Page 2 of Shared By the Highest Bidder

“Yep, we got a Michael Kinsey.”

She takes my ID and motions for me to hand over my water bottle, then points to a uniformed female guard who briskly body checks me for weapons. I’m herded into a crowded waiting room with more curious eyes on me and even a few snarled lips.

Clingy warm air holding on to the last summer days in New York found its way into this room and died like a rat, stinking up the place.

For three hours, I wait and wait. The smell has me ready to pass out.

“Michael Kinsey will be at window seven.” A guard points to a row of tables with a six-inch thick plexiglass shield dividing inmates from visitors.

I’ve watched people come and go, studying what triggers the guards to holler at them. They even dragged someone away.

I’m so furious with Michael, I may lunge for him over the shield and get myself tossed into the women’s ward.

At least I’d have a free bed to sleep in. Not that I could ever sleep in a place like this.

Hours after Michael got pinched for drugs last Sunday, the porter locked me out of his apartment because I’m not on the lease. He didn’t care that I’d been living with Michael for the last six months.

I never should have trusted that jerk, but after several good dates and okay sex, he invited me to livewith him while I worked on my fashion collection.

That was one offer I couldn’t butshould haverefused.

Wearing three-day-old dirty clothes, I begged the impossible-to-reach landlord to let me into the apartment to collect my things.

Kindness still goes a long way. That and crying.

Still, he only gave me ten minutes. And it wasn’t until the final few moments, that I realized what was missing.

I’ve been emotionally wrecked ever since.

Then Michael called and asked me to come to Rikers. I doubt the timing was a coincidence.

Slowly, I amble toward the booth. Scuff marks and names engraved into the laminate counter startle me.

How did someone sneak a sharp object in here?

Wearing a frown and keeping my eyes straight ahead, I sense Michael strutting toward the table. He lowers into the seat, and I slap my hand over my mouth. He’s only been in here for five days, but his head is shaved, and he’s got a black eye.

My humanity creeps up to the surface, but I stifle that. This asshole doesn’t deserve my sympathy.

“Thanks for coming,” he grumbles bitterly as if it’s my fault he was selling drugs and got caught.

“I’m only here to ask you where my designs are.”

“They’re safe,” he says with a knowing grin.

My heart pounds, my worst fear happening. “Where?”

“You’ll get them back.”

The man’s a stock trader. How in the world do my plus-size clothing designs help him?

“When? Michael, why are you doing this to me?” I shake my head, probably sounding vulnerable, but thisis the part I can’t get past.

Why?

“I did nothing to deserve this. I was a good girlfriend, but you preferred to do—”

“Shut up!” he yells.

---