By Gemma  gfiles@interlog.com  and Nicole S.  nicxf@softhome.net

Disclaimer:  Fontana/Levinson/HBO/Rysher owns these people - we  just borrowed them for awhile.

Summary:  EmCity goes AU and turns into the Oswald Sate Women's  Correctional Facility.

Note:  This contains f/f sexual situations - if you don't like it, delete it.   Don't read it and then flame me.

Feedback greatly appreciated at: nicxf@softhome.net and gfiles@interlog.com

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gentler - Parts 1, 2 & 3
By Gemma and Nicole S. 8/99
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AUGUSTA HILL

<<Women--the "gentler" sex.      <<Used to be, men thought women  couldn't even be allowed to read the paper on our own, or our little  heads would explode: Too much information! Thought women went  crazy 'cause of all that sperm they pumped into us gettin' stuck inside  our cervixes, goin' bad and drivin' us crazy with the fumes...though  how that's *our* problem, exactly, you really GOT to wonder.

     <<When the British first started sendin' people to Australia, back in  the 1700's, they held off on the women as long as they could. Then they  sent a whole ship-full, right to a place called the Female Factory in  Hobart, Tasmania, where the Devils come from--and you just KNOW  that place was a close to Oz as those Aussies down under ever got.

    <<And every woman on that ship--"these damnable bitches", the  Warden used to call 'em--ended up being registered as a prostitute, even  the ones who were forgers, or pickpockets, or *murderers*...'cause  most of 'em were poor, and most of 'em were married "in the common- law fashion". Which meant, to the powers that be, they weren't married  at all.

     <<You're either married, or you're a 'ho. And maybe you ARE  married, and you're *still* a 'ho. A 'ho for bein' a 'ho--or a 'ho just for  goin' to jail in the first place, no matter WHAT you did to get your ass  thrown in there.

     <<Down at the Female Factory, those Australian hacks used to pimp  out all the girls, just like in here--but they did it *legal*. Used to have  auctions, and any man with money could come on down and pick  himself a convict 'wife'. Even the ones who used to be convicts  themselves.

     <<I mean, everything got a name. Got to call 'em like you see 'em.  Call the Devil's name, and he will appear. And that goes double for Mrs  Devil.

     <<'Hos 'hos. Prisoners OF prisoners. The lowest of the low: That's  us. Weak and crazy and packed full'a sperm gone bad--and once *we*  turn, baby, ain't NO goin' back. The "gentler" sex, all right...       <<...yeah, *RIGHT*.>>

~~~~~~~~~

TORY BEECHER

I've been in here one year. One year of staring at the same plexiglass  walls, doing the exact same thing day after fucking day...

...well, not *every* day. There *were* those times I got sent to the  hole--but that's still another version of the same fucking thing, now,  isn't it?

//I don't belong here//

I am...I WAS Tory Beecher, corporate lawyer, wife and mother,  member of the PTA. Top shark at the firm, corner office, the queen of  schmooze--given enough alcoholic lubricant--at all those boring parties  Giles always insisted we go to. Respected in my community.  Outstanding in my fucking field.

Not just another inmate at Oz, Oswald Correctional, the largest  Women's Prison in the tri-state area--a murderer...'scuse me, vehicular  *man*slaughterer...with eleven more years to go, and no parole in  sight.

And the beat goes on, inside my skull: Same old same old. Same old  list of tired "if onlies", 'round and 'round and 'round...

If I hadn't had that fucking last drink. If I hadn't gone out to celebrate  closing that deal, just to rub it in Giles's face that *I* was one making  all the money. If I hadn't gotten in my car to drive home, drunk after a  three-solid-hour binge.

If, if. Fucking if.

//There really ought to be a LAW against that word.//

And I remember singing along with Robert Palmer in my car. I  remember the station suddenly tuning out. Remember reaching over, to  tune it back in. Remember hearing a thud and a crash, as my car went  up on the curb...

...but I don't, I still don't, even now--I STILL don't remember seeing  that little boy bounce off my windshield.

Yet here I am, all the same. Here in Oz, just trying to live day by day  without getting my ass kicked, or having to kick anybody else's...

...*too* much.

I was sweet and street-dumb when I got here--about prison, at least.  Corporate lawyer, right? I didn't know how criminals acted, even now I  WAS one. I was used to country clubs, expense accounts, bi-weekly  manicures; thought if I only I was nice to people, they'd be nice back.  Please and thank you, smile smile smile...I mean, that's the golden rule,  right?

//Wrong.//

Manicures...heh. Last *manicure* I had, in here--well, that'd be when  Vee Schillinger made me cut my lipstick power-broker claws down to  the quick, because the next place my hands would be going was up  inside of her...and we don't wanna *hurt* anybody now, do we,  cupcake?

Oh, nooo. No indeed.

//No--ma'am.//

I should have just come in here acting like the corporate whore bitch I  was back out in the business world, because being *nice* got me  nowhere but on my knees.

"Prag": Some word, huh? Kind of rolls right off the tongue...

//Mmm. And THERE's an open invitation to memories best left *right*  the fuck alone.//

Vee. Verena, Tory-baby--Vic-TOR-i-a--but Vee for short. And the  Schillinger part, that's her *maiden* name, 'cause she was never one to  let a MAN hang his on her just because they'd signed a piece of paper  together. Not like me and Giles...

So now people get to call me by his last name all day. BEECHER,  prisoner number 97B412! Step out, step back, line up: Count! Shower!  Work! Mess!

//On your knees and suck it, bitch!//

Ah, Lord. And I used to be such a...*nice* girl.

But anyways, back to me--and Vee. How she ran her Ilse Koch Nazi  Mommy shit on me, got me all grateful for a hand on my shoulder and  a place to stay, after that crazy African woman-mountain Simone  Adebisi and her endless voodoo chants. And then, before I knew it, I  doing her laundry, running her errands, sucking her out and fisting her  whenever she demanded it. I wore what she wanted and played her  girlfriend, kept my mouth shut and licked her fucking boots, right in  front of everyone...

...and then she fucked me back, with whatever came to hand. And  called me sweetpea while she did it.

But that only lasted so long.

One hole for another--pretty fair trade, don't you think? Rhea O'Reilly'd  been supplying me with drugs, all I could buy; she slipped me half a  gram of Angel Dust instead of my usual heroin, and it got me high  enough to finally stop rolling over and playing dead. I went after Vee  with everything I had; nearly put her eye out, too.

Time one.

Wasn't enough, though. So after I got out, I beat the fuck out of her,  shit all over her face...and then, for an encore, I pulled my tampon out  and stuffed it in her mouth.

The hole, revisited. Time two.

It came to me then, buck naked and shivering and covered in blood--the  hacks laughing at me through the door, because I used the only  *sanitary item* I had left as a weapon. And I just laughed back-- barked, snarled, snapped at them when they stuck their hands in with  my food. I saw that the only way to survive this fucking place, to deal  with the insanity that was Oz, would be to become just as crazy as the  situation I was in.

Probably shouldn't've bitten that one hack's dick, though, if I ever  *really* wanted to see Gen and Bobby again. But I guess I'd just had it  up to here with people expecting me to...swallow.

And as for Vee, that big bitch of a cunt, with HER boys coming to see  her every week--a *fit mother*, by God, while Giles doesn't even let  MY kids write to me anymore--

//--and God, that's an ache for you. Worse than any rape...//

...well. Maybe not.

I was done with her. I thought she was done with me.

But, like so many other times before--

--I was wrong.

~~~~~~~

It all started when Tina...Christina. Keller.

//that bitch//

--when Keller came into EmCity, swinging her hips and tossing back  her long brown hair like some '50's femme fatale--should've been  dressed in black pedal pushers and a white angora sweater, with a pink  chiffon scarf knotted around her neck, instead of Oz's issue dark blue  combination with white t-shirt. But even in that outfit, she was a  knockout. Not that she was beautiful, or even pretty...feature by feature,  in fact, she was almost outright PLAIN. But I can't lie, lawyer or no:  What she *did* have was a pair of hazel eyes that made you look twice,  whether you wanted to or not, and a body that just wouldn't quit. The  bitch oozed raw sex appeal from every fucking, and I do mean  *fucking* pore.

Heads all over the quad turned as she sauntered along beside me,  wiggling her ass like a one-woman parade--hacks, cons, even poor  celibate Brother Pete, double-taking by on his way back to the office. It  made me nervous, frankly; I don't want people looking at me at all, let  alone the way they were looking at her...even by association.

We got to our pod, and I motioned to her bunk.

"You a dyke?" I asked.

"I do what I have to."

//I bet you do, sister.//

A tease in everything she said, one brow cocked, like she was snapping  an invisible piece of gum. I stood there and watched her make up her  bunk, still wiggling her ass about, then got bored with THAT view and  turned slightly to look out the window--where I saw Vee, almost falling  off her chair trying to act nonchalant: Looking, but not *really*  looking.

Should've known then. Should've...

//But how *could* I?//

Even now, it simply wouldn't occur to me.

So I left her there, and retreated to Brother Pete's office. I'd done my  job, after all: Showed her where she lived, and whatever. Now it was  up to her to survive, on her own.

