Birdy (Upper Echelon Duet Book 1)

to spit them. Everyone warned me about him, and my dumb ass actually believed we’d never actually get here. I told him I didn’t trust him, but facts are facts.
I did.
And I was probably a little in love with him, too.
In the time I’ve known Ángel, I’ve never seen the man go so pale, ever. Well, I’ve never seen him pale, period...but he is right now.
Whitens like Casper the Ghost.
His eyes bulge in the realization that this ends right here, desperation consuming every commanding molecule of his existence so wholly that it reduces him to someone less than. Physically, he’s the same man he was five minutes ago, and yet, he’s not. I don’t know this man.
Shit, I barely knew him at all, so I guess I really shouldn’t really be surprised.
“Benita, please. Don’t do this…don’t think like this. Listen to me. Te lo juro, I swear on everything, I was trying to save you. I wanted you, wanted to be with you. I was trying to pull you out before they got you. Knowing they we’re watching woke me the fuck up, mami.”
L-O-L. Oookay.
I roll my eyes. “You should’ve just told me the truth and spared yourself the extra work. Why put in all that time for a bitch you didn’t give a fuck about?”
“You’re worth it all.” He’s clawing at the table, gray eyes alarmingly turbulent. “I meant what I said… I wanted you for me, I still do. I’ll wait forever for you, bebé. No hay nadie como tu.”
There’s no one like you, baby.
Not the first time he’s told me that. What both occurrences have in common?
They don’t mean a damn thing.
“I’m going to do everything in my power to—”
I cut off his rambling with a lift of my hand, face contorting in distaste. I’m done…can’t bear another minute of this shit. I’d rather go rot in my cell than have to endure another minute of more lies and manipulation. “Save it. I don’t need or want you to do anything for me. I never want to see your face…ever again. Don’t come see me, don’t write to me, nothing. Forget I exist.”
“Mami, don’t—”
“Don’t mami me.” I’m out of my seat, teeth bared as I breathe through the new wave of tears welling at the surface. “You could’ve had it all, so much more than just money…but that’s all you care about. I hope that money is gonna love you and fuck you as good as I did, you asshole. Have a nice life.”
Click.
And then I walked away like I should have all along.

♫ Chances - Jill Barber
Four years later…
Know what’s one of the things I miss most about home?
Masturbating in peace.
Letting your inner-hoe flag fly free while you fast forward through the majority of your favorite porn for the right frame, and go at it until said inner-hoe is satisfied.
Yeah, I miss that.
Peace is the furthest thing you’ll find behind these walls. And privacy? About that... The most privacy you get is while you’re sleeping, and even that’s not guaranteed.
I will say, there is that small thrill of getting caught by your bunkie—a higher dose if you get ballsy and try that shit somewhere else—but it’s not the same as lying full starfish at home. Resources are limited, too, meaning if you’re vibe-dependent—you either learn to use the fingers Papá Dios blessed you with, or you might as well kiss coming goodbye.
Or you can get creative.
A lot of these females think bananas are creative. Personally, I don’t. They’re the oldest trick in the goddamn book, but I guess desperation does funny shit to people, right?
And I feel that; I do. I’m desperate myself—miss being pinned down and dominated beneath a trunk of a man. Think about it at least once daily.
Still not enough for me to shove a banana up my pussy.
So here I am, hand between my legs, fingers rubbing at my clit in a frenzied attempt to sate the ache spurred on from my dreams. Thankfully, my bunkie’s passed out, probably somewhere en el quinto sueño with her snoring ass. All I want to do is come and roll over again for a bit before the sun rises.
I’m close, focusing on the buildup, chasing it with meticulous strokes. Eyes clamped shut, my mind cycles through past encounters—all the “bests” I had over the years before getting thrown into this hell hole.
Right now, it’s Santi. God, he was yummy. Dominican, curly locks I could run my fingers through, gym rat, a thick dick. That man used to throw me around like a rag doll and tie me up. Breath play with him was the best, too. Just thinking about it has those sparks shooting up my spine like a flame burning through the cordage of a bomb.
A distant click meets my ears.
Then that annoying buzzer.
And then… Slam!
The door to my cell flies open. “Ladies, wake up! It’s sweep time!”
“What the fuck!” I’m yanking my hand from under my nightshirt at the same moment Lena’s snoring abruptly stops.
Mack, the head guard comemierda, squats to peer right at me and says, “In the hall, now, Villanueva. Night-night time’s over. We’re sweeping.”
I don’t get another word. He’s reaching for me and yanking me out of bed. Selena’s pulled down right behind me. We’re shoved toward the door lightly in warning, sounds of similar protests breaking out from other cells.
Another day of this shit.
“It’s too early for this,” I mutter, dragging my socked feet into the hall.
“Hear that boys?” Mack shouts amusedly behind me. “Miss Villanueva here seems to think, and I quote, ‘it’s too early for this shit.’”
“Does she?” That’s Jordan—juicer, playboy, wannabe bodybuilder—aka the STD-infested little bitch on roids.
He fucking wishes he was a bodybuilder.
“Her exact words. She’s not wrong, really. Kind of ridiculous we have to sweep at this hour, to begin with. Shall we tell them why?”
Another shove.
My back hits the gray bricks beside the door, and again, Selena’s right behind me, glaring daggers at Mack as he nods at his colleague.