“Shame’s a useless emotion.”
“What about regrets?”
Oh, she had a fuck-ton of those. “I regret not actually killing the guy I went to jail for assaulting. Does that count?”
Natalie’s smile wavered a little. “Of course! It’s a… a start.”
For the first time since setting foot in the place the day before, Killian smiled a genuine smile. “Yay me.” At least she was going to get to have a little fun.
Focus moved on to Maryl, then Lou, then Belle. Each of the other women became visibly emotional when they talked about their childhoods and pasts. Maryl and Belle both cried and talked openly about how their experiences shaped their lives. And all three of them went on and on about shame and regret. To the point that Killian shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
She wasn’t a sociopath—she knew that—but there was definitely something wrong with her. Something that made her so different from these women. It wasn’t like she’d never cried or felt bad; it was just that it had been a long time since she’d cried or felt bad for herself. She didn’t get sad. She got angry, and she was really good at putting most other emotions in a box and dealing with them later when they weren’t in her way. It made her a good fighter. Made her good at her job.
Did it make her a lousy person, though? She looked at Belle, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue Natalie had conjured seemingly out of nowhere. Lou rubbed her shoulder and Maryl said something encouraging to her.
All Killian could do was sit there and watch. Awkwardly at that.
“Excuse me,” she said, standing. When Natalie gave her a questioning gaze, she added, “Restroom.” Then she left the room as fast as she could without breaking into a run.
She found the restroom just down the hall and ducked into a stall. The air smelled like lemons. It would undoubtedly smell like lemons and shit at some point before the day was over, but for now, Killian focused on that clean, tart smell.
She used the toilet and washed her hands. Her knuckles were scarred and probably bigger than they ought to be. The pinky on her left hand bowed outward a little from having been set wrong after being broken on a chick’s jaw. On the back of her right hand there was a faded tattoo of the Om symbol. Supreme consciousness, the ultimate reality. She smiled—it was exactly the reminder she needed.
Killian knew who she was. If nothing else, prison gave a girl plenty of time to reflect and delve into her deepest self. She’d made her peace a long time ago, and damn all these frigging crying women for making her doubt herself even for a second.
After drying her hands, she headed back to the classroom, centered and ready to face Natalie and her smile. They spent another hour going around talking about painful things from their pasts and the damage done, and then Mina was back at the podium.
“Everyone, we’re going to take a break now to listen to our special guest speaker. Will you all please join us in the lecture hall?”
Mina and the pilots led both classrooms into the hall where they’d been the night before. Already seated to one side were a couple dozen men and women ranging from their twenties to their fifties. Each was attractive and well dressed, Killian noticed. At least they weren’t all white. That would just be creepy, like a bunch of Barbie and Ken dolls.
Mina and the pilots sat on the other side, while the students were directed to fill the middle section. Somehow, Killian ended up sitting next to Maryl in the front row. It was not a comfortable place for her to be.
Once everyone was seated and settled, Mina went up to the podium and spoke into the microphone. “Everyone, we have such a special treat for you today. This is not the sort of thing that usually happens in a first-time orientation, so I want you all to be aware just how fortunate we are to have with us today our own divine goddess, our sister, mother, and friend, Shasis.” She began to applaud and both groups on the sides applauded as well. A few of them even shouted out their praise like they were at a revival.
Killian clapped—only because it would look odd if she didn’t. All eyes were on the raised platform as a woman of average height walked out. She wore a white jumpsuit and heels that had to be at least four inches high. Her hair was long and sleek and obviously had come from the head of some woman in Brazil. It was a good weave—the kind that will cost you at least a grand at the salon. Her dark skin glowed under the lights and her lip gloss glistened. Shasis, aka Tara Washington, cleaned up good. She looked like a woman in control. In reality, she was just a sparkly pimp pretending she was all about empowerment rather than exploitation.
And then Shasis looked right at Killian and smiled. So, Tara remembered her, too. Good. Killian couldn’t help but grin back. Now things were going to get interesting.
FOUR
In school the worst thing you could be was a tattletale. In prison, it wasn’t any different. Everyone hated a snitch, which Killian thought was funny because everyone was also out to save their own ass. To her, while being a snitch might be a little cowardly—and playing Russian roulette with your life—there was something worse. Much worse.
The pimp.
Anyone who made their money selling the body/soul/pride/dreams of another person was the bottom of the barrel, especially when the person wasn’t given a choice.
She couldn’t remember if Tara had coerced her girls into the life, but she did know that she’d started out as a bottom bitch (or top girl, depending on whom you talked to) for some New York “gangsta” before killing him and taking over his business. That was the story, at least. She’d done the world a favor by killing her own pimp, but then she’d stepped into his shiny shoes. Maybe she’d been better to the girls. Maybe she’d given them a choice.
Maybe Killian didn’t really have anger issues. Maybe she was just misunderstood.
There wasn’t any maybe. Tara had even been pimping from prison, running her business from inside with ruthless authority. She was bad fucking news. She’d taken on a hate for Killian because Killian challenged her title as baddest bitch, because while Tara had actually killed her pimp, she’d done it with a gun. She took Killian’s physicality as a personal affront.
And there she was standing on a stage, shining like a diamond coated in baby oil.
There was no denying Tara recognized her. Every inmate who went through that prison while Killian was in it knew who she was. It wasn’t just that she was pseudo-famous for what she’d done to Rank Cirello, but there’d been a bounty on her head because of it. More than two dozen people had tried to kill her during the nine years she was locked up. A couple almost succeeded.
There’d been rumors that one such attempt had been orchestrated by Tara, but she’d never found out for certain—no snitching, right? But honestly, inside, a rumor was as good as truth. People had a hard time keeping their mouths shut. Knowledge was currency. Power.
Killian had no choice but to sit there and listen to the woman spout some drivel about believing in yourself and finding your inner power. She sold a good game, but whoremongers rarely changed their spots.
Shasis talked about her own humble beginnings, growing up in poverty with a single mom. Talked about being abused and shamed for most of her life. She even talked about being in “the life” and “the system,” though she glossed over it like it was nothing more substantial than a wrong turn—just enough to be the victim. Then she started talking about finding her inner strength and making the decision that she didn’t have to be held low anymore, that she could rise above and become something different. Something better.