The last poignant visual of the past seven years I’ve lived can be reflected in what I saw on my last night within the gates of Bill Clements.
What landed me in that little facility called a maximum security prison in Amarillo, Texas? Don’t worry. We’ll get to that.
I’d worked in a program called PAMIO, or Program for Aggressive Mentally Ill Offenders. I still don’t know exactly what my job description entailed—all I knew was they called me an SSI. And no, I don’t know what that shit stands for either.
I was just there to serve my time, not make friends or call the place home.
Anyway—I’d just finished my shift where it was my job to clean up behind all the crazy as fuck people who were locked up in West Texas. And I was headed from what us inmates called the shoo. In reality, the shoo is just an old SSI closet where they let the trustees from ad seg, or general population, change clothes or take a piss during our shifts.
However, it was the only place in the maximum security prison I could call home. Mainly, because it provided privacy.
I went there to unwind. And breathe.
I went there just to get out of my own head sometimes.
The last night I was there, which just so happened to be last night, I’d wrapped up last call, straightened up the shoo, and locked up the last ward of Texas’s criminally and mentally insane. After I clocked out, I stepped outside into the frigid Amarillo night air and lit up my last cigarette when something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention.
I only had seventeen more hours to serve. Seven-fucking-teen.
This guy’s name was Robby.
I stood, stuck in place and watched him from the grounds outside his cell, and I couldn’t help it. I could not turn away.
Morbid curiosity is a bitch, but it’s human, too. Keep that in mind.
Robby was mentally insane, of course, they were all fucking mentally insane. And criminals. But of all the other inmates I worked around or with, I’d felt a connection with Robby.
Every time our eyes locked, it felt like I was seeing an old friend again.
Needless to say, I blamed that connection on my being stuck last night.
I blame that connection for doing nothing, while witnessing another man die.
Over the last months, hell—it’d almost been a year since he was transferred here—I’d basically watched Robby starve himself to death. The guy probably weighed two-ten when he shuffled into Bill Clements gates shackled at his hands and feet eleven months ago. But the same man who stood in front of me last night at six-feet-two, couldn’t have fucking weighed a hundred pounds.
And as I stood, stuck, on the perfectly manicured grounds outside his cell, I watched as he slit his wrists with a razor and an eerie calm settled over me the further up his arms he cut.
Then, he took his smock—yes, I said smock. And no, I’m not kidding. They didn’t trust the PAMIO inmates with anything.
Shoestrings. Sheets. Clothes.
Because this guy had been diagnosed with suicide tendencies, related to self-deprivation of food or starvation, he was sentenced to spend time in PAMIO, a 390-bed facility located at the William P. Clements, Jr. Facility in Amarillo, Texas where he was given a paper smock. The kind you wear at the dentist when they’re cleaning your teeth—and nothing else.
Let me say this a little clearer, he was given nothing else to wear.
Now I, like everyone else in this god-forsaken place, knew that you could purchase a razor blade for the bargain price of seven stamps. Hell, you could probably purchase a fucking kidney for the right amount of stamps.
So this kid, this Robby, he probably got the razor with some stamps, and the smock when he was processed in at BC-PAMIO for seventy-two hours to seven days.
The smock was the trust he didn’t possess.
Either way, between the smock he shoved down his throat and the razor blade he slit his arms with from wrist to armpit, Robby, or PAMIO inmate number 12567, did get the job done.
And as the other SSI trustees had attempted to resuscitate, called the time of death, and hosed his cell clean…I finished my last cigarette and headed back to my cell.
It’s fucked up, Idn’t?
But on a fundamental level, we’re all beasts. Mind fucked. You either live or die. Especially when you’re in places like Bill fucking Clements. And when you’re ready to die? The fucking chances are you will.
And that’s all I’m taking from my time there. That knowledge.
Then, seventeen hours later…this world was mine. Again.
My oyster. Mine. And I’ll do with it what I will.
Because, I’ve paid my fucking time.
I have paid my goddamn time.
And now that I have, it’s time Travis fucking Jackson paid his.
“Lexy…Lexy?” I hear the man wiping away my tears and pulling my face up to his calling me, but I close my eyes. And I let the hurt hurt.
“Lexy? Sweetheart? Please, we…okay, you need to get your shit together. Now.”
But I can’t, and I can’t understand why he doesn’t understand that.
“No,” I say, fighting to turn away from him as I feel my bare ass being slid onto the cold bathroom marble counter top. “Stop. Okay?” I continue my demands, trying to shove at his chest, only to grip the material of his suit and tug instead. “STOP! Just stop.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shove the words out as fast as I can, “You obviously have no fucking idea how incredibly fucked you just fucked my life up, so just stop. Get your hands off of me, or I swear to god, I’ll fucking scream.” I finally shove him back and attempt to struggle against him.
