Imprisoned

ONE HUSTLER’S WORLD

ONE HUSTLER’S WORLD II: FOR LOVE AND WAR

101 ORGASMS

More books to come. Be on the lookout for

HONOR KILLING

Copyright © Nikita Stewart 2021

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced to a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

For any information regarding purchases (bulk or otherwise), please email Firing Pen at FIRINGPENBOOKS@GMAIL.COM or call the publisher Firing Pen anytime at 757-322-7719

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my father,

the late David Lee Stewart.

Despite my mistakes your love never waned.

One million thank you’s for your love, support, and guidance. Rest in peace, my father, best friend, and mentor.

IMPRISONED

By Nikita Stewart

A Firing Pen Book

CHAPTER 1

The vilest deeds like poison-weeds bloom well in prison air;

It is only what is good in Man that wastes and withers there

-Oscar Wilde 1854-1900

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Images of battling a fire-breathing dragon flooded Chelsea's psyche. The same recurring nightmare haunted her sleep around this time every year. In defeat, the vanquished survived, yet all those they loved were slaughtered—the curse of a thousand deaths.

Chelsea's legs shaking violently stirred her awake. Her pupils adjusting to the enclosure’s dimness, she glared at her surroundings. A white, metal desk was nailed to the right, concrete wall. Two metal footlockers were against the left wall. There were a gray steel toilet and sink. The concrete floors and an air-locked door gave the 12x8 foot enclosure the allure of a tomb.

Chelsea, sweating profusely, thanked her roommate for waking her up. She climbed down from atop her assigned bunk. At the sink, she groggily stretched her limbs and splashed her face with cold water. She gazed into the meager, stainless steel mirror secured to the wall over the toilet and sink. Her reflective image bathes her in loneliness. Chelsea filled the sink with warm water then removed her perspiration dampened t-shirt.

She used a worn-out washcloth to cleanse her perspiration slick face. A sweat droplet trickled down her bare chest, between her cleavage when she felt a familiar presence behind her. Chelsea didn't resist her friend taking the washcloth. She gripped the sink edge. Her head down, she fought to appreciate the soft hands cleansing her back.

She couldn't shake away her accumulating despair. She said, That same nightmare, it recurs more and more around this time, every time. I'm getting sick of it.

Chicca, you were kicking and screaming again. You haven't done that in a while. So, I'm guessing it was pretty bad this time.

Simone, I should be excited, or at least anxious. It's just... Chelsea slowly spun around, hurling herself into her longtime friend's non-judgmental gaze. Sulking, she conceded to the inevitable. Go ahead, tell me why I should always hold my head up high.

Chicca, yo tengo keep it gully en aqui. No matter what happens, it won't come as a surprise. So, worse case, you get to do it all over again next year. It's like hitting the reset button on a game controller. The thing is, you only get one reset a year. So, don't you dare let those Puntas break your spirit. Not after all this time. Simone lectured her.

The women shared a much-needed hug. One second later, a brilliant beam of light burst through the 20 x6 opening in the middle of their door; the chuck-hole slot.

The eyes looking into their home disgusted the women. Chelsea quickly covered her breasts before firing off. Okay, perv, you got your daily eyeful, so you can reckless eyeball some other bitches.

Incensed, Simone chimed in. Any reason you still here, maggot?

The man, disregarding the insolent Latina, instead addressed Chelsea. Whitehurst, you have five minutes. Otherwise, I'll radio you refused to exit your quarters.

Once the man walked off, Chelsea quickly donned her light blue scrubs and cloth Bob Barker tennis shoes. She tied her hair into a ponytail. Securing a manila folder underneath her left arm, she waved her right arm out of their chuck-hole slot. She was garnering the housing unit officer's attention. Moments later, an unseen motor churned. With the automatic cell door opening, she took a deep breath and said, Pray for me.

Every time, Chicca. Every time. Simone assured her.

