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Do they have a secret stash in the caves? Weapons? Explosives? Wouldn’t it be peculiar if they had heavy artillery there? Enough to make some noise—that’s about it.
The thought makes me smile. I saw the Eastsiders practice shooting guns several months ago. Not just any guns—some homemade fuckery put together by Droga. He is resourceful. Smart, too.Was. Until the blondie came along.
And now he disappeared inside the caves.
Alright.
I’ll give him time.
I toss the phone on the desk and exhale, blowing out air and sinking into the chair, closing my eyes for a moment.
I am so fucking tired of these games. Eastside. Westside. Port Mrei. Savages. Butcher and his gang. Labs. Testing. Research. Virtual meetings. Constant pressure from Dad.
I want to get lost.
Iceland, Canada, Australia—doesn’t matter. Chile would do. That’s where I need to be—on a fucking vacation. Zion has become a bigger job than I ever imagined. Jobs can be outsourced. Responsibility though is what drains me.
I want to be anywhere but here.
Or nowhere—that thought is like a fucked up Joker’s smile lately.
I left Marlow sulking after the Eastside raid. He keeps tabs on Ty and Owen, so obviously he is not happy about the recent development. But I am not a fucking Santa Clause to make everyone happy. No one tries to makemehappy. All they do is ask and ask and fucking take and negotiate.
I pour another drink and rub my burning eyes.
No sleep tonight.
I don’t sleep.
I don’t remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep.
Usually, several hours are enough. But lately, shit is hitting the fan more often than my patience can handle.
The lab and research are doing great. Money is rolling in—in fact, gushing in like water through a broken dam. But that’s the only thing that’s doing well. BecauseIfeel like a broken dam that lets everything slip through.
I wish there was a place to escape. Choices.
Yeah, choices are what keeps us sane. Prison is not about confinement but lack of choices.
I kick off the shoes and take a moment to enjoy the feeling of the cool floor under my feet. I feel like my entire body is on fire.
I should do a line.
Nah, the night will be long, but I won’t be able to sleep anyway, blow or no blow.
I finish the drink in one gulp, then pour another one. A bottle and work screens—that’s my office lately.
I wonder what the two captured girls are doing.
The little blonde mouse is probably crying.
The other one, Katura Ortiz—nice body, cocky stare. I feel a smile tug my lips. Feisty, that one. With a rap sheet and history like hers, she’ll add some spice to this monotonous place. Maybe some action—she’s been ogling me the entire time on the Eastside. A snap of my fingers, and she’ll be on her knees, undoing my zipper.
The two will stay in their room at least until morning.
There is nowhere to run. Katura Ortiz won’t. She is here for a ride. If the other one runs, that will be even more fun.
I set the empty glass on the desk and rake my fingers through my hair with a heavy exhale.