//Just like the rest of us.//

~~~~~~~~~~

CHRISTINA KELLER

So I've just been fingerprinted and strip-searched, washed and given  new clothes, when I'm told to hang back for transfer to *Em City*.  Don't like the sound of THAT as soon as it comes out of the hack's  mouth--I got this feeling, this vibe, that it's bad news. But fuck it: I  can't do--or say--anything.

Then this chick with wild eyes and a halo of curly, blonde hair combed  down over her face, like she's hiding behind it or something, comes to  get me. Beecher, that's her name: Says she's gonna show me to my  *pod*. Yeah, pod, not cell--like I'm a fucking pea, or a body snatcher.

And her NAILS. Man, they're scary. Long, square-filed. Wicked sharp.

She catches me looking, and kinda smirks. Sharp teeth on the bitch,  too.

Now, I 've been inside before, done time before--a *lotta* time, lotsa  times. But I have NEVER been in a place like this. Glass walls, so  everyone can see your business? Who the fuck designed this place,  Hugh fuckin' Hefner?

I'm trying real hard to keep cool, but I know my face is burning and I  know everyone's looking at me. So I start to strut, like always; fall back  on the old tricks. Get 'em wet and keep 'em that way, so they don't care  *what* YOU're thinking.

//Yeah, go ahead and look, you cunts. *I*'ll give ya something to look  at.//

Winking at the male hacks: You too, sweethearts.

I'm relaxing into it, takin' it all in stride--when suddenly, we're home,  and the blonde takes off. And that's when the real fun starts.

"Hey."

I look up to see Vee Schillinger leaning against the doorframe of the  pod, her large--even larger than the last time I saw her--frame blocking  the entrance. Hair seems to have gotten blonder with age, like *that*'s  likely, tied all up in this massive bun at the back of her head, tendrils of  wispy hair framing her face. But her eyes, those eyes--they're the same.  And so is she.

//Oh shit, here we go.//

"Hey."

I sit back on my bunk, a playful smirk on my lips. Tryin' to charm her,  so she'll step the fuck off and leave me alone--without doing TOO  much damage.

//Just like old times.//

"Long time no see," she says. "Whatcha in for?"

Fluttering my eyelashes at her: "This n' that."

"You getting cocky, prag?"

//MAN, I hate that fucking word. Always did, and she knows it.//

So I stand up to her. "I ain't your *prag* anymore, Vee."

But Vee just laughs. "We'll see about that."

She looks back over her shoulder, like she's checking for someone-- who? The blonde? Then  shifts the weight onto her other leg, her hip  resting against the aluminum door frame, and fixes me again. Says: "I  got a job for you."

//BIG fuckin' surprise.//

Then she leans in close and tells me about her plan to fuck this Beecher  chick over--*Tory*, that's her name. So close I can smell her, that  familiar smell of talc and Camay with just a touch of Gold Bond--the  same smell that always brings back memories of me and her in Lardner,  her protecting me from that gangsta bitch, and what followed. Two  years I put up with her shit, listened to her dole out advice and threats.  She kept telling me that us women had to stick together, because men  would fuck you over the first chance they got. Said that men were only  good for propogating the race, and there should be stud farms where a  girl could go, get knocked up, then never have to deal with them again.  And me...I was 18, and scared. I looked up to her, worshipped her,  even...hell, I guess I loved her, back then.

But that was then. And this--

//--*ain't*.//

Must'a looked like I was drifting, there, so Vee grabs my arm and  squeezes it, which brings my mind RIGHT on back to what she's  saying. But I don't want to get involved, man--why would I? I'm a  whole different person. Independent.

When I saw her sitting in the middle of the quad, a few minutes ago,  my heart sank. Back to the same old "prag" bullshit, playing stupid  mind games; wasn't submissive on the outside, so how come I had to be  submissive in here?

//All past ex-husbands excluded.//

Not like I'm gonna tell her that straight out, though. Instead, I listen  close, nod my head, furrowed my fuckin' brow in fake concentration.  And by the time she's done, Vee's so damn into it she's got a serious  *gleam* in her eye, like she's just about to come or something.

//Yuck.//

And I almost tell her no. Have the word right on the tip of my tongue-- when, almost like she KNOWS what I'm thinking, she says the one  thing I've been dreading:

"How's Dennis?"

I keep my cool, but inside, I'm screaming.  Dennis...he's the one thing I  love in this life, besides my three ex-husbands' alimony--my precious  son, the only man in my life who NEVER fucked me over.

After Lardner, when I was all knocked up by that prick Bart who said  he was divorcing his wife--but ended up married to both of us--I went  to see Vee, who treated me nice as pie. Gave me all her boys' old baby  clothes, fussing over me and giving me tips on how to deal with  morning sickness. And when Dennis was born, Vee came to see me  again--cooed over Dennis, and picked him up and cuddled him, and  gave me *motherly advice* on how to care for my new baby.

"Family is the most important thing in the world, Christina," she told  me. "Don't ever forget that. Just like your son means more to you than  life itself, he'll feel the exact same way about you.  I mean, look at  *my* boys--they'd do ANYTHING for their Ma.  Believe me, you'll do  anything for him."

//Who knew then that "anything" would include armed robbery and  murder after your boyfriend cleared out your bank account to buy  crack, when there was no food left in the house, and rent was due?//

I look Vee straight in her watery blue eyes--press my lips together and  smooth them out like I'm spreading my lipstick around, even though I  suddenly realize I'm not wearing any.  And answer, my stomach  turning--

"He's fine."

"'Cause, you know, the boys don't live that far away from Dennis and  your Ma.  They could go and look in on him once in a while, just to  make sure he's...okay."

"Don't think that'll be necessary. But thanks anyway."

And Vee smiles that smile of hers--one that says you you're gonna to  do whatever she tells you to, and act like you're happy to do it.

"Yeah, I'm sure he IS fine. I'm sure he'll be *real* fine...after Tory's  gone."

And I smile back, wanting to throw up. Saying:

"...right."

"Well, good to see you again, Tina." And she pats me on the back, like  she's my long-lost aunt--then smacks my ass, sniffs the air, and adds:  "And if I'm not mistaken, *you*'re real happy about seeing me."

//SURE, Vee. You wish.//

Bright: "You know it."

"Good girl."

After she's gone, I collapse on my bunk and take a long, deep breath.  Of all fucking places and all fucking times, *she* has to be HERE.  Which means I'm trapped, man. If anything were to happen to Dennis...

But I push that thought from my mind, push it right out. Close my eyes.  And think:

//I have to do this.//

No choice. None at all.

And THAT's how it really begins.

~~~~~~~~~

VEE SCHILLINGER

I'd be home with my boys right now if it weren't for Tory fuckin'  Beecher, and that's the fact: Educated rich girl, pretty little Barbie-doll  bitch. Nothin' ever enough for that gal, one way or the other. And here I  was thinking we were finally starting to get along...

Now, now, "Brother": Don't you look at me like that. I mean--*you*  been married, or so I hear.

Partly my own fault, I guess. When Essie Ross came in, that 'ho, I  kinda threw old Tory over there for a while--remembering all those  GOOD times Ess 'n' I used to have, ridin' around with that bike club her  old man started, before he pancaked his ass on the highway somewhere  near Lexington and she inherited his weed business. Good breeding  stock, those hog-humpers, as I found out soon enough; gimme a  minute, I'll dig out the latest snaps and show you the results.

Dumb, blond and big as two houses, like a couple of Viking fuckin'  warriors--that's what I wanted, and that's what I got. Not exactly brain  surgeons, but they *do* take a damn good picture.

And, 'course, they'd do anything for me. Anything. At all.

Already *have*, in actual fact...

...but I don't think I trust your patient confidentiality bullcrap quite  THAT far, thank you much. 'Bout as far as I could throw *you*,  maybe...little man.

Aw, c'mon. Just jokin'--cupcake.

*Boy howdy*, but you Catholics take yourselves seriously. Half'a ol'  Tory-baby's problem, right there.

Y'see, things all come down to personality. Invisible signals, like  signposts tellin' you what you can get away with. I catch an eyefuck  from Simone Adebisi, and I KNOW that one day, she 'n' me are gonna  have to dance--but *race* don't really have shit to do with it, any more  than it does with that one big, black C.O. keeps following me 'round  with my mail truck, like he's tryin' to stare his way through my clothes.  Prick hack motherfucker.

That's what that Sister-Doctor-Minister-what-friggin'-EVER Khadija  Said can't seem to get, dumb Eastward-genuflectin' cunt: *We* check  our fuckin' hides at the jailhouse door. Throw guys in a cage, they get  like rats; don't give a damn what the hacks have to say about it, 'cause  they're only interested in whatever they can do to each OTHER. But us,  the minute we walk in here, we're right where those uniformed sons of  bitches want us.

Could be green with yellow spots for all these fuckers care. They look  at you and see two tits, an ass, a wide-open pussy to plug. Meat on a  stick, lookin' to get screwed.

Well, not Vee Schillinger--and not in Oz, that's for damn sure. I had my  fill of *that* shit on the outside. There's exactly two men I trust in this  world...and that's 'cause they both came out of ME.

I mean, look at that hack son-of-a-bitch Dave Whittlesey. Seems on the  up and up, not cuttin' himself out a con "girlfriend" like the rest of 'em-- all those bastards linin' up to stick it to O'Reilly, that stringbean Mick  slut, just so she can keep her drugs flowing free and save her retard  sister from having to do the same. And sure, that's mainly 'cause he's  off doin' miss high-and-mighty McManus on the sly; sure, he only ever  *said* he'd get Tory off my back 'cause I knew he killed Ess during the  riot. Plugged one squeeze over another, thinkin' with his dick--and his  gun: *Just* like a man.

Then turns around and tries to fuck ME, too, helping Tory set me up.  Two birds with one stone. No one's gonna believe I saw what I saw,  now.

So yeah, men'll fuck you over if they get the chance--women, too.  *Anyone* will, if you LET 'em. And you should thank me for teaching  you that, Tory, honey...

//...not that I think you *really* didn't know it already.//

I mean, my Dad was the ripest kind'a asshole, sure. But my Old Lady?  TEN times worse. She didn't like other women *at all*. Didn't like...

...the competition.

But that's the way the world works, right? Tradin' back and forth, tit for  tat. You scratch my back...

...scratch my *itch*...

Oh, and Tory was always good at THAT, believe me, much as she may  not like to admit it. Those soft little hands of hers--  Oughtta ask her to give you a demonstration, sometime.

Still: You gotta ride her *just* the right way, that stuck-up law-bitch,  and it's ain't like she comes with operating instructions. Press too hard,  slack off too much, and off she goes like a fuckin' rocket.

But hell, I was ready to forgive and forget, even after everything she  did--up to and including that little trick with the tampax--'till she lost  me my parole, that is. Got me ten more years, a one-way ticket back  into Gen Pop, six months no privileges...saddled me with havin' to  come see *you* every goddamn week, just so's you can tell McManus  whether or not I'm fit to play nice with others yet...

And how'm I doing, Brother? Shit, *you* can tell ME.

Mmm. That good, huh?  Who? Oh, right: Cynda O'Reilly. Well--I get a little bored sometimes,  Brother, I'm the first to admit it. It's a fault.

'Sides...I'll bet she's forgotten all about it by now. Don't remember  much, that one, if it don't involve her big sis, candy or cartoon animals.

My parole, though--THAT was *sacred*. I mean, Tory's a mother too,  damn it. She knows...SHOULD know...

But if she really *knew* what it is to love anybody more'n she loves  herself, she wouldn't be in here for running over somebody else's kid,  now, would she?

Which brings us to the really PRETTY part, Brother. And remember,  you told me you can't tell a soul, right? Just between you and me and  the bedpost--not that there *is* one--

Just did the mail and I'm sitting there shooting the shit with the gals,  showing them the latest from my boys--and who the hell do I happen to  see, trailing 'long behind that bitch Beecher, but ol' Tina Keller: Queen  teen slut down at Lardner, best recreation fuck I ever had. Catnip on  two long legs. And that's when I *know* what has to happen.

Shit, if I even BELIEVED in God, like crazy old Bertha Rebadow--or  *you*, Brother, comes to that--I'd say my prayers just got answered.

So. What now, you ask? Well--that'd be telling.

'Sides, I see by the clock our time's up. FINALLY.

See ya tomorrow, Brother. Sweet dreams...