Chelsea stepped out of their assigned quarters into the brilliantly lit, eerily silent, two-tiered housing unit day area. The clock mounted high above the control booth read 5:25 am.

Correctional officer (c/o) Diggs retrieved his handcuffs, approached the offender, and said. Because it's prior to the 6 o'clock count time, you need to be secured before we head out. He handcuffed the offender's wrists behind her back.

Chelsea was escorted from her B3 housing unit and down the second-floor corridor. Into the building's stairwell, she was escorted down two flights of concrete stairs. She was led past the building's guard station into a dark early morning. She cherished the cool, pine-scented breeze. The officer led her down the 'boulevard,' the walkway extending the length of the institution. She pondered how many enslaved souls trekked this path of orchestrated desperation. Sounds of nature's concerto bellowed just beyond the tall, barbed wire perimeter fence. Chelsea yearned for the opportunity to run barefoot through the distant wilderness.

The guard towers resembled medieval archery posts protecting the castle walls. The difference between now and medieval times, these archers kept their weapons trained inside the castle walls instead of outside. The archers today dared the peasants to try to escape from their king's tyrannical reign.

The officer led Chelsea from the boulevard and into the institution's Master Control building, the security operations heart of the institution. It took her several seconds before her eyes adjusted to the brilliant light and antique white walls. High-ranking officials and early arriving guidance counselors gauged Chelsea's slow trek. She was ushered around a sharp bend. There she noticed the sparkly clean tiled floors—a far cry from the institution's ill-kept housing units.

Chelsea, midway down the lengthy hallway, was forcibly seated on a wooden bench. The overly aggressive c/o Diggs removed her left handcuff bracelet and secured it to the bench armrest. Chelsea eyed him disdainfully and said, Thanks for forgetting to break my damn arm.

You’re welcome. c/o Diggs retorted, then walked away.

Chelsea spent the next twelve minutes pondering nothing at all. Then suddenly, the clack of approaching heels resonated.

A petite white woman sashayed around the corner. Chelsea gauged how the woman’s peach Donna Karan pantsuit and silver flats contoured to her small stature. Her long, dark hair fell over her slim shoulders. The woman’s smirk acknowledged what the enchained woman was thinking. Chelsea would cut-off her right arm just for them to trade places, if only momentarily.

The woman took a seat on the bench and said, Whitehurst, in a few minutes, you’ll be called in.

Chelsea waved off her guidance counselor. Ms. Hayes, we walked this dog before, so I think I’ll manage. Thank you.

I don’t think you understand. Several factors are different this time around.

Did they decide before the hearing even started?

Ms. Hayes conceded to her client’s snide inquiry. Let’s hope not. She shook Ms. Whitehurst’s hand and wished her good luck.

Chelsea rehearsed her answers to the routine questions. She practiced switching from a gleeful emotion to anguish. Shame. Grief. Indifference. Exhaustion. Demure. Guilt. She needed the ability to summon any emotion in an instant. Her failure to do so could mean the scales would remain tilted against her.

Chelsea sat misty-eyed. Her tears ready to be expelled, she watched the large, nearby double doors slowly part. A short, balding, pot-bellied c/o emerged. Using a small silver key, he removed her handcuffs and said, They’re ready for you.

Chelsea caressed her wrists then said a quick prayer. The officer ushered her through the double doors into a spacious, inadequately lit conference room. The first thing she noticed was another correctional officer sitting in the far-right corner. The pot-bellied c/o took a seat in the left corner. Exposed lightbulbs dangling from the ceiling, this room was purposely sullen.

Two older men and one woman sat behind a long, wooden table in leather wide-backed office chairs. They eyed the approaching woman sternly.

Chelsea, taken aback by the unfamiliar faces, stood alongside a steel folding chair and asked. What happened to the usual board members?

The woman gestured towards the chair. Ms. Whitehurst, take a seat so we can begin. Once the woman complied, she introduced her colleagues. To my left is Mr. Vernon Rodgers. To my right, Mr. Dilbert Jones. I am Senior Board Member, Mary Bartlett.

