Read Online The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) by Olivia Wildenstein - Free Book Online

to sit first, she won’t join me.
    I take my time gathering my meal. Finally, Gill sits next to fat Cheyenne and two other women who do not look particularly friendly. She catches me staring, so I turn my attention to the opposite side of the room where I find a table occupied solely by a white-haired woman whose advanced age leads me to believe she’s inoffensive. I place my tray next to hers and take a seat.
    The mashed potatoes are lumpy, the piece of meat appears as appetizing as a shoe sole, and the boiled carrot, with its green leaf, resembles Herrick. I squash the tender orange flesh with the tines of my fork. My stomach growls, so I gobble it down along with the watery potatoes. I have more trouble with the meat. The blunt knife doesn’t even pierce the steak, so I pick it up and tear off chunks with my teeth.
    My least favorite time of day comes after dinner. Ironically, it used to be my favorite back home: shower time. I sorely miss the privacy of my bathroom. Tightening a tiny, scratchy towel around my body and keeping my prison-issue flip-flops on, I head to the salmon-tiled communal shower where the grout has turned a nasty shade of tobacco.
    Most of the prisoners use this time to socialize. Definitely not me. I’m in and out so quickly that I don’t press the shower button more than once for water. I still have foam on my thighs and calves. I sponge it up with the coarse towel and don my gray uniform.
    “Can I be escorted back to the dayroom?” I ask the guard on duty.
    She narrows her eyes.
    “Officer Cooper got me special permission. It’s in my file,” I tell her.
    “Is that so?”
    I nod.
    She holds out her palm. I stare at it so long, that she says, “A twenty will do.”
    “Twenty what?”
    “What do you think?”
    “You want me to bribe you?”
    “It’s called payment for services rendered.”
    Right. “I don’t have any money on me.”
    “That’s a shame.”
    “But Josh—I mean Officer Cooper got—”
    She’s twisting her long neck left and right. “Don’t see him nowhere.”
    My nostrils flare. My first reflex is to dig through my pocket for my cell phone. Then I remember that it was confiscated because I’m in fucking prison. The guard turns her back to me to survey the palette of naked bodies on display.
    Desperation hits me so hard that an idea—probably an awful one—materializes in my brain. “I have a proposition for you,” I say, coming around to stand in front of her.
    She cocks her head to the side. “I’m listening.”
    “My sister’s competing in the Masterpiecers. You know, that show about—”
    “I know it.” She scrutinizes my face. “That’s why you look familiar. You’re related to that girl, Lucky Little Eight, or whatever the media calls her.”
    “Her name’s Ivy.”
    “What’s your offer?”
    “I’ll give you some of the prize money.”
    “She hasn’t won yet.”
    “But she will. I know my sister. She always gets what she wants.”
    “How much are we talking?”
    “A hundred dollars.”
    She snorts. “Isn’t the prize a hundred thousand?”
    “Yeah, but I’ll need bail money, and Ivy will want to keep some—”
    “Five thousand.”
    “Five thousand?” I choke out.
    “Take it or leave it.”
    My bargaining skills are nil, but I can’t just hand over five thousand bucks. Then again, we’re talking about imaginary money. Once I’m out, I’ll never see this woman again so she can hang on to her imaginary payday.
    “For that price, I get permission to watch the show whenever I want.”
    “Aren’t you a little wheeler and dealer? Fine. But—”
    My mouth goes dry.
    “If your sister gets disqualified,” she says, “you’ll still owe me the money.”
    Cold sweat gathers on the nape of my neck. I remind myself that it’s pretend money, like the one Ivy and I bartered when we played on the faded Monopoly board my mother once brought back from the flea market. We’d had to make playdough houses and hotels, and cut and