...sweetpea.

~~~~~~~~~~~ PART II ~~~~~~~~~~~

CHRISTINA KELLER

So I'm sitting here in my *pod*--still can't get used to that fucking  word--watching my toenails dry, waiting for Tory Beecher. She's one  predictable chick, that Tory: Likes her routine. Could set my watch by  her, if I had one--

//--or hers, if her first cellmate hadn't STOLEN it first.//

Yeah, I heard that story already, 'bout how Simone Adebisi took her for  everything she had on her at the time, from the Rolex to her wedding  ring--and not from Tory, either. Got it from that gang she sort'a belongs  to, much as she *belongs* to anything: That bunch of freaks sits 'round  by the TV bank, playing checkers and watchin' the rest of Em City go  by. "The Others", Miss stick-up-the-ass McManus calls 'em. 'Cause  everything in here's gotta have some cute little name.

And man, *they're* some pieces of work. We got Bertha Rebadow, so  old she almost got herself crisped in the ELECTRIC chair, right before  they decided to stop doin' it anymore; chick talks to God--or maybe  God talks to her, whatever. And Gussie Hill, in that chair of hers-- dreadlocks down to her ass, and so much gold in her ears she  practically rattles. Word on the quad is her pimp tried to push her off a  roof, and she was so fuckin' high she took him with her. Came down  right on top of him; he died, and she snapped her spine in half.

Yeah, Tory's got quite the rep, according to them--and everything Vee  didn't tell me 'bout why she wants her screwed over, the Others were  more'n glad to fill in: The thing with the eye, the Tampax special...what  she did to that hack, when they had her slung in Ad Seg after the riot...

Scary shit, and it explains a lot. The nails. The *teeth*. Way she creeps  around, hiding behind her hair, snappin' at anyone looks at her twice.  Stupid people see how she acts, and they think it's 'cause she's scared of  them. But that's bullshit. Only thing she's *scared* of--is HERSELF.

Scared of what's she's done. Of what she *might* do.

//Something to keep in mind, when the time comes...//

Kentucky-fried Gramma Rebadow, Hill the 'ho on wheels, and Tory,  fastest mouth in the West. And me, Mata Hari Keller, undercover  seductress for Oz's queen Nazi bitch...

//...man, Tina, 's like you got some kinda GIFT for getting into this  kinda crap.//

Outside, a couple of gang-bangers walk by--real baller bitches, shaking  their hips and throwin' their sets, their processed hair covered in Lee  press-on jewels. They start laughing at some Italian girl, calling her a  slut and a whore. The Italian chick spits back at one of 'em: "Tu  putana!" And then--

--the fur *really* starts to fly.

Man, these pod windows are almost as good as TV. Cat-fight cinema,  all day, every day. McManus ever went Pay-per-View, that'd be the  whole fuckin' Em City budget right there.

A minute or so later, Whittlesey's already breakin' it up and I'm  checking my nails: Almost dry. Did 'em in red--"Fatal Attraction", to  match my fingers and lipstick. Yet another thing Rhea O'Reilly pushes,  you got the dough...or the favors...to pay for it.

Some people call me femme 'cause I choose to look this way--like I  even give a shit. Butch, femme, it's all the same to me:  I'm a  WOMAN, and I got the right to look good, 'specially in *this* hell- hole.

Makeup keeps me sane, makes me feel better about myself. All part of  the attitude. And attitude is everything, right?

//Right.//

Hell, I didn't get three husbands by *not* makin' an effort--but I'm  NOTHING compared to those Hispanic girls.  I've got my routine down  pat, don't take a minute longer than I have to. The cholas, though, they  spend HOURS primping and preening in front of any mirrored surface  they can find. Spray their hair so high, sometimes, I wonder how the  hell they can sleep at night.

Maria Alvarez, she's the worst...that's what got her in here in the first  place. Word is, she's so fuckin' vain she actually KILLED some  waitress who tripped and spilled a glass of water on her, 'cause it made  her mascara run; should'a used something all-weather, 'stead'a that  Maybelline Long Lash shit. One minute she's out with her boyfriend,  celebrating gettin' knocked up, ridin' high and havin' herself a time--the  next, she's so pissed and dissed and *embarrassed* she picks up a steak  knife and STABS this waitress like 30 times, while her boyfriend holds  the poor bitch down. They got charged together, murder two and  accomplice, 25 to life each; must'a thought they were both gonna end  up in the same place, dumb fuckin' kids.

Got a scar across her mocha cheek, the one flaw in a perfect face. I  heard she did it after she lost her baby--went loco, and carved herself  up. Talk about post-partum depression.

The hacks, they encourage the chicks to dress up. Wanna think we're  doin' it just for them: *Want* you to look like a hooker, so if...make  that WHEN...they catch you alone somewhere, they can tell themselves  you were asking for it.

But fuck it. And fuck them too--if I have to.

//Which I probably will.//

Tory, though--*Tory* doesn't do a damn thing with herself, 'cept take a  shower every day. And she looks...

...GOOD. For a *lawyer*.

Yeah, the law-bitch thing: That came out pretty early on, along with a  few other choice little bits and pieces--little snippets of her life, let slip  here and there whenever she cracks her guard. 'Cause we're talking  now--sort of. But I know I've only scratched the surface with her, just  barely. Have to convince her to let me scrape a little more, show her  how good it feels. Get under her skin, so deep she'll beg me to keep on  cutting deeper and deeper--go all the way down, and never, ever stop.

//Oooh, yeah. That sounds NICE.//

I mean, ain't like I never *had* to sweet-talk some shy boy--or girl-- outta their clothes before, so I could go through their stuff when they  fell asleep. I'm good at it, dare say so myself. Got a serious KNACK.

Sex. It's the best high there is--and all it takes is a good hard look,  most'a the time. 'Cause there's always something about anybody, you  watch 'em long enough...something that'll make you think, even for just  a second: Oh, uh huh. I could go for *that*.

Take Vee, right? She walks by, and I can see Tory go all tense--gets  that look in her eye, like blue sparks jumping. Like she wants to take a  knife to her, but she can't remember where she put it. But when *I* see  Vee...I think of Lardner, sure, all the good AND the bad. How strong  she is, 'specially when she holds you. How soft she can talk, when she  wants to. That Mommy rumble of hers--man, she's got it *down*. How  she can look you in the eye, almost like she's hypnotizing you, and  make you feel like you're the only person in her world...

I never had a Mom, and Vee knows it. She could tell that first day, just  to look at me. KNOWS I know she knows. Doesn't care.

And Tory...I can see why Vee wanted *her*, too. So tiny, so fine, so  DIFFERENT: She's a toy, a doll, a Barbie gone bad. Perfect, like she  came gift-wrapped. Only time I ever got close to a chick like her, out in  the real world, would've been when I was lifting her wallet or stealin'  her date.

So yeah, Vee's gonna get just what she asked for, that fuckin' loomin'  cunt. I'm gonna do her dirty work, get close to Tory, get her to trust me.  And then...

//...yeah, *then*//

Ain't fucking easy, though, I can tell ya THAT much. Tory's got a ton  of hangups and doesn't trust ANYONE. I mean, Vee used her pretty  hard. Now she's like some pedigreed housecat got left out in the street-- hisses at you 'till you get it by the scruff and haul it home, wash it off,  pet it 'till it starts to purr again...

For the past few weeks, I've been offering up tidbits of information on  myself to extract the same from her. I told her about MY husbands, and  that got me hers, this guy Giles who's always been jealous 'cause he  couldn't make as much dough as she could. Her kids, and how she can't  see 'em anymore. What she used to be.

Make her talk about her kids too long, though, and she drops the  subject--or starts to talk in rhyme. When that happens, I know it's time  to move on, 'cause I'm not going to get anything more out of her right  then. Have to leave her alone for a bit, and wait for her to calm down.

These rhymes she spouts off, I recognize some of 'em:  Parts of songs,  bits of poetry stuck together. Once, I caught her doing this thing by  Robert Frost, the one they used in that Charles Bronson movie about  Russian spies. "Dark and deep and miles to go..."

It's not WHAT she says, just the WAY she says it that makes you look  at her like she's nuts. That, and the fact that most people here wouldn't  know a poem from the inside'a their own pussy.

See, I'm not just some ditz who's all eye candy and no brain.  I finished  high school--

//barely//

Yeah, well.

Vee used to make fun of me for reading. To her, a library was  somewhere you could talk, 'cause the hacks wouldn't watch you as hard  as usual. She never reads for pleasure, never wants to escape into a  world that's not her own.

I was a kid when I met Vee, so that explains why I didn't speak up back  then--but I'd be fooling myself if I claimed she didn't have the same  power over me now.  She does something to me that makes me bow  down, let her take the lead, treat her like she's queen of the world or  something. Almost makes me laugh at myself. If I only had the guts to  spout some of the one-liners that come into my mind sometimes, out  loud, right to her *face*...

//I'd be dead.//

And that's when Tory finally walks in, back from her job tip-tapping on  the computer in Brother Pete's office. Right on time.

//Like always.//

I want to ask her if he's ever tried anything with her--I mean, he's a nice  old guy and all, but NO SEX? After you been *married*?

That's gonna have to wait until later, though. After she lets her guard  down some more.

So I put on my best *no threat here* face, and look up at her through  my lashes. "Hey, Beech," I say, and start to take the spacers from  between my toes.

"Keller."

"Noooo, no, no. Christina, 'member? TI-na."

She gives me a long look, under her own lashes: Pale blue, blurred with  gold. Then repeats, quietly:

"Tina."

She sits down on the box I just used to put my feet on, hugs her knees,  a little awkward. Be able to see Paris, France if she was wearing a skirt,  which she ain't--never does. And she checks me out, carefully; not in a  sexual way, but her curiosity about me isn't hidden.

I look up again, and smile at her--that all-purpose smile of mine, the  one that can mean anything from *I think you're nice* to *please don't  beat me when my son's around.*  Look at her hands, with those long,  wickedly sharp nails. And ask, all innocent:

"Ever get a manicure...Tory?"

She glances down. Equally soft: "...used to."

I grab her hand, examine them at close range. She flinches, starts to  pull back, bristling--

"I don't like people *touching* me," she snaps. A bit TOO fast.

//Oh, yeah. *Sure* you don't.//

But I just hold on, not havin' any--push her nails with my thumb, watch  'em bend, turn her hand over to look at the palms. They're soft, no  calluses, square little hands with slim little fingers. A bit of rough skin  on the pads of her fingers from typing, not that it counts.

"Your nails are kinda weak," I tell her. "Got a hardener my Mom sent  me that'd make   'em--"

//more deadly//

"--less...prone to breakage."

I her deep in the eye, give her that smile again.  I can see her running  this through her mind, weighing the consequences. Having one of those  lawyer debates with herself.

"No thanks," she says, finally. And tries to pull away.

I don't let her, though. And she...

...lets me. Not let her.

 "C'mon," I say. "Lemme at 'em. I can trim your cuticles, too. I'm really  good."  I release one hand, and wiggle my fingers in front of her face.  "See? Always do them myself."

I know she wants to, man. Chicks like her, they're used to getting  pampered; probably went to an expensive spa once a year, for high  colonics and sea-salt rubs. Must miss it, too.

//You can't miss what you never had.//

She leans back against the wall, hand still in mine, trying to decide if  she's amused. I give her the look through the lashes again, along with  my best puppy dog face.

"Okay."

"Good call, Tory. You won't regret this."

I open my bag, dig out my tools, and get to work. Start by moisturizing  her hands and fingers, massaging the cream up her arms, caressing her  with long, fluid strokes, making sure I'm extra gentle. Put all my  feeling into touching her, so she'll catch the vibe--won't be able to  avoid it, even if she's trying not to.

I had a boyfriend once who told me touching that pad of flesh where  the thumb joins the rest of the hand is like sticking your hand between  somebody's legs. "The Mound of Venus", he called it. A real  pretentious asshole, that dude, always talkin' about Tantra, like he's  fuckin' Sting or something; yeah, *right*. Guy couldn't even keep it up  for more than ten minutes, let alone five hours straight.

Her flat little mouth comes open a bit, eyes going glassy. She's panting,  shallow. Sweat-sheen on her forehead, at her temples, over the hollow  of her pale throat.

My guess, it's been a *long* time since Tory's had anyone touch her  like this. All the more reason to make it last--so I make sure I take an  extra few minutes to rub her hands, my long fingers gently working the  pulse point on her wrist.

//Why is this so fun?// I wonder. Then know: 'Cause here, *I* get to be  on top. Figuratively speaking.

//For now.//

Finally, I pick up the cuticle trimmers: Done, baby. Tory shuts her  mouth, swallows. I can practically HEAR the disappointed moan  caught in her throat, and she seems to know it. So she swallows again,  coughs. And says:

"About last night..." She pauses. Carefully: "I know you were...just  trying to help."

Last night. That was when I woke up to hear Tory screaming in the  grips of a nightmare--same one she always has, just *louder*, and so  bad it shook her right off the top bunk onto the pod floor, where she lay  in a sobbing, crumpled heap.  I wasn't sure what was going on for a  minute, 'till I saw her at my feet. Then I picked her up and held her in  my arms, cooing to her like she was Dennis--like she was my child, and  there was nothing wrong with me hugging her body to mine: That soft  skin, those slim, hard limbs, that nice little rack. Running my hands  through her hair, over her wet, red face...

She let it happen for a minute, sagging, almost asleep again--then  realized what was going on, and pushed me away. Snuffling, liquid.  Snarling, hoarse:

"Okay, m'*okay*. Leave--me. 'LONE."

She lunged for the toilet, retched dryly. I shrugged, and climbed back  into my bunk. Pretended not to watch as she calmed herself, splashing  water on her burning cheeks.

"Hey, no problem," I say, as I start pushing back her cuticles. "We all  have nightmares, sometimes."

//Just not usually ALL night, *every* night.//

I coo over her nails, marvelling at their length, her expert work with the  file; I'm extra-gentle and extra-supportive, and she eats it right the fuck  up. Last time anybody gave Tory THIS much attention, it was probably  Vee. But I ain't out to bend her over--just speak to her soft and low, and  make sure to smile a lot. And soon's I'm done, I make her promise I can  do this once a week, at least. 'Cause not everyone has their very own  manicurist in their very own pod.

She laughs out loud at that one; a humming note, surprisingly throaty. I  can see that twitch in her eye, like she wants to rhyme--but she  swallows it, turns it into a smile instead. Blushes, too, just a bit.

//*I* did that.//

Yeah. And...I like it. Wanna do it some more.

Mmm. I can really feel it, now--that liquid thing, deep inside me, like  I'm starting to melt. That trick I play on myself, so I can get other  people feeling the same way. And is it so fake, really? I mean, it's real  to *me*.

//Her too, not that she'll admit it. Yet.//

Then it's later, out on the quad, and we're sitting around shooting the  shit with the Others, laughing at some sly, sideways thing she just said:  Got a wicked sense of humor, Tory, when she *wants* to be happy. I  catch Vee out of the corner of my eye, roaming behind her mail-cart  with her hair piled high in some kinda French twist, solid bulk moving  slow and weirdly graceful as an overloaded deep sea freighter. See her  raise a brow, and give her that look I use to get out of parking tickets:  //Doin' my job, Mommy Dearest, just like you asked. Doing whatever it  takes to keep my Dennis safe.//

And Tory?

//Ah, shit.//

Well, I knew the stakes, going in--and they haven't changed. So...

...long as it gets *me* what I want, whatever happens to her--will be  worth it.

//I hope.//

