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Anya turns back to me with wide eyes as the door slams shut. “That’s your sister?”
I swallow past the jagged glass in my throat. “That’s Evangeline.”
Chapter Two
Jail isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
It’s way fucking worse.
After spending most of my life of privilege, staying in nice places and eating good food, the shared cell surrounding by concrete and metal bars is definitely a culture shock. There is no privacy here, which doesn’t seem to bother the other three guys sharing the cell with me. The metal toilet in the corner can’t be more than two feet from my bunk and someone always seems to have the fucking runs. This place is about as far from my life as you can get.
Which is precisely the point.
When the guards let us out of the cells for meals and recreation time, things don’t improve much.
The population of this town is white and rural, but I’m betting that the jail is the most colorful place in the whole county. My gaze lingers on the people gathered in self-segregated groups around the common area. I don’t let my attention rest on anyone for too long, but I take note of the guys who boldly stare back at me with glowers on their faces.
Maybe they’re just sizing up the new meat.
Or maybe I’ve got a shank with my name on it, courtesy of Havoc House.
I meet their stares boldly, iron in my gaze. The art of giving no obvious fucks is something that I mastered a long time ago. It’s one of the few things that I can thank my father for instilling in me at a young age. When you get a stripe across your ass for every tear you shed, it doesn’t take long to learn how to stop crying like the little bitch you are.
I’d never been hit before I moved in with my father. Mama had more effective and humane methods of disciplining me. Methods that never would have worked for my father, even if he had tried to use them. I may have always wanted his approval, but I never once fooled myself into thinking that his love was actually within reach. So I knew better than to let myself want it.
Without love, my father could only push me so far.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not pissed the hell off. Recognition that this is some sort of punishment, maybe even a test, is all that keeps me holding onto my temper. The indignity of being booked into jail is a hard thing to convey until you experience it for yourself. These fucking guards look at me like I’m just another gutter punk on the wrong side of the color line.
I could see it in their eyes as they forced me to strip and took all of my belongings. They don’t see anything that makes them think I don’t belong here. Van Kochs can trace their lineage back to the Puritans, but nobody sees prestige and old money when they look at me.
The forty-thousand-dollar Rolex that they didn’t give me a receipt for? Must be stolen.
The wad of cash in my wallet? Just more evidence I’m a drug dealer.
The black titanium credit card? Shitkickers can’t tell the difference between it and the plastic crap from their local credit union.
There is a warning written over every inch of this experience. The alumni set me up to be arrested, which means my father knows exactly where I am. The fact that he hasn’t gotten me out of this mess is a very deliberate choice. When I got my one phone call, I wasn’t even surprised when he let it go to voicemail. I could practically hear my father’s voice whispering through my head as I stood in a row with a dozen other naked men, preparing to bend over and cough.
I lifted you up out of the muck, and I can drop you right back in it.
It was almost a relief when I passed through the gate separating booking from the main area of the prison. There are fewer guards here, just one or two meandering past the tables with their hands on their nightsticks. And the hundreds of other prisoners in here make it easy to get lost in the crowd.
But more than one curious gaze follows me when I walk through the room. I feel the attention like a dozen needles poking into my skin. Even though I’ve taken up a position with my back against the wall, it’s obvious that I’m on display. Any of these guys could come for me. I don’t have allies or even a crew to deflect an attack. I am very much on my own here.
Little do they know, I thrive the most when my back is up against the wall.
A burly guy takes a seat across from me at the otherwise empty table. Tattoos wind up and down his massive arms, overly faded and frenetic. The type made with a rubber band and ballpoint pen that you only get in prison.
“Never seen you before,” he huffs.
My gaze briefly drops to the hands he has curled into fists. Empty. “First time for everything.”
His voice lowers, eyes darting quickly from one side to the other before coming back to me. “You holding?”
Just an addict. That’s almost a relief. “Nah, man.”
“You sure? I could really use something and I’m good for it.”