Mr. Rodgers placed an audio recorder on the table then said, Parole Board for the Illinois Department of Corrections, record number 69552. Currently at the Dwight Correctional Center for Women. Here with offender...

Chelsea spoke loud and clear. Chelsea Whitehurst, inmate number 20-13-397.

Ms. Whitehurst, you stand before this parole board seeking to have a petition for early release granted. Unlike our predecessors who adhere to a strict Q & A, this board likes to take a long hard look at those offenders seeking a second chance. Criminal and institutional files only provide so much intel. As such, though we have reviewed your case file, there are questions we would like to posit here today. Questions you probably would not think a parole commission would or should ask. Inmate Whitehurst, for the record, do you anticipate a problem answering such questions?

Chelsea shook her head. Instructed to submit a verbal response, she emitted long-standing exhaustion. Sometimes, it’s better to put it all out there. At least then, you’ne have nothing else to hide.

Mary Bartlett began the hearing by replying. Inmate Whitehurst, you can start by introducing us to the woman you were before the circumstances that led to you sitting before this commission. Take us to the time in your life you feel was the catalyst for your requisite slide into criminality.

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The future is purchased by the present

-Samuel Johnson 1709-1784

CHAPTER 2

We could never learn to be brave and patient

if there were only joy in the world

-Helen Keller 1890

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Geico Insurance Building

Downtown Chicago, Illinois

nine years earlier

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The constant, off-melody concerto of multiple chiming office phones surrounded Chelsea. Exhaustedly, she flung her headset aside, then removed her heels. Massaging her feet, she relishes the lull in her phone’s activity. She peeked over her makeshift cubicle wall. Disgustedly, she gazed upon the ocean of Geico Insurance claim adjusters, working tirelessly to maintain the corporation’s bottom line.

Several minutes later, her office phone chimed for the thousandth time. Sulkily, Chelsea retrieved her headset and reclaimed her professionalism. Geico Insurance, Ms. Whitehurst speaking, how may I help you today?

The caller replied. I filed my claim several weeks ago. All the too-and-from were tackled. So why is it I haven’t been reimbursed yet?

Policy claim identification number, please. Chelsea entered the requested information into her computer. Skimming through the data, she scoffed then spoke into her headset. Mr. Reynolds, I handled your accident claim. And your reimbursement you keep requesting was sent. The check was cashed two weeks ago by you. Do I need to forward you a copy of your bank’s receipt?

That shouldn’t be necessary. I suddenly recall cashing that check.

Sir, will you please stop calling about this issue? Other people need our attention.

What if I only call once more, just to thank you for being so courteous?

If you don’t mind, I have work to do.

The caller replied. Please allow me the opportunity to show my gratitude by buying you a cup of coffee.

Chelsea sucked her teeth. Mr. Reynolds, we’ve been through this before. It’s improper for you to ask and against policy for me to even consider such a request. Which will NEVER HAPPEN. Now good day. She hung-up the phone then flung her headset aside.

Moments later, a short, freckle-faced woman sashayed into her cubicle. She took a seat on Chelsea’s desk, then jeered half-jokingly. Hey there, funny looking bi-otch.

Chelsea replied in kind. Hey there, strawberry shortcake face. She was happy to share an agitation dissipating laugh. You wouldn’t guess who just called... again.

I tapped into your phone line, so I heard everything. Alicia Marks confessed. That Mr. Reynolds sounds sexy. If he looks anything like he sounds, I’ll give him more than a cup of coffee and fifteen percent off his car insurance.

Don’t talk like that. A few more calls, and he might be a stalker.

Maybe that’s what your homely tail needs. As if rehearsed, Alicia ran-down her friend’s daily itinerary.

Chelsea assumes her post thirty minutes early after a cinnamon raisin bagel, orange juice breakfast, and uneventful drive to work. During her ten-hour workday, she takes only two bathroom breaks and a thirty-minute lunch. After work, she makes a stop at the nearest Redbox video rental machine. Lastly, she heads off to her quaint quarters for more microwave popcorn and yet another chick flick.

