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“I’m not going home. I’m staying until my cells are transplanted into my sister.”
“That won’t happen until tomorrow, Mr. Bellamy.”
“Then I’m staying.”
“Mr. Bellamy—”
“I missed enough of Raven’s life while I was on the inside. I won’t miss another minute.”
Especially if they’re numbered, as they may well be. I’m doing all I can to give her a second chance.
I told her nurse yesterday that I’d will her to get better, and I’ll do my best.
But there’s one thing I learned on the inside.
There are no fucking guarantees. One shiv to an assailant, and your life goes to shit.
“Fucking stinks in here.”
I turn around, holding my tray that contains the Wednesday special, beef stroganoff—or creamed diarrhea, as we call it. That’s what it looks like, but it’s not half bad. Or maybe I’ve just gotten used to it. Derby works in food service, and he says it comes in giant boiling bags. Heat and serve. A dinner roll, some mushy canned peas, and two pudding cups round out the meal.
I turn. A new guy. Only the new guys notice the prison cafeteria smell—that intoxicating aroma of subpar food, caustic chemicals, and mildew.
The new guy’s big—as tall as I am but broader in the shoulders. His head is shaved bald and his eyes are the lightest blue I’ve ever seen.
“You get used to it,” I say.
“Did I fucking ask you?” He steps toward me.
Great. He’s one of those. The kind who thinks he has to prove himself on his first day.
“I hear they call you Savage.” He narrows his eyes at me.
“I hear they call you Asshole.”
He stalks toward me, but another inmate—Larkin—steps between us.
“You don’t want to fuck with Savage,” Larkin says.
Asshole pushes Larkin out of the way, jarring my tray in the process. Larkin hits the concrete floor and slides a few feet in my beef stroganoff.
“Man,” I say. “What’d you go and do that for? Now I’m going to have to take your dinner.”
Another inmate helps Larkin to his feet while I close the distance between Asshole and me. “Let me clue you in. No one fucks with me. And no one fucks with any of my men.”
“I bet you do your share of fucking, Savage.”
“Not here,” I say through gritted teeth. “And neither will you.”
“I think I’ll do as I please.”
Two uniformed guards stand at both entrances. Neither of them intervenes. They won’t. Not unless things get way more physical.
I’ve been here long enough to know that if you stay in one of these tough guy’s face’s long enough, he’ll back down.
Asshole isn’t one of them. He throws a left hook at me, which I easily block.
That only pisses him off more.
“Get him, Savage!” someone shouts.
I lunge forward, grabbing his shirt and pushing him against the wall. “Fuck with me again, and I’ll slit your pretty throat.”
He backs off, glancing toward a guard who’s now moving toward us.
But this won’t be the end of Asshole. I can tell by his eyes. You learn to recognize that look of an Alpha who wants to rise to the top and is willing to kill anything in his way. But Asshole—I find out later his name is Fletcher—won’t take my place anytime soon. I have a shiv I made by filing an old toothbrush against the spalling concrete in my cell.
I’ll be watching my back, and I’ll use it if I must.
For a hot doctor, Lois Stevens has freaking cold hands, even with those blue gloves on. The exam doesn’t take long, and she pronounces me healthy enough to go through with the procedure. Not that I had any doubts.
I’ve always been big and strong, but you learn to keep yourself that way on the inside. Anything other than full muscle makes you a target.
And I’m no one’s target.
I’ve been through enough.
I’ve got my hospital bracelet on my wrist, a blue and white gown which leaves nothing to the imagination covering me, an IV stuck into the back of my hand, and I’m being wheeled in a hospital bed to the OR.
I squint against the bright lights in the OR. I’m on my back, and they don’t ask me to roll over. I guess they’ll move me when I’m out.
“Mr. Bellamy,” a doctor in a surgical mask says, “I’m Dr. Dunne, your anesthesiologist. I’m going to put this oxygen mask over your nose, and I want you to count backward from ten to one.”
I give him a thumb’s up, close my eyes, and begin.
Ten.
Savannah Gallo’s silky hair.
Nine.
Savannah Gallo’s sweet lips.
Eight.
Savannah Gallo’s tight pussy…or so I assume.
Seven…
Savannah Gallo…
9
SAVANNAH
Bridget was right. I’m not done with my paperwork until after six. Better to do it the same day to keep my mind fresh. Plus, I don’t have to scurry to get it done before my first appointment tomorrow.
I get into my VW Golf and head to my new place. I’m renting one side of a duplex from an elderly couple, Jim and Susan Shaw. They’re very sweet and Susan has already brought me oatmeal raisin cookies. They’re still in the cookie jar on my counter, and I grab one. The workday is over, so I don’t need to worry about a carb crash.