~~~~~~~

TORY BEECHER

The next morning, I stood in the shower room with my scarred ass to  the wall and my face bent under the spray, eyes closed tight--too kinked  and sore and wretched from last night's bad dreams even to *care*  which passing hacks might be getting an eye-full. Let the tangled,  sodden mass of my hair hang forward, shielding me from view; opened  my mouth wide, and took a deep, hot, shampoo-flavored swallow. And  thought--for neither the first time this particular hour, nor //probably//  the last--

//--God, but I need a DRINK.//

I'd woken up that morning missing Giles, so intensely it made my heart  throb and ache like an amputated limb. Not for his personality, so  much--not ALL our problems had stemmed from the fact that *I*  drank, after all.

//Chicken and the fucking egg, THAT situation...//

But--Giles, himself. The physical *facts* of him, so tall and dark and  handsome, with his crooked smile and Tom Selleck moustache. His  smell. His grip. And, not to beat around the bush--

//shit, these images//

--the sex. I mean, if you can't drink or do drugs--which I apparently  can't anymore, according to McManus and Brother Pete, or get slung  right on back into Ad Seg--a big screaming orgasm has GOT to be the  next best thing, no matter where you happen to get it...

//or with whom//

So odd for me to be thinking about sex, let alone *wanting* it. I'd been  booze- and drug-free since the riot, sex-free since that first go-'round  with Vee in the gym. And happy to keep it that way, frankly--making  myself as deliberately unattractive as I possibly could to hacks and  other prisoners alike, protecting myself against whoever else wanted to  take a crack at re-pragging me. Though I doubt even O'Reilly could've  set me up with one of her regular crowd, truth be told, after that little  dick-chomping incident. And I *sure* wasn't about to hook up with  another woman, not after Vee. Not even if the person in question was  someone more like, say--

//Tina//

And where'd THAT come from?

Tina Keller, with her constantly half-quirked eyebrows, her rough  hands and her soft, soft touch. Cat-hipping her lithe way around *my*  pod like a panther on the prowl, leaning up against the plexiglass wall  with her arms crossed behind her head, chest thrown out like she was  inviting me to hang my figurative hat on those perky nipples of hers-- staring me down, under sultry, lowered lids--

God, she was disturbing. But then...I guess I was pretty disturbed, back  then.  //Just  generally.//

Blundering back and forth past her, unused--after sharing with Hill--to  company that *wasn't* wheelchair-bound. And turning the wrong way  at the wrong time as I got up off the toilet, forgetting just for a moment  that I was being watched--flashing my butt, and seeing Tina's hazel  eyes widen. A moment's pause, followed by the inevitable question:

"What...is that?"

//What's *what*?//

Oh. Right.

//THAT.//

And me replying, utterly cool--deadpan outside, burning inside, feeling  that betraying blush of mine sweep across my cleavage, my neck--up  over my jawline, hairline, *face* like some unstoppable, rosy tide...

"...*that*...is the letter V."

//Any questions, bitch?//

Thought not.

But oh: I DID miss Giles, even that last, worst time with him, on the  conjugal suite's hard and narrow cot. Missed the riot, that screaming  rush of psycho-freedom--striking out wildly with my stick just to see  people yelp and scatter, staring through the wall at the sweet sight of  McManus bound and silent //for fucking once//, her bloody nose  smeared wide like some brave new shade of lipstick. Missed my  madness, that warm cloak of gleeful non-caring, which had been  draining away by slow degrees ever since they let me back into Em  City; ever since I tricked Vee into losing her parole and then threw it  back in her teeth, grinning. And most, most, most of all, I missed--

A drink, a drink. My kingdom for a dry martini. ANY fucking martini,  dry or otherwise...a snort of heroin, a hit of angel-dust...

//...or just a good hard fuck up against the nearest wall, and not from  somebody I'd rather ventilate at close range, either.//

I leaned back further, shut my eyes and let my hands roam, nails  trailing through the lather on my breasts, my belly, and beyond-- scraping just hard enough to tease, but light enough not to leave a mark.  Braced myself, circling a nipple while my other hand rummaged  between my legs, scratching idly for that vague, gathering itch; felt my  tongue quest out, traitorously automatic, in search of some answering,  phantom mouth--some wicked, curling, smiling pair of lips, fire-engine  red with Fatal Attraction from O'Reilly's personal horde--

Breath quickening, helpless. And thinking, lost in a sudden wave of  inarticulate fantasy:

Don't, oh don't . Oh don't, don't, *don't*--

//*don't*...STOP//

Mmmmm...

Then--I heard someone clear their throat nearby, too close for comfort,  though kept almost studiously polite. Opened my eyes, squinting  through a haze of steamy, waterlogged lust--

--only to find Vee standing in the doorway, naked as I was. Watching  me.

//And...smiling. Ever so slightly.//

I froze, back of my neck gone cold and rigid, all pleasure abruptly  flushed away like somebody's used condom. Taking in the all-too- familiar sight of her, piece by piece, a jigsaw series of mnemonic  smash-and-grabs. Her sturdy Valkyrie thighs, with their long, flat  muscles; crossed biceps, lightning-bolted shoulders. Her age-softened  stomach, its post-childbirth stretchmarks mocking my own. The faded  blue oval of what had once been an all-American eagle in flight  decorating one big, slack breast.

Her deep voice in my mind, amused precursor to a million tiny tortures:  Object lesson, Vic-TOR-i-a. Don't ever get a tattoo when you're drunk,  *from* somebody who's drunk--and if ya HAVE to, then at least get  'em to put it somewhere it won't end up goin' south for the winter.

//And thank you so very much for the unsolicited body modification  advice. *Ma'am*.//

"You're drippin'," Vee observed now, aloud, deceptively mild. And  reached up to pull the pin on her French twist, letting loose a hip- length, wheat-pale sheaf of hair--blonde-grey, heavy and fine, uncut  since she was fourteen at least, she told me once. I know, because I had  to brush it every night: A thousand strokes, top to bottom.

//Don't pull the tangles, either, bitch, you wanna be able to sit down  tomorrow.//

Her pride and joy, the one adornment her Spartan code of neo-pioneer  femininity allowed her. I would've taken a match to it, gladly, given the  opportunity--and watched it burn like dry straw, to the roots.

//And *her* with it.//

I felt my lips peel back, showing teeth--my hands become claws, ready  to slash. Met her pale blue eyes, and found them bright with a rich--if  nasty--vein of irony: You really up for this, cupcake? Well, go right on  ahead--*I* won't stop you.

//Won't have to, the hack comes by. And YOU'll be the one gets Hole  time, not to mention maybe losin' *your* parole.//

So how's it feel, Tory-baby? Turnabound being...UNfair play...

I took a long, shuddering breath. Uncurled my fingers. And  straightened, slowly, to full height--smaller than her, sure. But not by  SO much, in actual fact.

"Get out of my way," I told her, coldly. She shrugged, and stepped  aside. Throwing back:

"Hey, don't feel you gotta cut it short on *my* account. Sweetpea."

//Ain't like I never SEEN your skinny rich-bitch stuff, after all.//

And vice versa.

This sheet, this WAVE of anger, boiling up, over, through me. Unable  to help myself, I snarled, spat in the suds swirling at her big, bare feet.  And--

--fled. Leaving her to laugh, alone, at the punchlineless joke of my  hatred--my toothless rage. My enduring, obvious fear.

