Reasonable Doubt ✔ | Open Novella Contest 2020 | Complete

Twenty-Four - Colt

What's the protocol for dating your old cellie? He wants a relationship, but when does that officially begin? Is there paperwork? An appeals and approval process? Flowers?

I ain't flirted in...well, before prison.

It's even worse than when we were in the cell. Touch is no longer forbidden. Public displays of affection are part of daily interaction.

Out of practice doesn't even cut it. I ain't got a clue.

The hours I laid awake, watching his bunk, imagining his taste and touch. That night he couldn't sleep, I wanted him writhing and heaving on my chest instead of the flat mat. I knew one day I wouldn't be able to curb those urges.

Seems I no longer need to.

Our texts flow with anecdotes and WTF-moments from our respective jobs. He tolerates my clumsily fat-fingering and my ignorance of trends. We work out in the mornings, meet for lunch.

He takes so many pictures and videos. I ain't sure if it's prison or an age difference. I ain't got the compulsion to document every aspect of my life. Now there are images of me struggling with chopsticks on Twitter and Instagram, videos fixated on my lats during pull-ups on TikTok, even a YouTube channel dedicated to prison cooking.

It makes the reality of us more tangible. Combined with the soft kisses and sweet notes, I have starbursts in my chest. He's leagues ahead of me at being a boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

I have a boyfriend. About time I acted like it.

Alex blindly agrees to let me drive his 1980's Silverado and doesn't ask questions as to where we're going. He sits on the bench seat beside me, chatting about everything and nothing. I need to shift gears, keep my hand on the stick.

If I'm being frank, I ain't sure how I should behave. How much touching is too much? Too little? Is there a prescriptive formula for when to do what?

The truck spiders up then down a ditch amid trees draped in gossamer fog. The river glitters in the headlights. I help him up on the tailgate and start arranging things. Blankets, pillows, and a cooler of beer.

"You always do this on a first date?" Alex muses as he helps.

I chuckle. "This is my first."

He blinks. "Your first-first date?"

"Yeah." Feeling insecure, I draw him to me, press a kiss to his cheek. "Why? What's a first date for you?"

Alex looks guilty, traces the star tattoo behind my ear. "I didn't really date. Just hooked up at a club. If I liked the girl or guy, I might see them again. Marta and I always had 'Netflix and chill' nights."

I shift to a more personal question, "How long has your mom known you're bi?"

"Since the picture on Instagram." Though the expression is serious, his eyes are all mischief.

"Oh." Clearing my throat, I plop down on the blankets. "Grab a beer, have a seat."

Alex pulls a DosXX out of the cooler and smiles. Snagging one for each of us, he uses his belt buckle as a bottle opener. The sexiness of that act morphs into something entirely different as he replies, "I'm her son. Anyone I chose to love, she will too."

I almost drop the beer. It must be a language difference, that four-letter word. It's been lunch breaks, a few photos, dozens of kisses, and a couple months in a prison cell. Ain't no way he can know.

I dare to arrange us so that my legs frame his, his back on my chest. When he moans and leans into me, I know I've done something right. Fingers lace with his over his stomach.