But before I can make any progress against him and the wall that he is and get myself down off the counter top, I feel the back of my skull connecting with the vanity mirror behind me, and a swift second later I feel his palm setting fire to the outside of my right hip when it connects.
Did he just fucking slap me?
His right hand slides up between the valley of my breasts, and his fingertips grip then dig into my cheeks at my chin. His firm, rough manner with me causes my eyes to fly open and I glare, boring them into his brown ones.
And what I see, almost…it almost makes me hesitate.
His eyes are the most honest eyes…but I refuse to look too closely at that thought right now. I grit my teeth and flex my jaw against his clenching fingers before squaring my shoulders and keeping my eyes glued to his, and I speak in the most intimidating voice I possess, “Get. Your. Fucking. Hands—“
His left palm cracking against the tender flesh of my already slapped side-ass cuts off my words, and my mouth— despite his grip on my chin— falls open.
“Let me make myself fucking clear, Mrs. Dean. When I informed you of my past and the cell I spent it in, I must’ve somehow been preempting the fact to you that I…don’t give a single fuck. I have nothing.” His mouth is a breath away from mine and when the word ‘nothing’ leaves his warm lips, they sweep against my swollen ones. “Fucking nothing, left to lose in this life. And I for goddamn sure won’t be going back to prison, so when I finish getting the retribution I’ve been due, and I go down in a fucking blaze of glory, who I take with me matters none. Now…” He’s there. Hell, he’s everywhere. Then, all of a sudden he’s not. He’s gone.
I sway forward and have to catch myself from falling, but a split second later, he’s back and wrapping a large, soft bathrobe around me and tying the sash. “Whoa, easy does it.” As he helps me down off the counter, his eyes smile along with the smirk across his beautiful face, and I can’t help my heart from fluttering. I can’t.
“I was left in the front sitting room when your husband’s mistress called and he needed to step out, so if I’m in here when he comes back…it isn’t going to look good. No Bueno. Now, I need you to get dressed—or whatever. And when you step out, act as though we’ve never met. The only reason I came in here to introduce myself is because I hate your fucking husband—and I hope now that you’ve been armed with the knowledge of his indiscretions, that I could call you friend and offer my sincerest regrets. Mrs. Dean, my current circumstances put me at a bit of a disadvantage where trust is concerned. And when you need something…you build it. Can I count on you?”
His eyes never waver. They never flicker to the side or even blink. They stay glued to mine, and for the first time in my entire life I don’t have to think before I answer, I just speak.
Who is Kimber? Shit, sometimes even I don’t know, lmao. However if I had to type up an author bio (which, son of a bitch, I do) this is how it would read. BTW, caught a lot of shit for this author bio. Really don’t give a fuck though, because I was asked to type up a bio. And if I can only say one thing for certain about myself, it’s this: I’m real, I don’t back down from what I believe, I say what I mean, and I mean what I say. I don’t bite my tongue and I never try to hide the ugly parts of who I am… You either love me or hate me, but if you love me… I’ll always be loyal, no fucking matter what 😉
I can be called a billon different things—daughter, wife, mother, labor unit nurse. I sell pussy on the side. *Coughs* That would be Persian kittens, thank you…you dirty-minded scoundrel. I’m a book blogger, book pimp, and a book whore. My two indulgences are my Jack’s in life…Jack Daniel’s and Blackjack. My biggest dream, the day I’ll acknowledge that I’ve succeeded in life and can I die a happy woman, is the day I get to go two stark-naked hour-round sexual bouts with Jason Statham. *Sighs*
I was born and raised in Louisiana… and No, I do NOT live in a bayou, I actually see the beaches on the gulf coast more than I see a bayou, lol. I started writing poems and short stories very early in my life. You know, for the Michaels and Leos and Nicks in my life. I’ve been a book hoarder since I was eleven years old, but then a couple years ago something wonderful happened! The 50 Shades of Grey craze brought to life my inner smut whore and I commenced to read anything and everything smut affiliated. When reading wasn’t enough anymore and I noticed that so many of the authors of my favorite indie authors and their books weren’t getting the exposure their work deserved, I turned it into a mission, starting my own blog, buying their books and reading them one by one. I then wrote my reviews for my blog and didn’t hold back in writing them (Hell yeah those motherfuckers a profanity laden). I’ve never done a single thing in my life halfway. I always go all in. After the success of my Blog, and the insistence of one of my bestest friends, my sister from another mister, Trina Taylor of Bad & Dirty Books, I was ready to finally take the plunge and see if I could write a book that was worth a damn. I’m a Southern girl to my core, a self-proclaimed smut whore, and I keep hearing that I’m an author, but honestly… I don’t believe the rumors, lol. I don’t feel like a kickass bitch spittin’ out lyrics, or stories, like a motherfuckin’ rockstar.
Tattooed across my ribs are the words I have always lived by: ‘Aut viam inveniam aut faciam tibi.’ Latin for: If I cannot find a way, I will make my own.