//Fear of her. Fear of *me*.//

Fear for my very--

//--*soul*, I guess.//

Not that I really thought I had one left to lose. Anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Outside, on the quad, I found Rhea O'Reilly separating her "little" (ha,  ha) sister Cynda's lank blonde mane into Shirley Temple-style pigtail  braids, anchoring each with a brightly-colored plastic barette. Cynda  was none too happy with the whole procedure, I could tell; her lower  lip already starting to puff, eyes bright with incipient tears. Rhea just  twisted harder, took a long drag on her contraband cigarette--and  looked up as my shadow fell over them both.

"Hey, Beech," she said, grinning, the scar on her chin pulling taut.  "Run in'ta any old pals lately?"

"Vee's in the shower."

"Yup. Saw her goin' by." To Cyn: "Stay *still*, man! More ya move,  more it's gonna hurt."

"Don't WANT it," Cynda murmured, mutinously.

"Gonna look so pretty, just like some chick on TV."

A faint whine: "*Nooooo*."

"Cyn, come ON, for fuck's sake. *Food preparation*, remember? You  wanna be gettin' hair in everybody else's hash?" She snapped the last  one on, sat back and tapped her ash, with a flourish. "There, all done."

Cynda bolted up, running for the shelter of the Others' enclave-- checkers and chat, plus all the latest bulletins from the Almighty, and  Hill's sardonic commentary on the chaos around her. Calling back, over  her shoulder, as she passed me: "Hi, Tory--'bye, Tory!" And adding,  further on, as an afterthought: "Thanks, Rhea!"

"Yeah, yeah."

She shot me a glance, patted the step next to her. I sat, keeping a  hesitant distance, wondering just what she might have to offer, *this*  time 'round--and what I'd wind up being required to do, in order to get  it.

"Looks like we're in the same boat, you 'n' me," she said. "Schillingerly  speakin'."

I snorted. "Not quite the SAME boat."

//As you often used to point out to me, in between free heroin hits.//

"You 'n' *Cyn*, then. That better?"

I glanced over at Cynda, her pain already forgotten, giggling as  Rebadow patiently showed her //yet AGAIN// how the pieces were  supposed to move. Sighed. And asked, in reply:

"What is it you *want* from me, O'Reilly? Exactly?"

"Help."

"I'm crazy, remember? NOT the world's best best bet, help-wise."

"Yeah, well." That grin again. "Said you'd be my sister, though. Didn't  ya?"

Sure, I thought. Back in the RIOT. When I thought we were going to  die, any minute  now--and *welcomed* that joyful possibility, with  open fucking arms. Back before you got cancer and threw me over for  sexy Dr Lucian Nathan, just because you liked to way he cut your tit  open--and I found out, after all of the above...that you actually HAD a  damn sister, anyway. For *real*.

"I'm tired, Rhea," I said. "Takes a lot out of you, biting dicks and  shitting on faces; let the cycle be unbroken by and by, Lord, by and by.  Don't really feel like getting back into it with Vee--or anybody else, for  that matter."

//Even you. Lying, murdering, hack-fucking Irish-American slut that  you are.//

It sounded plausible--to me, at least. But O'Reilly just exhaled through  her nose, twin streams of smoke, obviously unimpressed. Gave me a  narrow green stare. And warned me:

"Vee ain't gonna quit, just 'cause you do. Think *she* don't have a  plan?"

"You mean--like YOU do?"

Another grin, tighter this time. Scar sharpening against her freckled  skin, a half-moon cicatrice blade.

//Nothing *I'd* want to be on the receiving end of--"sister" or not.//

"OH yeah. Just like that."

And pinched the head of her cigarette between two fingers, crushing its  bright eye dead.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sisters. Like I really needed more fucking siblings, when my real ones  acted like *I* was the one who'd been hit by a car--or another fight  with Vee, with all the trouble THAT was bound to bring, this close to  my own potential parole. Just nine more months, barely a year, 'till my  first hearing: Time enough to gestate a whole new me, post-nutbucket  Beecher, and birth my own freedom from the belly of this beast called  Oz.

No, I didn't need a sister. I needed--something--

//different//

Or maybe not. Maybe I didn't NEED at all. Maybe I didn't *want* to.  Easier, that way. Safer.

//lonelier//

But before I could complete the thought, I came around the corner and  almost ran smack-dab up against McManus, lurking outside my pod  with Whittlesey--her on/off, murder-rap-evading, uniform-wearing  *boyyyyyyfriend*--dancing attendance. Keller inside, as always; she  cleared the door for me to step inside, past McManus's oh-so- *concerned* gaze. Ignoring her completely.

//That self-satisfied cunt.//

"Beecher," she began. Then: "Tory..."

"Oooh, promotion. Didn't know we'd become so CLOSE, McManus."

Whittlesey: "Play nice, Beecher."

"Tara 'n' Day-vid, sittin' in a tree," I sing-songed back at him, spreading  my toothbrush with paste as I held McManus's eyes in the pod's  "bathroom" mirror. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G, in her personal peni-tent-iar-y..."

"Tory," she repeated, a little louder. Surprisingly--*scarily*--patient.

I turned. "Okay, WHAT?"

"You might want to sit down."

And then--then, I lost time. The way I do. Throw it away, more often  than not, with both fucking hands. Both fucking, drunken, blood- covered hands...

She told me Giles was dead. In a CAR accident, no less.

//Typical.//

Got distracted, wasn't looking where he was going. On the phone in the  middle of traffic, the way I'd told him a million times. A million.

//Distracted. His fuck-up, alkie, junkie wife in jail. Single father with  kids. Couldn't pay the bills, couldn't keep up. Never made the kind of  money I--//

Uh. Unh...

And Keller--Tina--by my side, somehow. Supporting me down onto  her bunk, making me sit. Telling me: "Breathe. Just breathe."

*Uh, uhh, uhhh, *uuuaaaaaggghhhh*...

"C'mon, Tory. Just breathe. Breathe, baby."

//Don't call me--*baby*...//

I mean...she barely knew me. And I--

--I found myself putting my forehead against hers, leaning in. Leaning  hard, because she could take it; c'mon babe, sweet Tory-honey. Heard  myself being told not to worry, because she was here. Not to worry  'bout NOTHIN', 'cause everything's gonna be juuust fine.

Her arms around me, hands at the nape of my neck, my still-wet hair.  My face buried fast in my own cupped hands, tears and snot dripping.  And Keller just making those soothing noises, like I *was* her child,  her baby. Her--

//lover//

Hers, at any rate. And glad to be. To be--someone's.

//Anyone's.//

Vee's voice, in my mind's ear: *'Cause you gotta be looked after, Tory.  Delicate like you are. That's why you should be grateful I took you in.  Grateful you're...*

//...*mine*.//

Goaded, stung, I tried to straighten, to push Keller away: No. NEVER.  Never again. But she was strong, so strong--stronger than me, that's for  sure. She held me fast. And we sat there, rocking back and forth under  Whittlesey's impartial stare, from his post across the hall...allowed our  moment, in the face of death. Our moment alone--

//--together.//

~~~~~~~~~~

VEE SCHILLINGER

Motherfucking shit, fuck, piss, *fuck*, SHIT--that bitch, that fucking  nigger mother-cunt-FUCK--

--oh, and fuck you too, "Brother"! Go minister to Adebisi, why  don'tcha. Give her absolution, last fuckin' rights, 'cause she's gonna  *need* it where SHE's goin'...

...no, she didn't cut me--not deep, anyway. I've had worse, so fuckin'  what? That AIN'T the POINT.

What? Jesus, what *are* you, anyway--blind as well as deaf? I'm talkin'  'bout my HAIR, you dumb old son-of-a-bitch!

I mean, *look* at me, Goddamnit! I look like--

--a *man*.

Ah, huhhh. Okay. Hmmm.

You want it from the beginning. Fine, fuck it. Here's how it goes:

I'm in the shower, just had--words--with Tory Bitch-er, before she tore  outta there like her ass was on fire; crazy fuckin' freak. Next thing I  know, I'm halfway through shampooing and there's Adebisi coming in  like the wrath of Mama Lumbago the Voodoo Goddess or somethin',  and she's got a fuckin' shank in her hand. Starts screamin' at me about  shit knows what, 'cause I don't happen to SPEAK Nigerian, you get  me? And then she cuts a *chunk*, a whole fuckin' CHUNK outta my--

--hair.  Crosswise. So's I can't even save half of it. Not even half.

Hacks break it up before the blood really starts to flow. I got her down  and I'm knockin' her head on the floor, and she's biting my fuckin'  *breast*, for Christ's sweet sake--that Spic prick Nathan oughtta give  me a rabies test, 'cause I'll swear to GOD that bitch is *not* human.  Not like a REAL person is.

I got attacked, so she's in the Hole and I'm not. Fine. Some justice, I  guess.

But I had to see my sons today. My boys. Like THIS.

They've never seen me, I didn't have long hair. I've never not HAD  long hair. And what's that gonna do to them? *There*'s a trauma, right  there: Them sittin' across from me, through the glass, starin' at me like I  grew another head. Like: Ma, what HAPPENED?

Saw Tina Keller in the next room, then, havin' a contact visit with  *her* little boy. And he IS cute, Brother, oh yes. A very sweet child.  Kind of boy should have some male attention in his life--and not from  that dumb-ass Tina married, *twice*, either.

We done yet? Yeah, thought so.

Good.

'Cause I got somewhere to go, right about now...and somebody to see,  about something they owe me. Something they should hurry up on,  they don't wanna reap the consequences.

And I WOULD be more specific, Brother, I really would--'cept, ya see,  I don't *trust* you. Like we already discussed.

Thanks for listenin', though. It's been--helpful.

Though...not in the way you *hoped* it would be, prob'ly.

SUCKS, huh?

~~~~~~~~~~~ PART III ~~~~~~~~~~~

 CHRISTINA KELLER

So I'm holding Tory, not letting her get away--and the more she  struggles and squirms, the harder I hold on.  I see that Guard Whittlesey  out of the corner of my eye, whispering to miss Em City queen bitch  McManus, pursing her lips and clutching her clipboard--and lo and  behold, he must be smarter than I thought, 'cause it turns out he's tellin'  her to leave us   alone. Leave Tory to grieve, 'cause two women  hugging isn't anything to be alarmed at or nothing, even in here--'long  as somebody just *died*, that is.

I rub her back and whisper in her ear, keeping my voice low and  smooth, like warm milk. Same way Vee used to talk to *me*, back in  the day--kinda surprised Tory don't recognize it, actually. But she's got  other stuff on her mind.

"S'okay," I tell her. "'Course you miss him. You loved him, right?" She  struggles again, all feeble, half-hearted--but I just pin her wrists, brush  my lips against her ear. "Father of your children, how could you *not*  love him?" Right into her, a whisper: "So go ahead and MISS him,  baby."

//*I* won't tell nobody.//

And at that, she slumps against me, gone limp. Not struggling anymore.

//That did it.//

I can feel the sobs come wrenching up from inside'a her--her body,  shaking under my hands, as she takes a long, deep breath, then lets it all  back out.

