Playing for Keeps Read Free Page B

bars, security gates, and uniformed guards never let one forget where you were. Based on her research, the majority of the women were there due to drugs, prostitution, petty crimes or parole violations. But she didn't care. She just wanted her ninety day sentence to be over. There were a total of twenty women in her class and one guard, a man who's eyes she didn't like.
    To her surprise, half of her students seemed to have African heritage. The rest were a mixture of South American, North American Anglo and one, she didn't even dare to guess. One of the woman looked barely out of high school with unnatural red hair and dark roots, making her wonder how someone's daughter ended up here. Stacy knew they hadn't heard of her, but that wasn't a surprise. She made a lot of money, but wasn't a household name. She liked it that way. She didn't want to be known. She liked being able to go where she wanted, without being recognized.
    "I'll watch your stuff for you," an older woman said meeting her at the door. The woman looked haggard--like life had punched her in the face and stepped on her just to make a point. She had a flat face, with hanging jowls, puffy eyes and gray, wiry hair. But under the sagging skin Stacy could detect a lovely bone structure and imagined that she'd once been quite a looker in her youth.
    "My stuff?" Stacy asked.
    "Yes, you can't be too trusting around here. My name's Priscilla."
    "Thanks."
    Stacy soon found out that, in addition to not trusting them, she couldn't even be heard. For the first fifteen minutes the women continued several conversations and totally ignored her. The correctional officer was of no use, and made no attempt to assist her in gaining control. After trying to get their attention by introducing herself, Stacy finally sat down and just looked at them. The women soon became quiet.
    "Are you going to just sit there?" one called out to her as if she were sitting across a stadium instead of only a few yards away. Her words were coarse, traced with a Brooklyn accent, but she had the command of a queen and the looks to match. She had the East African beauty of a tribal princess. Her black hair was shaved short, her eyes rimmed with dark lashes and her slender frame lounged like a lazy cat.
    Stacy rested her chin in her hand and fought back a yawn. "Isn’t that what you want?"
    "Hell, this is supposed to be some kind of writing class," another women shouted.
    "And I thought I was going to get students who understood English, but I was wrong," she mumbled.
    The cat sat up straighter and narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"
    "What?"
    "You think we don't speak English. Are you making fun of us?"
    Stacy looked around the room. Damn, she hadn't expected to be overheard. "I was just talking to myself, but now that I've got your attention let's talk about the power of a story."
    "No, first we want to hear what you meant."
    Stacy just stared at her, knowing that silence was her best weapon. This cat wasn't going to let this mouse go, she smelled a kill.
    "Come on," Priscilla said. "Let her talk or she'll send us back to our cells."
    The cat sent Stacy an ugly look then sat back.
    Stacy breathed a sigh of relief then started the first lesson.
     
    ***
     
    At home, Stacy went straight to the kitchen, remembering the email from her housekeeper Kelly Bremmer, giving her instructions for dinner. She went to the fridge and popped the premade meal into the microwave. As she waited for it to warm, she looked around her enormous kitchen, which was about the size of her first apartment. She never thought she'd live so well when she'd gone to New York to get her career off the ground. She’d had an average middle class upbringing in a quaint Maryland suburb before she'd met Marshall Harrington, an aspiring actor. She'd gone to New York to write plays. She was only twenty-two, he was twenty-six and a budding stage star. They'd met at an Improv class. She'd been dazzled by how different he was from everyone