Chapter 1: Just a regular female inmate
A/N Read my new books ‘The Fae Wolf’ and ‘His Little Bounty’ too. I would love the feedback!
“Carter!” the female guard yelled, yanking the transport vehicle door open and standing there with a fierce but ‘bored out of her mind’ expression plastered on her face.
Fallon was new to all of this, prison, not being a criminal. No, she had been doing shady shit living in the ghetto her whole fucking life. But this, this place she had found herself at, this was new.
Dizzy, her older brother, convinced her that she would fly through her time in there. Fallon took no bullshit on the outside, there was no reason to take it inside. But the possibility of adding time to her stay was known to Fallon, though she was contemplating whether she cared anymore.
Three years. Her first offense.
Her charges: owning and operating a chop shop, grand theft auto, tampering with a vehicle, having a fraudulent vehicle registration and receiving stolen property.
At least she avoided illegal racing charges. But that was her hobby. The garage was her job. Cars were her life.
Most of those were one and the same, she often thought. Though, the prosecution buffed up all her charges, so she would get more time. If she were just some ghetto rug rat, they would have just left it at a misdemeanor and let her go to the county jail for a little over a year. She was, after all, only twenty-two years. But Fallon and Dizzy were somewhat part of a gang. And their small gang traded car parts internationally. Which made it a federal crime.
But to her, it was not a gang. A… family. They were all her family, even if it was only her brother who shared her blood. They all looked out for one another. Now she was in here, and they were out there. The world would still turn with her in prison, they would still jack cars as their day jobs.
She told them not to. But she knew they would not listen. They thought they were too good at it to be caught, even with their star mechanic in prison. Fallon thought she was too good to be caught. By the looks of where she was standing, that was far from true.
“Carter, get out now,” the female guard with a metal tag written ‘Frasier’ barked at Fallon, brimming with the superiority she had over the inmate. Frasier clearly had frown lines from the stress of this place, etched on her wrinkled face. She had mousy brown hair tied back into a low ponytail. She was the exact image that Fallon had imagined for a female guard: tired, strict, and didn’t put up with any bullshit.
Fallon complied with her orders, not looking to cause any waves just yet with the administration.
Some people would intend to keep their heads down, especially a criminal convicted of non-violent crimes. But Fallon was reckless, and impulsive, particularly when it involved cars. Nonetheless, it was her personality to act a certain way. She couldn’t help it.
She was addicted to cars. They were her obsession. And she would follow her passion by whatever means. As a hood rat, the chop shop linked her obsession with quick money. Dizzy and the other guys stole the cars. She would use those cars as donor cars to build replicas and con some poor rich fool. Or she would strip the cars apart and sell them illegally.
“Yes, ma’am,” Fallon replied rather flippantly that Frasier narrowed her eyes towards the felon, grabbed her upper arm and hauled her in through the front gates up to the door. In Fallon’s arms were sheets, a pillowcase, a light grey blanket and cheap rough towels. Adding to that was just a basic bar of soap.
“Welcome to prison,” the CO sneered in a similar tone Fallon had used.
Welcome to prison indeed, Fallon thought. It looked as dreary as she thought it would be. Barred up windows with flaky paint on the outside and no doubt inside also. It reminded her off her old high school she dropped out of. Shitty. Run down. Child-unfriendly. This would be her home now.
“Hey, pretty girl,” a bulky-looking woman purred whilst leaning against the gates outside as Frasier and Fallon walk in. Fallon continued with pride, letting none of the sexualized comments affect her, even though she obviously knew the talk on the outside about prison.
She could get raped. Sure, she would put up one hell of a fight, but she was a petite girl whose aggression could only be compared to that of a raccoon. Small, dangerous, and could get in quite a few scratches, but ultimately could be overpowered by the bigger, stronger creature.
“Good luck in here, princess,” a male guard by the name of Wesley commented with a smirk towards Fallon, licking his lips as he looks her up and down suggestively. Gross, Fallon thought.
Wesley looked to be an ass, tall and lanky and also young. He held a sadistic smirk that unsettled Fallon. He was definitely a CO who would abuse his power, asking inmates to perform sexual favors for him for something in return, or just not getting written up for whatever falsified accusation he could create. It was disgusting, but she had heard it was something that went down in prisons, in this very prison from one of the guys’ ex-girlfriend, Ciara.
If she weren’t harassed by her fellow female inmates in here, she’d certainly be subjected to unwanted attention from the male guards. By the look of this fucking guard, she’d have to keep her distance for he could overpower her in an instance, despite her rabid fighting ways.
As she and Frasier passed inmates lounging around, staring at her, she realized she stuck out like a sore thumb in her orange jumpsuit among all the others in greys, blues and khakis.