Chelsea, guilty as charged, chortled in acceptance of the accurate detailing of her life. On the weekends, I do other stuff.

A quick-tongued Alicia countered. Ice skating and going to the movies alone or doing some charity work at some filthy soup kitchen doesn’t count. I’m only saying this because if it were me, I would hope you would be telling me the same thing. Chelsea Whitehurst, you need a fresh stud to open your virgin tight, stuffy shirt self-up. My guess, Mr. Reynolds is a good enough candidate. At least until you get back into the SWANG of THANGS.

Chelsea waved off the notion. I’m okay as is.

Ever since you and___

Don’t you dare say his name.

Alicia’s hands up in mock surrender conceded. I was just saying, since you-know-who, you’ve shut yourself off from the world. It’s time you jumped back into the pool of life. And you can start by dating again.

Shouldn’t you be getting back to your station?

Can you at least think about what I said? Maybe Mr. Reynolds can be a fresh piece of sirloin. God only knows how hungry that stuff between your thighs has to be.

Once the always high-spirited Alicia took leave, Chelsea resumed her duties. After a surprisingly easy-going rest of the day, she was pleased to shut-down her computer. She and Alicia followed the parade of workers from the building into the late afternoon. Seemingly, every woman noticed the tall, well-dressed gentleman standing alongside the curb, holding a large sign above his head.

Alicia tapped Chelsea on her shoulder. Doesn’t that sign say, Whitehurst?

Yeah, but I didn’t send for a driver and have no plans to. So, he can’t be here for me.

I don’t see a limousine, so maybe he’s not here to give you a ride. At least not THAT type of ride.

There’s obviously another Whitehurst in the building. If he waits around long enough, they’ll show up.

Alicia conceded to her friend’s reluctance to investigate further by dragging her towards the stranger. His 6’3, 210Ib broad-shouldered physique awed her. Wearing a dark blue Brioni suit and raspberry Kenneth Cole loafers, he towered over the women. His brilliant buttermilk skin tone and dark eyes pierced both women’s souls. His dark, curly hair was sprinkled with streaks of natural auburn.

Alicia nodded with lascivious approval, then took the sign from him. My girl here last name is Whitehurst. So, I’ll just keep this.

The tall stranger smirked mischievously. Would she happen to be the same Whitehurst who refuses to accept a polite thank you cup of decaffeinated java?

Chelsea glared at him with incensed recognition of his masculine vocal tone. If you who I think you are, leave before I call security.

Who do you think I am?

Alicia quickly interjected. Worrisome tail, Mr. Reynolds, She melted into his perfect, pearly white teeth smile. Who seems to have a thing for calling at the least opportune times. But you are persistent. I’ll give you that.

Chelsea, primed to leave, scoffed at the stranger blocking her path. Excuse me, please.

Can I apologize first?

For all the times you called with that nonsense about not being reimbursed. I don’t have forever.

I apologize for disrupting a beautiful woman’s busy workday with my foolishness. Call me crazy, but every time we talked, it felt like I was conversing with a friend. That’s why I’m here. I decided it was time to see if we can invest in that friendship.

Alicia, hands on her hips, stepped to him and interjected. Friends know each other. She knows zilch about you.

The man formally introduced himself. I’m Beau Reynolds, faithful Geico customer, and thrilled to be one, now that I’ve met my guardian claim, adjuster angel.

Alicia made proper introductions. Now, since that’s taken care of, this third wheel should get going. She pulled Chelsea aside and whispered. Remember what we talked about earlier.

Beau watched the freckle-faced woman head towards the nearby parking garage. Then he unveiled a single white rose to the remaining woman. A token of my sincerity. I truly am sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.

Chelsea, accepting the flower, inhaled the exotic fragrance. What’s behind you going through all this trouble to apologize in person? A phone call or email would’ve sufficed. Lord knows you placed ten too many calls already.