Thinking: Yeah. Feels good, don't it, honey?

//Could feel a whole lot better, too, sometime soon. When we finally do  it RIGHT.//

That'd be cuttin' it a little fine, though, even for me--pushing my way  on through plain ol' comfort to...what comes next.

Not now. Not...yet.

So I hug her tighter and kiss her temple instead, murmur into that damp  rat's nest of hair. Keep on saying it, over and over and over: "Okay, it's  okay. It's ohhhhkaaay..."

And her arms come up and around me, holding on for dear life. Like  she's drowning, or something. My neck is wet from her tears, but I don't  try to wipe 'em away--just keep on  rockin' her, holdin' her, cooing  softly in her ear. Kiss it too, gently.

//Man, she just smells so damn...*good*.//

And for all my planning, everything I know--not to mention HOW I  know it (same way she does, truth be told)--I feel my mouth move  lower, down the soft curve of her cheek, lingering. Like I can't even  fuckin' help it.

That's what she does to me now, what I've tricked myself into feeling.  What...I do to her, maybe.

//I hope.//

Wondering just how far I can go, before she makes me stop. How far I  WOULD go, before I stopped--myself--

--and finding out, right then, as she pulls away violently--scrubs her  eyes with the heel of her hand, like she's tryin' to rip those tears out by  the roots. Crazy Tory, back on track; Beech the bitch, all teeth and  claws and nothin' *nice*. And the same words from the night before  last:

"M'okay, I AM okay.  Leave me..."

'Lone?

Yeah, I know.

//Whatever you say, babe.//

So...

...I let her go. Hand her a wad of toilet paper so she can blow her nose,  clean herself up. I sit there beside her, not touching her, just being with  her; need to let her know that I care about her, that I'm here for her, no  strings attached. For now.

//I mean...that's what friends're for, right?//

Man. Pure-ass Vee logic, right there, like she's talkin' through me--like  she's got her hand stuck aaaaalll the way back up my boot-lickin' little  Judas puppet ass. Fuckin' SCARY.

And speaking of which...

~~~~~~~~~~

...it's a day later now, and I'm back from breakfast. Word all up 'n'  down the mess hall was about Vee and Adebisi gettin' down in the  shower--and I gotta tell you, that Adebisi's sure got some *balls* on  her. Ain't a lot Vee loves in life BESIDES her hair--and her boys, of  course--

--yeah, those two, Karl and Vern: Hell on wheels already, just like their  bike-ridin' Dads. Just like Vee *trained* 'em to be. Had a visit with  Dennis yesterday, with Vee's brood comin' in at the very same time-- the LOOK on their faces, when they got a load of her new haircut.  Man, they were not liking it *one little bit*.

I mean, Ma's not supposed to change! Ma's MA, forever and always,  right?

They're growing up and out, though, just like her--all blond and blue- eyed, built like brick shit-houses. And they got that *look*, too, in  spades--Vee's look, that Schillinger fuckin' STARE: Like fuck YOU,  'cause I'm gonna fuck you. Ya fuck.

Fuck you up, fuck you over. Or just, plain--

//--*fuck* you.//

I give 'em a year before they're in Juvie, both of 'em. Takin' bets NOW.

Turned my back the second she caught me lookin', but I could still feel  those eyes on me anyway, burnin' right through the playroom glass.  Heard her tap the divider, so's her boys could get themselves a good old  look, too. Thank God Dennis didn't notice; enough to give a grown  person nightmares, havin' THAT family give you the eyefuck.

It got ME cold, I'm not afraid to admit it. Had to stop myself kickin'  something on my way back to the pod...like myself, maybe, for bein'  dumb enough to get thrown IN'ta this hell-hole in the first place, right  back where Vee wanted me.

When I get there, meanwhile, Tory's freakin' out--I mean buggin'!  Nutbag, high-maintenance freakazoid that she is...

//...but so *pretty* when she does it, in a crazy-ass way. Like always.//

Pacing like a rat in a cage, rhyming to herself--something I don't  recognize, about moons and marigolds and shit; her eyes all wild,  shootin' blue sparks, like one'a those wind-up toys with a flint inside.

//DEFINITE damage control time.//

I take a deep breath, slap on my *no threat* smile, and step on through.  "'S up?"

Stopping in mid-rhyme, rounding on me: "Tina, they're coming!"

"Who's coming?"

"My fucking KIDS!  This afternoon--McManus set it up, that cunt- licker. Giles' parents, my kids, an oh-so-*special* visit, just  because...because...because, because because because BECAUSE--"

//--because of the wonderful THINGS she does--//

McManus, Em City's wizard...ess. Witch? Wicked witch'a Cellblock 5,  Experimental Unit...

But Tory's already gettin' all funky again, so I force a big, bright grin.  "Hey, man! That's great."

"No, it's *not* fucking 'great'! Anything but! I mean--I mean, just  LOOK at me, Tina!"

//Mmm, baby. I *am*.//

And thanks for callin' me Tina...Tory.

"They haven't seen me for a fucking year. Won't even recognize me.  I'm..." Her voice dips, goes soft, toneless. "...just some fucked-up  weirdo. Not--their Mom."

I put my hands on her shoulders and stare into her eyes, trapping her so  she can get away: So fucking wired, now, they almost look black--pale  blue obliterated by waaay too much pupil, like suns behind an eclipse.

"You ARE their Mom," I tell her, sternly. "Always BE their Mom. No  one gets that..."

//...'less you give it away.//

"Tory, I need you to calm down, okay?  Take a deep breath."

Snapping back: "*You* take a deep fucking breath."

"Sure, man, sounds good: We'll do it together. Deep breath in...deep  breath out. Deep breath IN..."

She looks at me and her mouth twitches--that a smile? Or is she trying  *not* to breathe along with me?

"In and out, c'mon. Like Lamaze?"

Another twitch. She half-opens her mouth, like she's gonna say  something--then snaps it  shut again, right away. I start kneading her  shoulders, putting on my *soothing* voice: Why not go for the gold  while I'm at it, huh?

"So--when are they coming?"

"Two o'clock."

"Okay, good, fine. Gives us plenty'a time."

I'm still massaging her shoulders, the pads of my fingers digging in.  She shoots me a suspicious look, tensing against me; gone too far, too  fast.

//Slow 'n' steady, Tina. High-maintenance territory here, for sure.//

Not to mention--dangerous. As even VEE found out.

//And that's half the thrill, right there.//

"Time for what?"

"Time to--"

// Try and get your freaky assed shit together//

"--spruce you up a bit." To her blank stare: "Facial, some makeup...do  your hair."

I reach up, brush back a strand or two--fine, dull gold, still kinked tight  from the shower. Gonna mat into dreads soon, daily dose or no, she  doesn't do something more than WET it.

She swallows.  "I...don't know."

"Hey, man, I'm not gonna make you look like Tammy Faye Bakker, or  somethin'. Don'tcha *trust* me by now?"

//To do your NAILS, at least?//

Pointing out: "You're due for your manicure anyway, so why don't we  do it all at once?  A whole new you. People'll stop 'n' fuckin' *stare*."

I can see her eyes start to soften, much against her will. Watch her start  to calm down, defuse, fade on back to normal--normal as she *gets*,  anyway.

And man, this is like...bungee-jumping, or whatever. Like roaring along  on the back of that sexy asshole Xander's bike, no helmet, wind in my  hair and hangin' on for dear life. Like WINNING his fuckin' bike in a  card game, pulling his own piece on him when he wanted to back out  and takin' the fuck off with it while the rest of his gang hooted and  hollered, while he yelled I was ONE DEAD CUNT, he ever saw me  again--shootin' him the finger and revving it high, practically poppin' a  wheelie around the corner--

"Okay?"  I say, eyes still on hers. And she--

--nods.

"Okay."

//*Yes*! Tina, on top. KELL-er. KELL-er. KELL--//

I let my smile *really* rip, and dig into my makeup case--my armory,  my last ex-husband used to call it. Pull out a big jar of deep  conditioner, for that rat's nest she's wearin' on her head, and hand it to  her.

"First things first," I tell her. "Go take another shower, slap this on and  leave it for five  minutes, then rinse it off." Give her an extra-strong  comb, too, to take along. "Use THIS on the knots."

She looks down at the jar in her hand, like she's dimly recognizing  some long-lost relic of her past...then looks back up at me, like *I*'m  the one who's nuts.

//And maybe I am.//

But fuck it. I just throw her a towel--and say, impatient: "GO, Tor.  Steam'll open up your pores, right? We need that for the facial."

She looks at the jar again. Nods, slightly.

And leaves.

I start to pull out all my supplies, actually excited I'm gonna get to do  this. Talk about every aspiring make-up artist's dream makeover. And  I'm almost done setting everything out --hen a shadow blocks the  doorway, dousing my light.

//Well, I WONDER.//

I don't even need to look--but I turn, anyway, and try not to stare...TOO  hard.

//Whoo. She just looks so...*different*.//

Unsmiling: "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

I swallow, memories of Lardner popping like flashbulbs:  Brushing that  hair, getting slapped if I did it "wrong"--how many damn ways ARE  there to brush hair, for Chrissakes? Sit straight and try not to flinch as  she eyes me up and down, feral, like a hyena circling a wildebeest on  the Seren-fuckin'-geti.

//'Cept that hyenas don't usually GET that big.//

"Hey, Vee."

"'Hey, Vee,'"  she shoots back, in mocking imitation. "Cut the shit.  How's Operation Tory comin' along?"

"It's...coming."

"Well, make it come FASTER! *Told* you how to play it, didn't I?  Leave a bottle of hooch where she can get at it, slip her some heroin..."

She is *some* pissed, her usual rumble gone just this side shy of an  outright snarl. I press my lips together, smooth my lipstick reflexively-- flirtatious, which just makes her glare at me harder.

"I'm close, Vee. No lie."

"Yeah. TOO close, from what *I* saw."

//Why, VerEna. You jealous, or something...sweetpea?//

"Just gimme a bit more time, that's all."

Vee's eyes don't waver, don't blink--don't move from mine, narrowing,  like she's right on the edge of figuring out just HOW I'm trying to play  her. Blue enough on the outside, but if eyes really *are* the window to  your soul, then all she has in there is one big, black piece of coal.

"Saw you with Dennis, yesterday," she says, slowly. "Good-lookin'  boy, I'll give you that much." She smiles, all teeth. "Like I said, could  always have the boys look in on him--just in case."

Yeah, right: So he won't turn into some fag. 'Cause I've heard *that*  lecture before, 'bout a hundred million times:  *Needs a male influence,  Tina. All boys do. He'll turn into a faggot, he doesn't have someone  with a pair of their own to show him how to kick some ass.*

//Gotta kinda wonder about Karl and Vern, then, though. Seein' how all  THEY had...was *you*.//

Cutting me off, before I can answer: "Or they could just decide to make  a visit on their own, without me even knowin'. I mean, who knows? All  depends on how...things...go."

//So you better just 'do what you have to', Tina. Like always.//

And if what you HAVE to's what you *want* to--that's a GOOD thing,  right?

Well...

//...*isn't* it?//

I'm fucking sick inside--but I bite it down, and smile. "No problem,  Vee. All gonna come to a head, *very* soon."

She snorts. "It'd fucking BETTER."

And with that, she saunters away--right past Tory, shuffling back from  her five-minute instant spa. Their hips almost brush; Tory hisses, and  Vee grins. Flutters her lashes at her

I lean my head back against the wall and exhale, closing my eyes on  them both.

"What was SHE doing here?"

I straighten, shrug. "Fuck if I know. Comin' onto me, prob'ly--told her  if she wanted somethin', she was gonna have to ask me straight  out...and get ready for a big fat no way, Jose."

Tory grunts. "Yeah, well--subtlety's not exactly her *strong* suit."

"Bitch can be as subtle as she wants, I still wouldn't touch her lard-ass  with a ten foot pole. Sit on down, we'll get started."