“Sup, baby. I can make you feel real good. Come visit me later,” another female voice says with a chuckle, and a couple of other inmates join in the cackle. In her fucking dreams, Fallon thought.
After Fallon got kitted out with all her clothing essentials to match her petite body, she just followed Frasier around, gathering a pile of items that needed to be put down in her cell.
“Romero! Get over here and show Carter to her cell. She’s your new bunkie,” Frasier declared, calling over a six-foot giant that looked as though she could just stomp on Fallon like dirt under her shoe.
And the guard just left Fallon with her. With giant Romero. Curly brown hair that stopped at a bob just above her shoulders. Terrifyingly dark and dangerous eyes at could pierce the soul just as easily as a knife. A slight mustache over her lip, most probably due to the fact that she’s in prison and they don’t allow tweezers. Or perhaps she likes it. Who was Fallon to judge?
“Follow me,” she says in a deep voice, glaring down at Fallon from the foot difference and turning on her massive heels.
Fallon thought about how strange they must have looked next to each other, the little blonde girl against the colossal muscled girl that could squish her. They indeed did receive looks from everyone they passed, mutterings and comments filling the thick weighted air. How would Fallon survive in here when she could barely breathe? Being suffocated by the heavy atmosphere the prison held, no doubt created by its inmates.
For a minimum-security prison, it still sure had some violent-looking inmates that were going at each other. Fallon thought those types of criminals, those who have been convicted of more violent crimes, would be down the hill, at the max facility. She’d hate to meet the inmates residing there and was thankful the judge didn’t quite sentence her that far, even though the prosecution pushed it.
Fallon was what they would call high (enough) profile for the prosecution to even give a shit about and build a case. They had a lot that could charge her with, and she was part of a much bigger case, the gang, her gang, her family.
But she wasn’t shit in here. She knew that. She would have to form alliances, at least try to keep out of trouble and live out her sentence. After all, what was three years really?
Okay, it was a lot. Three years for a twenty-two-year-old was a lot. She was in the prime of her life, peak fitness and peak smarts too. And her family was on the up. She’d gotten a lot of buzz with new higher profile customers wanting different shit whilst she was doing all sorts of other deals and scams. That was how she assumed she got caught. Someone snaked her out. As the saying went, snitches got stitches, and her family were making sure who ever ratted her out was going to pay dearly for it.
“This is your cell. You sleep on the top bunk,” Romero states roughly, dead-eyeing Fallon like she killed her cat or something. Although, she could imagine Romero acting a lot more vicious and outraged. This was just something Fallon knew she would have to get used to: the hostility. She was fresh meat in there, and if she didn’t prove she was built of stone, it would brand her as a pussy for her rather lengthy stay. Being pushed around for three years was not something she wanted at all.
“Hey, little lady,” a voice said from behind her, threatening to make her jump, but she kept her cool.
As she swiftly turned to face the voice, she was met by a rather friendly-looking inmate with a big goofy smile that appeared almost exaggerated. She had brunette curled hair that looked as though they had been made by wrapping strands in paper. Her warm eyes seemed kind, non-threatening, which only made Fallon all the more curious.
“You’re Carter, right?” In response, I just nod to her Southern-sounding accented words. Perhaps she was all smiles, perhaps this wasn’t some façade, attempting to lull her into a false sense of security and then pounce like a leopard to its prey. Sure, Fallon knew she sounded paranoid. But she had every right to be. This was all new. And these women were all criminals. They had all done shit that landed them here. Who the fuck knew what was behind that smile? “Here is a toothbrush, toothpaste and shampoo. Other things that you need, you can buy at commissary.”
“Okay,” Fallon mutters, narrowing her eyes at the objects in her hands and slowly taking them with unnecessary caution. What was she going to do? Stabbed Fallon right then and there with the toothbrush in front of everyone to see? Sure, it was an enclosed space, Romero now behind Fallon and this southern inmate at the door blocking the exit. But would they seriously jump her or something? Could that be some sort of hazing?
Sleep with one eye open, was what Chaz, a family member, had told her whilst she was out on bail awaiting her trial. Sure, he was the most paranoid of the lot, but she wasn’t going to disregard his advice, especially not in here.
“I’m Miriam Bell. We all go by our last names here. You’re lucky to be bunked with Romero. She’s a big softie once you get to know her,” Bell tells Fallon. Now she knew Bell was talking bullshit. Romero, a softie? In what fucking world?
Fallon had to glance back at Romero, who was lounging on the bottom bunk, flexing her muscles and then back to Bell with a ‘I don’t believe you’ look. All Bell did was chuckle.
“You’ll be fine, Carter. Trust me. These girls are civilized around here. We all get along.”
With that said, Fallon declared she would trust no one in here and to always look out for herself. She would not roll over and be someone’s bitch. This prison was not going to change her.