Curiosity, I guess. Now I’m definitely curious to learn certain things about you.

Like what?

Beau took her hand. Examining her fingers, he noticed her nails were due for a manicure. Smiling, he tugged on her naked ring finger. If you are who I think you are, I’ll dress this up quite nicely.

Chelsea spats. Geez, that was lame.

Let’s go somewhere and talk. That way, I can make up for that lame remark. I always wanted to try that deli around the corner.

I need to be somewhere.

Then can I have ten, fifteen minutes of your time, right here?

Pedestrians still out in droves, commuters continued to race past. Chelsea set the alarm on her smartphone. You got five minutes.

Beau led her to a black-on-black, illegally parked Ford Mustang.

Chelsea refused to leave the sidewalk. Right here is just fine.

Beau tossed his blazer inside the muscle car. Loosening his tie, he retrieved two coffee mugs. Then filled the mugs halfway, only to concede to Chelsea’s polite refusal. Taking a sip from his coffee mug, he said. Sure is tasty.

Then you’re welcome to drink mine as well. Especially since I don’t know what that could be.

I figured the woman I kept harassing was so sharp-witted, she wouldn’t go out with me even for coffee.

Chelsea folded her arms. And you were right.

That’s why I brought some freshly roasted Folger blend to Ms. Whitehurst.

After several seconds, Chelsea snatched her coffee mug from him. If this is what you call us getting to know each other, start by telling me how you knew what my favorite brand was.

I guessed someone so professional only drank a professional blend.

Haha, funny man. Now how about the truth? Because this could very well be a blind date.

Beau countered. A blind date is defined as a date with a stranger, arranged by a third person. Which would mean someone told me how pretty you were beforehand.

You don’t have to compliment me. I like keeping things simple. And I know that comes with a price.

From this viewpoint, nothing about you is simple. And that price is just fine by me.

Chelsea performed a playful knee bend. She poked fun at how her floral, knee-length dress and two-inch Jimmy Choo heels adorn her 5’5, 115Ibs. Her appearance was modest. Bangle earrings and light mascara barely highlighted her smooth, crème face. Her strawberry blond hair tied into a ponytail extended to the middle of her back. Frameless, Claudia Carlotti glasses were on top of her button nose. Chelsea’s emerald green eyes studied Beau for any signs of falsehood.

She was uncomfortable with his consistent leer, so she broke the brief silence. I’ve always been the shy girl at the school dance. In the corner somewhere reading a book instead of mingling.

Book worm, check.

So, what about you, Mr. Reynolds?

Beau relayed he was the manager of a Best Buy electronics store.

Chelsea finished the last of her coffee then gave him back the mug. It was thoughtful of you to go through all of this trouble. But I need to get going.

So that’s it? I thought things were finally getting peaceful between us.

In some ways, I rather enjoyed our convo, but those five minutes are about up. And I do need to get going. Seemingly on cue, her phone’s alarm blared.

Beau conceded to the inevitable. At least do me the honor of walking you to your vehicle. That way, I know which vehicle to stalk.

Chelsea downplayed the ill-timed quip by allowing him to escort her into the downtown Chicago parking garage. On the second level, she approached a modest Hyundai Sonata. She allowed Beau to open her driver's door and accepted his business card. In what fashion would you like for me to use this?

For now, I was hoping you would call to make sure I made it home safely.

Chelsea bursts with laughter. Please don’t tell me you’re serious.

Beau helped her behind the wheel. Once Chelsea maneuvered her Hyundai Sonata around the corner and away from the second level, he placed his smartphone to his face.

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South Lakeshore Drive

Southside Chicago

30 minutes later

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Chelsea rushed into her apartment building. She nearly leaped into the elevator. Onto the ninth floor, she hurried down the corridor. Her house-keys in hand, she rushed into her apartment. Tossing her handbag aside, she disregarded her routine by bypassing her kitchen altogether. Instead, she stormed into her bathroom.

