrown his life away. How does one go from a married man with kids to a jailbird awaiting a formal hearing?
A letter arrested his attention.
It came through the bars and landed on the floor.
Sitting on his bunk, he leaned over and picked it up.
He hadn’t known he was going to get mail.
And who would possibly write him at a time like this?
Reading over the opened letter (jail officials inspected it in the mail room, making sure it was contraband free) the breath caught in his throat.
It was from his ex-wife Samantha, the mother of his children.
He pulled out the scented stationary.
The care she took in mailing the letter oozed from her beautiful manuscript.
I’m sure I’m the last person you care to hear from, but here we are. I still can’t stand you, but what you’re going through I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. No, I’m not about to jerk your chain with I want you back bull because I don’t want you. I’ve moved on with my fiancé, but your children threatened to turn on me and sabotage my relationship with my new man if I am not there for you in your time of need.
Grinning, Bob held the letter to his chest, fresh tears falling down a face that suddenly lit up with hope and faith. He’d be OK, despite facing a lengthy sentence.
He already let his kids down enough.
Time to man up.
He continued reading.
...Call me at the number on the header above. Anytime. Do you need anything, cash, a lawyer, what? I know a good attorney. I’m only doing this for two reasons. A) you gave me beautiful children and b) your cheating ass was once the love of my life.
I’m going to leave you now. Call me any time after 4 pm. Your kids will love to hear from you, now that they’re over the traumatic shock of your DUI charges. Don’t drop the soap, ha, ha.
Your kids love you. I don’t. Maybe a little bit.
Miss You’re Never Gonna Get It
Laughing aloud, Bob read over the letter once more.
As if on cue his cell popped and a handsome middle age corrections officer entered Bob’s cell, gazing at him with accusing eyes of judgement.
He was well dressed, smelling of Polo Red. A very pleasant, masculine, moneyed smell.
“Your Hearing is about to start in about half an hour, Jack Daniels.”
Bob glared at him, tossing the letter on the bunk.
“The name’s Bob Grimes, suckah. If I’m going to be here we might as well lay shit on the table and sort through the trivial bullshit.”
“Yawn,” the CO deadpanned.
“I’ll do as you ask, but not what you want, officer Get a Clue. I have damn near grown children I don’t take half this shit from.”
“You talk a lot of shit for a man facing life in prison for the attempted murder of two sissies and you stand there all tall and shit, trying to make a deal with me? My bad, Paul Mason is it? Or is it Ivanabitch Vodka?”
“Fuck you, copper!”
The CO chewed on his tooth pick. “I can still smell weak liquor mixed with beer on your breath, fucktard.”
“Whatever, bum ass nigga.”
“I’m a King, sir,” Officer Tatum said, grabbing his crotch. “I love ’em feisty like you. I got something for that ass. I’ll pound that booty against the wall and break your tall ass down. Come on, bruh bruh. It’ll make your time in here more...enjoyable.”
Slightly aroused, Bob began to perspire, the activity in his jailhouse jumpsuit doing little to hide his bulging erection. But he fought it, thinking of his kids and calling Samantha for that lawyer and some cash, get some of his child support check back.
Licking his top lip seductively, Officer Tatum walked up to Bob, reaching around and grabbing his ass.
Intercepting, Bob turned Officer Tatum around, pressing him against the wall, handcuffing him to the bars.
“I’m the pitcher...you have a cell phone on you?”
Bob ran his tongue across Officer Tatum’s ear, smacking his ass.
“Yes, yes...” Officer Tatum’s eyes rolled to the back of his head when Bob took the rubber from Tatum’s wallet, opening it and putting it on his disgruntled nature.
Dangling, Bob slowly went up in Tatum, controlling his spine through long gut strokes of pleasure.
“Yea, cop bitch. Give daddy that tight stuff...get that letter off the bunk. That’s right...”
“Damn, bruh, you feel so good inside me, boi.” Tatum whispered, grinding on Bob’s totem pole.
“Unlock your phone, give it to daddy.”
Smacking Tatum’s romp, Tatum obliged, handing Bob the phone, enjoying incredible sex in the shadows of secrecy.
“Pick up the letter, bitch.”
Taking up the letter, Tatum said, “What now?”
Bending him forward, Bob pounded him so hard he came on his boots.
Once Tatum recovered from incredible sex, Bob flushed the rubber and the wrapper. “Call that number on your cell and repeat after me.”