They're My Bad Girls. [Sequel To She's My Bad Girl]

HAHA! WHOOP, SEQUEL ALERT! 

 "Next," the cop sitting behind the metal detector said, sounding bored. I rolled my eyes and stepped through, not making it go off since I'd practically been stripped before I even got here. Freaking paranoid cops. It's not like I was going to blow up the prison. Oh, wait. I probably would.

           Some random cop escorted me to my cell, giving the guy sitting on his bed a dirty look. A dark skinned kid only a couple years older than me, curly black hair tangled in a, well, curly mess above his eyes. He glanced me once over with half interested brown eyes and returned his eyes to the Sports Illustrated in his hands.

       I glanced at the cover as I dumped my stuff onto the bottom bunk and snorted. He looked at me. "Bret Favre's trying to unretire? Somebody get him a walker, please." He grinned.  "Just waiting for him to break a hip," he said. He held out his fist. "Derek," he said. I tapped my knuckles against his. "Jason."  "What'd they get you for?" he asked as I fell onto my bed.

      "Attempt at murder, murder," I said easily. He didn't even blink. "Nice." "You?" "Robbery." "Cool." "One thing you should know about this place," Derek said, watching as a couple of guys walked past our cell.  "We have one rule." "And that is?" I asked, figuring I'd break it anyway.

   He smirked. "Make the cops as freaking irritated as possible." I smirked back. "I can do that."

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