~~~~~~~~~~

TORY BEECHER

I sat down on Tina's bunk, still more than a little wary--my hair was  wet again, and I'd done my best with the comb, but I guess I was more  than a little out of practice. Tina took it, and started deftly unhooking  those last few *big* tangles; she had the touch, all right. Missed her  calling when she took up armed robbery--'cause God knows, the world  needs more hairdressers. And manicurists. And...makeover-givers...

"Hardly any grey in here at all," she said, admiringly. "All mixed in  with the blonde--that's artful, baby."

"*You*'re not going grey," I pointed out, feeling myself begin to lull.  Resisting the urge to bend my head into the movement, relaxed and  slack, as she stroked my hair up and back, up and back...

"Uh huh; thank God for hair-dye." She cocked her head, waggled her  brows, and gave me that sidelong grin--a shared, nasty joke at the  world's expense. "Catch me next month, you'll find out this ain't even  my real shade of BROWN."

She squirted my hair with spray, then put both sides up in clips, and  held out her hands: Manicure time. Started with the moisturizer again,  massaging deep. I felt my pulse quicken under that touch--so strong, so  delicate, soothing and caressing. Her nails were at least as well-kept,  but purely for adornment, not weaponry. Not like my...talons.

I wanted to close my eyes, to give way, give in. But I couldn't--couldn't  let her know how much I was enjoying this. Let people know what you  like, in Oz, and it never comes to anything good. And besides--

--whether they know or not, everything's always over too soon anyway.

//Just like this.//

Top coat, polish, hardener. More stroking. More...soothing.

And my God, I *was* getting...VERY relaxed, now. Almost--

//--aroused//

"Okay, hair's done, nails are drying--just got your face left to do." She  spread a towel over her knees, leaned back, patted it. Smiled again.  "Now turn around, and put your head in my lap."

//Ex*cuse* me?//

She must have sensed my apprehension, because the smile only got  deeper. "Hey, Tory, c'mon. I won't bite."

//Not like ME, huh?//

Well. On your head...or whatever...be it.

I turned, slowly, and lowered myself onto the support of her half-spread  thighs. Felt the heat of her, through the towel; smelled her perfume,  close as though *I* were wearing it.

//At least...I THOUGHT that was her *perfume*...//

Looking up, only to find I was sudden front-row-centre for a way-too- close view of her (apparently bra-less) breasts: Right here, right now-- Tina Keller's boobs, one night only! If her t-shirt was any tighter, I'd've  been able to see her heartbeat.

//Talk about *distracting*.//

So I DID close my eyes, that time; closed them tight, and wondered  desperately why this had to be happening NOW. Why I had to start  thinking of my new podmate in *that* particular way, feeling myself  hum with almost...predatory lust, when I'd practically put a woman's  eye out for forcing the very same thing on ME. Why I was  suddenly...moist.

//So damn LONG//

--but I couldn't *think* of that, not ANY of it. Had to be on the ball.  Had to be NORMAL for my kids, dammit.

//"Normal". HA.//

At which point Keller started rubbing my face with an exfoliant, and--

//Oh God, that felt so NICE//

I hadn't had a facial in...well, anyway. What was it they used to say,  down at the office?  A good facial is like good sex--

//dangerous metaphors you're playing with here, Tory-baby//

--you don't get it that often...but when you do, it's worth every penny.

I felt the tension melt away, wipe away, the same way she was wiping  the granules from my skin. Sighed and settled back between her firm  thighs, eyes still closed, as she ran a cotton swab doused with toner  over the oily T of my face: Forehead, nose, chin. Sighed again she  started applying cream, circling her thumbs across my cheeks and down  along my neck, squeezing my earlobes, tracing my collarbone. Hearing  myself whimper as her fingers dipped down into the V of my t-shirt;  resisting, with all my fading strength, the growing the urge to squeeze  my legs together, create some sort of...*friction*.

Her hands feathered along my cheeks, caressed my temples. When she  rubbed her fingers along the outside of my lips, I felt a burning stab--an  almost PALPABLE urge to suck one into my mouth and nip down,  *hard*.

"There ya go."

Oh no, please, don't...

//...stop.//

My eyes snapped open, met hers--equally bright, equally heavy-lidded.  Her lips were parted, wet;  above me, her nipples seemed harder than  ever. Was this, could this be...

...turning HER on? Too?

//So it's NOT just me.//

I don't know if that makes me feel better--or worse.

A flick of mascara on either lid. Lip-liner, plus just a touch of gloss. A  dusting of powder. And then...

"Take a look," she said, steering me to the mirror. "Pretty, huh?"

...yeah. Pretty.

This woman, this *pretty* woman--she wasn't anyone I'd ever seen  before, in Oz OR out of it. Not Mrs Giles Beecher, the PTA Mom; not  Victoria Beecher of Goldshaw, Winston, Beecher and Dorff, the killer  in the boardroom. And definitely not weak little Tory-baby, Vee  Schillinger's prag, all dressed up like Hooker Barbie on parade...hands  off, you like the way your body works, but you can look--and *laugh*-- all you want.

No, this was someone else. Someone--new. If I'd passed her on the  street, even *I* wouldn't have recognized me.

This perfect, unfamiliar face, and Tina's strong hands holding me up,  my back against her chest, her breasts and belly burning into my spine.  Lungs heaving, head spinning, mouth juicing. Pussy...throbbing.

//And: Oh, Tory, you maniac. What the *hell* are you thinking?//

I turned in her grip, to find us abruptly nose-to-nose--quite a LOT of  nose, in her case, though weirdly regal as some Hittite queen's. Stared  straight into her dark, inscrutable eyes, thinking:

So what's this all in aid of, Tina, really? You wanna slip your tongue  between my teeth, knowing what happened the *last* time someone  tried that move? Or are just doing this 'cause you're scared of me, like  everybody else?

//I mean...you SHOULD be.//

"Thank you," I told her, stiffly, through thick lips--thick, dead,  gorgeously lined, like some very rich corpse's at an upscale funeral  home. "It's...beautiful."

She smiled that smile again. And corrected me, softly:

"No, baby. *You*'re beautiful."

Her lips, so close to mine. Was she--would she--was she really going  to--

//Aw, fuck it.//

Unable to wait one microsecond longer, I leaned forward--amazed,  hungry--and kissed her myself.

Arching into her mouth, her body to mine. Her long, lithe, lovely body.

Brown hair falling over us both, like a curtain, hiding us from the world  beyond those see-through walls.

//And NOT like Vee. Not at ALL. Because...I'm the one, *I*'m the one  in charge here...//

And then she kissed me back, and I was lost. Gone, long gone, without  even the ghost of a trace.

My ass humped up onto the rim of the sink, legs spread and squirming- -*undulating* against her, groin to groin, height disparity readjusted for  BOTH our comfort. And that blush rising everywhere she touched, so  fucking *hot*, fingers like lit fuses, my skin like a thin layer of napalm.  Her hands on my thighs, thumbs digging into my fly--I felt myself  begin to hyperventilate, so oxygen-deprived I don't think I could've  remembered my own name, had there been anyone else there to ask me.

Rocking back and forth, shameless, desperate to make sure her thumbs  came in contact with my clit through the fabric of my trousers. I slid  my hand under that shirt of hers and cupped one of her firm, round  breasts: Yep, no bra. Cunning observation on my part...that keen,  legally-trained mind hard at work...

//...oooohhhh...//

I pulled back, bit my lip, trying to quell the moan I felt bubbling up  through me. But Keller--

//Tina//

--kept right on kissing, pressed harder, digging at that spot, her nipple a  hot nail through my palm...making me dance, legs wide and twitching,  one eye scanning over her shoulder for watchers, passersby--

//quick, be QUICK, before someone, Whittlesey, *anyone*--oh GOD//

*So* good. And I DID moan into her mouth as I came, muffling it with  her lips--then let go of her breast and slid off the sink, flopped back  against the wall, breathing heavily.

Heard a noise then, intruding. The P.A. buzzer. My name, repeated  over and over: Beecher, Tory, you have visitors...

//Tina//

I glanced back at her, dazed. Saw her licking her lips, already moving  toward me. And I--

--stood up, all at once, suddenly prim and proper: Stared at her, the  mess at my crotch already cooling, like she was the Devil herself.

"...Tory..."

//Tina//

"I...I gotta go."