She ran a bath then uncorked a bottle of White Zinfandel. Drinking from the bottle, she relishes the exquisite white wine soothing her parched throat. After undressing, she retrieved her cordless phone.

Chelsea made herself at home in her steaming hot bath. The warm soap suds tickled her nose. She gulped down more wine while studying Beau’s business card then her cordless phone. Sometime later, she sat the business card aside and dialed a different set of numbers. On the third ring, she refused to reciprocate the warm greeting. Instead, she said. Why did you try and set me up on a damn blind date... without my permission at that?

I did no such thing. Alicia swore.

You might as well admit it. Beau already snitched on you.

Nice try.

Chelsea shot back. Alicia, you never were a good liar. I can hear the lies all in your voice. So be honest and admit it so that we can move on to the next subject.

I don’t know that guy from a can of Spam. Now, you be real about something. He sure is a tall piece of sirloin.

You can be so porn-hubbish.

Alicia bursts with laughter. You can shoot Sea-biscuit if you want. You don’t wanna run the Kentucky Derby. I damn sure will. And Mr. Reynolds can be my jockey and ride this ass across the finish line.

Chelsea was unable to hold back her laughter enthused tears. She sat her cordless phone between her neck and shoulder-blade then retrieved the business card. With her feet propped on top of the bathtub faucet, she watched soap suds slither down her legs.

Immoral thoughts flooded Chelsea’s psyche. She relayed to Alicia the gist of her and Beau’s conversation. She confessed to almost losing herself in his masculine dominance. The way he towered over her was something to behold. When Beau spoke, though she could hear him, she was primarily transfixed on his succulent, kissable lips. Chelsea also confessed to a desire to sample more than his kiss; that was why she abruptly concluded their ‘chance’ encounter.

Alicia asked her. If you enjoyed the view, what’s the hiccup?

Besides the fact, I know absolutely zilch about him, no way he’s single.

"Says who, Dr. Philip?

Smooth, confident, good looking. I’m certain he has some other woman stashed away somewhere. Maybe a few women. Either that, or there is something wrong with him upstairs. Not to mention, he just so happens to appear out of the blue, all charming and whatnot. Chelsea relayed. Obviously, somebody sent him my way... I wonder who, number one suspect.

Alicia deflected the insinuation. Sure, your parents didn’t give him directions to their lonely, man-missing daughter?

Impossible.

Maybe it was someone else at work.

It was definitely someone at work. Chelsea fired off sarcastically.

Due to her friend’s anti-social behavior, Alicia could not think of any other culprits to point her finger at. Look, Cee, the hell with who sent him down from handsome heaven. Take advantage of that buffet and eat up all the meat you can, vegetarian.

That was so whorish.

Be his whore. Better yet, let him be yours. Use that card he gave you, put on your detective hat, and see if he checks out. If he does, you two should check into a hotel for a sexy weekend of anything goes.

And when I’m done having this anything-goes fun, what do I do... just toss him back to wherever he came from?

Men do it all the time. I say it’s time one of us return the favor.

Chelsea hung-up on her friend then sat her cordless phone aside. Her thoughts were swirling with infinite possibilities and likely pitfalls. She could not help pondering whether some unseen entity was trying to inject her monotonous life with a booster shot of excitement.

She fiddled with the business card. Swallowing her fear, she decided to take a great leap into the dark unknown.

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Denny’s Restaurant

Westside Chicago

11:30 am the following Saturday

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Chelsea was sitting alone within a secluded booth. She peered through the window into a sun-beautified morning. Ten minutes later, she watched a familiar black-on-black Ford Mustang pull into the Denny’s Restaurant parking lot. Nervous and unsure of herself, she watched her reason for being there greet several women in passing. Each woman openly ogled his backside.

Chelsea’s anxiety soaring, she took a hard, dry swallow. Determined to maintain her composure, she held firm against Beau entering the restaurant. She leered the way