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Joshua Grayson cracks a smile but says nothing. This isn’t some boardroom where he can easily find the head of the table. My gut twists. Him and me, we shouldn’t be anywhere near each other.
That realization penetrates slow and steady. I’ve been doing too well at not thinking about my life—not making any connections. But Joshua Grayson shouldn’t be here. He’s Avery’s fiancé. He got arrested and didn’t make bail? Impossible. The Capulets would have bailed him out.
Unless he did something to one of theirs. In which case, they’d pull every string and call in every favor they’re owed to make sure he stays in prison for a very long time. It must be something bad, for him to be here, a businessman in the midst of killers, thieves and drug dealers.
Did he do something to Avery?
My brain roars back into life. Blood flows faster when you’re not pretending to be a dead man. My skin pulls tight, every inch of me preparing for action. The courtyard around me comes into focus. It’s not a big enough space for the fifty-odd guys who are in here. Patchy grass, long shadows from the brick walls. Barbed wire up top. It keeps all of us in a neat order. There’s me and twelve other guys in various spots on the metal picnic tables pinned to the ground in concrete bases, so we can’t pick them up and riot. Three others play a pickup game of basketball at a hoop with no net. The sound of the ball on the pavement drives reality into my brain like a spike.
What the fuck is he here for?
The dealer’s voice cuts back in from my left. “—had videos of her.”
“What?” I whip around so fast it startles him. He narrows his eyes and leans back. The rest of the table sucks in a breath. I don’t smile because I can’t be an aggressive animal baring its teeth in this moment. Instead, I shrug. “Missed what you said. Something about videos?”
The dealer looks at me for a beat. “That guy. Grayson. He’s here for that Capulet girl.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe. There’s no goddamn way that Joshua Grayson infiltrated the Capulet family and then turned on them. There’s no way he’d do that to Avery.
But there is a way. I don’t know who I’m trying to kid. I’ve seen all the depravity the world has to offer. A nice suit and the ability to charm Avery’s father doesn’t exempt Grayson from being a monster. If anything, it makes him more likely to be one. It makes him far more likely to be some pedophile bastard who’s going to follow her around starting at age sixteen and woo her father into handing her over in the name of family dynasty.
He’s a fucking monster.
“What does that mean?” I hear myself say. I sound so fucking cool about it. Like I’m not going to leap up and murder this sick fuck with my bare hands, right now.
“Heard when he was coming in.” The dealer leans close enough to smell the industrial soap and caustic shampoo they stock the bathrooms with. “That Capulet girl, the rich bitch who got kidnapped? He had the videos of it all going down on his computer. They think that guy had somethin’ to do with it.”
Turns out the right words in the right order will make a person do things.
I’m not going to hurt her, you are.
Fuck her, or I’ll shoot this one in the head.
The fact that he had the videos of it all going down on his computer makes me rise from the picnic table. Not too fast, because doing anything too fast in jail will put you on the ground underneath three guards before you can say boo. It makes me walk across the courtyard to where some asshole has already cornered Joshua Grayson. He’s looking down at the man, who gestures in quick, excited motions. That’s why he doesn’t see me until I’m almost on top of him.
My fist connects with Grayson’s face in a glorious thud and crack. That’s my knuckles. I don’t care. Joshua’s head snaps back in a spray of blood, and he stumbles. He’s not ready for this. He’s not ready for any of this. I kick out, my vision focused by sheer hatred, and get him in the knee. He’s already trying to fight back, reaching for me even as he goes down. He might work out at his fancy gym every single fucking day, but it’s a rare guy who can stand up to a direct hit like the one I just gave him. My fingers curl around his short hair.
He watched that? He watched that fucking shit and saved it on his computer? What else did he do, direct it?
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to rip his scalp clean off his skull. But first I send another blow to his face. His nose cracks again and he’s howling, a stream of curses that turn into wordless rage. Joshua’s hands scrabble at the front of my shirt but don’t get purchase because I’m punching him again.
And again.
And again.
He doesn’t take long to go down and curl up, but it leaves his soft underbelly exposed. I kick that, too, hoping for a hit against some vital organ. I’m going to keep kicking until he’s pulp under my shoes. Until he’s absolutely fucking nothing. I’m never going to stop.
I’m still striking when the guards come. I land two more kicks while they twist my arms around my back and then they’re duck-walking me out of there. Guys cheer. Who are they cheering for, him or me? I doubt they even know. They’re cheering for violence in general.
All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart. All I can feel is the raw pain at the tips of my knuckles. “Fuck him,” I say. “Fuck him. I’m gonna kill him.”
“Shut your mouth,” one of the guards says, but he obviously isn’t committed to follow through. I know he’s not.
“Fuck that bastard.” My feet are hardly touching the ground. We don’t turn right toward my regular cell. We turn left, and I know exactly where we’re going.
Solitary.
The hole.
