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“Probably should have skipped that. The prison guard you texted said Trenton hated texting and only did it once in a blue moon. Said he only got three text messages from that guy in the ten years they worked together. So, he went to his house and didn’t see him there. Had a key or some shit, who knows? Then when he didn’t see him, he followed his tracks and saw that he went down to solitary confinement and …” Zeke trails off and I can see where he’s going with it.
Hicks went down to the hole and opened the cell and found Trenton dead on the cot. Fuck! I thought texting was a thing everyone did now instead of calling. But I think the outcome would have been the same if Trenton didn’t call out and just missed work. Oh well, shit happens. My absence would have been noticed eventually.
Blowing out a long breath, I rub along my beard. “I get it. I’ll check out the news. Have they come to you guys yet?”
“Nope, but it’s only a matter of time. I’ll come up that way tomorrow, and make sure I’m not followed. They know we’re still tight since I’ve been writing you and accepting your calls. I’d like to see you as a free man before I can’t for a while.”
My throat gets tight and I clear it roughly. “Can’t wait man. Call me when you head up, yeah?”
“Yeah. Life is good on this side of the fence.”
“Yeah, man. Life is good.”
I hang up the phone just as Finn slides a plate of eggs in front of me. “I’ll figure out how to make something else,” he says quietly.
Instead of answering, I pick up the plate and start eating. The eggs aren’t bad—better than the prison eggs for sure—so I shovel a bunch into my mouth. Then I remember what Zeke said about the news and turn the obscenely large television on. Finding a news channel, I see the “Breaking News” banner and my face splattered on the screen. My stomach turns sour and I drop my fork on the plate. I really thought I had more time.
“Here’s an update on the latest story of the escaped inmate from Trusdale Federal Penitentiary. Raxel James, sentenced to fifteen years to life for attempted murder against Antonio Barba, escaped after murdering a prison guard. We just got information that he has kidnapped a man from Reverdale, Missouri the morning following his escape. This video shows James conversing with this man, who has been identified as Finnegan Coombs, before he looks under the hood of the truck James stole from the guard he murdered. From there, James takes him captive. A witness spotted them outside of a North Missouri Walmart, but from there, their trails have grown cold. We have a reporter in Reverdale with the mother of Mr. Coombs. Bob, can you hear me?”
The reporter that’s in Reverdale pops up on the screen with a red-faced crying woman that wipes under her eyes every few seconds. I glance at Finn whose face is white and pinched, arms wrapped around himself.
“Yes, Connie, we have Wendy Coombs here. Wendy, can you tell us about your son?”
She sniffles, nodding her head.
“He’s a good boy. A mechanic. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s my pride and joy. My baby boy, my only child. Please, I need him back. Baby, if you can hear me, I love you. I love you so—”
I click the television off, tossing the remote down. Glancing over at Finn, I see he’s still in the same position, staring at the blank screen, tears streaming down his face.
Giving up on eating, I place the plate down on the coffee table. I’m not good at comforting people—none of my brothers cried unless in physical pain or at a funeral, in which case no comforting words were needed, just a hand and a brief hug. No one in prison wanted to cry or be labeled a punk and shanked in the showers. Finn and I aren’t friends. I don’t know how to make him feel better and I don’t know if I even want him to feel better. It’s fine if he hates me. I’m not here to make his time easier—just bearable so he won’t rat me out when I let him go.
Not knowing what to say, I tell him, “Come on. I need a shower.”
“I um …” Finn says quietly. “Can I stay out here?”
“No.” Grabbing his arm, I haul him up and take him to the room I’m using. I sit him on the toilet and start the shower. I keep my eyes on him as I strip out of my clothes, quickly pulling my shirt over my head. Finn doesn’t move an inch—just sits with his arms wrapped around his middle on the edge of the closed toilet.
I don’t shut the shower door. He could try to run and that’s an inconvenience. I soap my body and get myself clean, washing quickly so I can get out and figure out my next move or call Shane.
Since Finn hasn’t even looked at me naked since I removed my clothes, I take that to mean he’s still dazed from seeing his mother on the news and the realization that he’s been kidnapped by a murderer. Taking a chance, I duck my head under the shower spray to get it wet so I can wash it. My hair hasn’t had a good wash in years, since the hard water of the prison doesn’t count.
I squirt some of the fancy shampoo Shane packed for me into my hand and groan as I massage it into my scalp, cleaning my hair.
I’m just dipping my head again to wash the suds out when movement catches my eye. In my brief moment of enjoying a luxury like clean hair, Finn hops off the toilet seat and bolts. He’s fast, but I’m faster. He’s already halfway down the stairs when I hop out of the shower and pound down the hall after him. I take the steps three at a time, so by the time he’s at the bottom, I’ve caught up with him.
Tackling him to the ground, I hold him down, my hips tight to his ass he shouts and screams, crying as loudly as he can.
I shouldn’t think it, I know I shouldn’t, but his ass rubbing against my dick has it growing between those perfectly round globes. Not to mention that I like this kind of thing—chasing down my prey and taking them down—with their consent, of course.
I’m a murderer, not a rapist.
Trying to tamp my arousal down, I flip him over to his back, ignoring the shampoo trailing down my face, threatening to get in my eyes. Finn kicks at me, barely avoiding my dick until I can get my legs over his to stop him from moving and pin his arms over his head.
“Cut it the fuck out!” I shout in his face while his body quivers with the force of his cries. “I told you I’d let you go! But if you run again, I will fucking bury you!”
“Then do it!” he shouts, face splotchy with tears. “Do it! I don’t care! Just fucking do it!”
He doesn’t mean it and I can tell by the look in his eye. But he’s defeated. There’s nothing I can do about that.