And I turned, I ran. Ran out of my pod, down the hall and straight to  the visitor's room, stopping for just a second in the shower room to  check my makeup--my pretty, *pretty* new face--so I wouldn't scare  my own children half to death.

~~~~~~~~~~~

CHRISTINA KELLER

Shit, man! That fucking Tory--

//*fucking* being the operative word, here//

One minute she's ridin' my hand like a pro, bouncing and makin' these  little...*noises*, rrrraowrrr. Next--she hears the announcement, freaks  out big-time, 'n' just cuts and RUNS like a bitch. Leaves me here, hot  and bothered and breathless, with my clit throbbing and my underwear  all soggy...hell, my damn PANTS are soggy. And everybody's lookin',  too, tryin' to figure out what *made* Tory run...so there ain't a whole  lot I can DO about it, either, without giving the world at large a free  floor-show.

I lie back on my bunk, turn on my side and dip my hand down inside  my pants, rubbing myself with a practiced thumb and finger 'till I feel  the river start to flow between my legs;  crush my hand between my  thighs, my fingers moving slightly. And it's not the same, not even  close--but it'll have to suffice, for now.

//For NOW.//

After which I roll over onto my back and let out a frustrated sigh, still  horny. Then change my underwear and leave the pod, which I'm sure  smells just as skanky as I feel--and go find something *else* to think  about.

A couple'a hours go by, and I'm sitting there with the O'Reilly sisters,  sharin' Rhea's smokes and watching Cynda play checkers with herself-- Rhea's somebody to keep one eye ALL the time, from what I heard, but  what the fuck...so'm *I*, according to most people.

Right now I'm a customer, which automatically gets me a little grace;  might be more, one day, if and when I find just the right angle...ie, one  that won't cost me more than it's worth my own while to pay for her  brand'a strictly business-oriented "friendship".

Suddenly, I see Tory wandering back to our pod, walking all stiff and  weird--bent over, kinda, like she's hiding something under her arm, and  not bothering to do much more than a half-assed job of it. I turn to  Rhea, raise my eyebrows. She shoots me back a look, like *got my own  shit to deal with, baby*, then turns to her sister.

"Cyn. Break's over, man--gotta start settin' up for dinner."

Cynda bounds to her feet, braids flopping. Rhea puts her hands in her  pockets and gives Tory one last glance, then follows. As she brushes by  me, I hear her murmur, under her breath:

"Heads up on the hooch alert, Keller. Might wanna nip THAT in the  bud, 'fore you get busted for somebody else's contraband."

//Oh, *I* get it now.//

I can see Vee over there in the corner with some biker chick she's  delivering a package to, bent over her cart and pretending to read-- yeah, THAT's a good one--some magazine: 1001 Star Haircuts, talk  about cheap fuckin' irony. And I remember her instructions, earlier  on...how Tory gets when she's under stress, headin' straight for the  nearest bottle, the nearest snort, the nearest *whatever* so's she can  throw herself in and drown her sorrows...

//But that's exactly what Vee wants her to do, right? So why the fuck  should *I* care?//

Shouldn't, I wanna keep my own hide intact. Or DENNIS's.

But I get up and make my way over, just the same.

And man, she looks even worse at close range--all numb and silent,  white around the edges and not reacting to a damn thing, like she's gone  blind or somethin'. Worse than seeing her sobbing, earlier, 'cause at  least THAT looked like she *needed it*.

//Shit, you crazy hooker--CRY, why don't you? Get it over with, like  any normal person.//

'Cept--she's not. Is she?

My heart goes out to her, immediately. Never mind she's a freak. Never  mind she left me stranded in smutty underwear. Never mind I want so  bad NOT to feel for her, given what's at stake here; been trying to fight  it all day, and losing miserably. I've been squeezing my legs together  all afternoon, just thinkin' of when I could get her back between 'em.

"Hey, Tory. Whatcha got there?"

"Medicine."

"Looks like booze to me."

She runs her eyes sidelong at me, and lets her lips peel back--a "smile"  that looks more like some rabid dog baring its teeth, gettin' ready to...

//...bite.//

And: "Yeah," she says--cold, deliberate. "That too."

I lean back against the door, so I can keep a healthy distance and scan  for hacks at the same time--two birds, one stone.

"C'mon, man, don't do it," I tell her. "Ya said you been sober, what, a  year? Don't blow it all on some--BAD DAY..." Trying to jolly her out  of it: "'Sides, wasn't *all* that bad, was it?"

And I--wink at her.

*Very* dumb move.

I can see it go through her, like an electric charge. Shock treatment.  Good thing is, it makes her put the hooch under *my* pillow, so she  can get up without wastin' any; BAD thing is, it makes her *get* up  and stalk on over, right up in my face.

"Oh, that's right," she says, scary-sweet, like it just occurred to her.  "Lose my kids, almost get thrown in the Hole--but it was a GOOD day,  really, 'cause *you* got to make me come. I mean, what could be  better, right?"

I put my hands up, fending her off. "Whoah, hey, hold on a minute-- WHAT happened with your kids?"

But she just goes on, like she didn't even hear me. "You think you  *know* me, TI-na? You don't know shit. And even *Vee* could make  me *come*, she just TRIED hard enough."

//Oh, LOW blow.//

"Your kids?" I force myself to repeat. 'Cause I'm not about to get into  the rest of it, not here, not now.

"They..."  She chokes back a sob, a snarl.  "...want custody. Say  I'm...unfit."

"Who does?"

"Giles' parents, my IN-fucking-laws. They want my *kids*, Keller."

//No more "Tina" now, huh?//

"They can't do that, Tory," I lie. Knowing they damn well CAN.

*Really* snarling, now: "What the fuck do YOU know about it?"

//More than you think, rich girl.//

But I just keep quiet. Let her talk it out.

"They can," she says, quieter. "Can, and they will.  They never liked  me, motherfuckers.  I wasn't good enough for their precious son, and  now--now, they're finally getting their revenge."

//'Cause *I* let 'em...that's the rest of THAT song, ain't it, Tory?//

Hard thing to swallow, at the best'a times. Even *without* the hooch to  wash it down.

She fills it in for me, slowly, back to fits and starts. How she got down  to the same playroom where I'd met Dennis, and her kids came runnin',  hugged onto her tight and called her Mommy. How her in-laws sprang  this thing on her: Done deal, this VISIT just a stop on the way back to  their brand-new home in another fuckin' city. How she felt like ripping  Grandpa's stuck-up old head right off and takin' a shit shit down his  neck...but didn't. 'Cause the kids were there.

But then their time was up, and the crying started, and Whittlesey  practically had to drag her away, with the kids screaming and crying.  And she snapped at him, snapped at GRANDPA--would'a liked to see  *that*, I'd had a ringside seat--

They hadda take her out in an arm-lock, cuff her put her in McManus's  office 'till she cooled down. And after they finally let her go, 'cause  even the Wicked Witch could see there were some BIG-ass extenuating  circumstances, she went straight on down to Alvarez's pod...and bought  herself as much hooch as she could carry.

She takes a glance back at it now, automatic--then hides her face in her  hands and curls up, crumpling by degrees, like she's been punched in  the stomach.

//Which only makes sense. 'Cause--she HAS.//

I kneel on the floor beside her, rub her back. Feel her flinch under my  touch, and keep right on doing it...then put my arms around her and  hold her close, crushing her to my chest. Again, I start to rock her, like  it's some rhythm we've got going: She gets all hyped up and I calm her  down, soothing, smoothing, stroking. Worse ways to spend your next  fifty years, I guess...

//...yeah. A LOT worse.//

Outside, Whittlesy walks by, giving us another sympathetic look.  Therapy in action--something to tell his girlfriend 'bout, when they're  swapping Em City success stories over dinner and nookie.

Bell's ringing for dinner, now. The others all start to file out, but we  stay--and he lets us.  Somehow, I think he can tell Tory ain't hungry.

//Not for *food*, anyway.//

She's breathing now, light and slow...and I feel her head nuzzle against  my breasts, unconscious, like she can't control it. I take a deep whiff of  her baby-fine, dull-gold hair, still in its clips from this afternoon--looks  coarse, but it isn't, not up this close. It's...soft.

I lift her head and look at her, glad to see that the tears have finally  come--her eyes are red and swollen, just like her flat cat-nose, so I give  her more toilet paper, and tell her to blow. My careful makeup work's  all over the front of my shirt, smeared beyond recognition. She cleans  herself up, then keeps sitting there, my arms around her. And I think--I  *think*--

//Tina, Tina, Tina. You really wanna get into this again, right now, so  SOON? Wanna stick your fingers in *Tory Beecher*'s screwed-up,  angry little mouth?//

Well...

...FUCK, yeah.

I lean down and kiss her, gently, before I have time to reconsider. She  pulls back, licks her lips--then moves forward again. Lets me DO it  again.

//And again. And *again*.//

Like she...just. Can't. Help it.

//Oh yeah, baby. Gonna make this feel real good.  Take all your pain  away.//

Our mouths meet and it's the sweetest thing I've tasted in a long time. I  cup her face with both hands, and kiss her like my life--

//Dennis'//

--depends on it.

We're alone in Em City now, Whittlesey up on the podium--the guards'  tower--with his back discreetly turned. Doubt they cut people this much  slack in a GUYS' prison...but men always like to see two chicks  together, even if they ain't actually *watching*. It's a no-fuckin'- brainer.

Slowly, I move Tory back so she's against the pod's one concrete wall,  caressing her the whole time. She grips my shoulders, hesitating; I can  sense her nervousness. So I cup her breast, distract her by circling the  nipple; hear her gasp, feel her tremble.

//so *sweet*//

I'm kissing her, hard, my eyes closed. Feel her jump as I find the other  breast, using my thumb to flick that spot again and again, keeping mind  *firmly* on something other than all those damn good reasons she has  NOT to let me do this.

I pull back and look at her, her lips swollen and red as her eyes now,  cheeks flushed. Pull her shirt up and unhook her bra, letting her breasts  loose--then dive in between them, all soft and welcoming; hear her  moan and shudder, helpless, as I press into her. There's no turning back.

I nibble around a nipple, suck on the hardened bud, bite down as my  hands move to the front of her pants. Suddenly, she seems to wake up-- there are hands on my own breasts, slidding to grip my ass and crush us  together, scratching slightly. I let out a small moan myself, gone  sopping wet in an instant; pull down her pants, reach for her. And she  seems to panic, just for a second--then opens her eyes, and sees that it's  me.

//Me. Not Vee.//

'Cause Vee was NEVER like this. Right, baby?

I kiss her again, squirming, as my fingers press against the damp folds  of her opening--rubbing up and down her leg like some fuckin' cat in  heat, looking for any friction that I can get. Get her clit with my thumb,  slip two of my fingers gently inside and probe, surprised when she  opens her legs wider for me; hook them, feeling for that slightly rough  spot on the back of her vagina, then start stroking--thumb still flicking  back and forth, her breasts on mine, all hot and wet and oh, OH--

Tory throws her head back and howls, fuckin' HOWLS, in silent  ecstasy. Her whole body jerks and twangs, like a bow.

//Man. Talk about *discipline*.//

And me, I'm so close, BEEN so close all fuckin' day--she's got her hand  down the front of *my* pants now, helping me rub myself to  completion. We're writhing against each other, whimpering. I can feel  her juices gush over my hand, sweat pricking everywhere, like glue; my  eyes roll back in my head. I give myself a few more thrusts and  collapse, soaked.

We stay like that for a minute or two. Then I roll over, chest still  heaving, relishing the coolness of cement on my back. Hear her beside  me--a ragged gulp, like she's teaching herself to breath again. And  feel...

..her hand on mine, softly. Tentative.

"Tiiiii-na," she whispers. Like she just realized it was MY name.

I knit her fingers in mine, squeeze hard. Give her that *just fucked*  smile. And think, to myself:

//Ohhhh, man. What the hell did I just *do*?//

What Vee told me to.

//Oh, uh huh.//

The bell rings again; shit. Dinner's over. I'm hungry now, damn hungry- -too fuckin' bad, 'less I can buy something off of O'Reilly.

//There anything that slippery Mick bitch DON'T sell?//

Meanwhile, I see Tory halfway through changing her shirt,  straightening herself out...so I take the hooch out from under my  pillow, and empty it down the toilet. Hoping no one saw me, 'specially  now that people are starting to drift back in...no one who could tell Vee,  at any rate. 'Cause if she ever finds out I had a chance to get Tory back  on a drunk and screwed her instead, I am in deep, DEEP crap.

//Like you are anyway, Tina?//

...well--yeah.

"One hour free time, ladies!" Whittlesey yells, from the station. "Then  lights out, no exceptions!"

//No exceptions. None.//

And Tory's starin' at me now, blue eyes wide--like she's hypnotized, or  something. Like she's forgotten all *about* the booze, all of a sudden.  Like I'm better than hooch, better than drugs. Like we're in...

//love//

Ohhhh, MAN.

//I am *SO*...//

...fucked.

End

To be continued

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