Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  I don’t know if words can truly express my gratitude for him trying. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replies, standing. He tosses his glasses on his head and rolls the papers before popping me in the leg. “We get this well, and I want to take a look at that ankle for you. We may be able to do better than your current set up.”

  I’m evolving. I’m identifying. I’m maturing.

  And I’m scared shitless of actually adulting.

  I understand better than anyone the cases I work and the things I do, but the truth of the matter is some days, I’m just a little boy with a toy gun playing cops and robbers. Only I’m an assassin, and the thieves are stealing the souls of girls.

  I try not to think about the obstacles with my father, but the more I avoid it, the more his thoughts invade my brain. I scrub his world over on the washboard until my knuckles are infected, and I collapse from exhaustion. Maybe it’s time to stop.

  Stop fighting.

  Stop running.

  Stop avoiding.

  I’m remarkably hopeful as I stare at my new digs. I cannot move my hands or fingers, but at least I look cool. And that has to count for something. Faking it until I make it has always been one of the repeating mantras in my mind.

  I will call Mierne tomorrow. I will do the therapy. I will change, not because of prison, but because there is no other choice. I cannot keep going like this. Or I will lose the one thing I want more than anything else in the world.

  The web-like structure of the 3D cast distracts me. There is no symmetry, no alignment. The pattern is random, just like I need to be.

  To thrive, I need to dive headfirst into every fear and nightmare I have and stop escaping. I have demons to slay and fathers to hold accountable.

  Their chains clamped around my spirit were put there by someone else. But the responsibility for my survival is my own—how I live and what I choose. If the chains remain, I have no one to blame but me. No one gets to tell me how to live, who to love, or if I can spawn a little Raniero.

  With a smirk, I offer, “I’ll agree to let you take a look at the ankle if you take Allie out on seven dates.”

  This is how negotiation is done—with necessary bribery.

  His grin practically explodes. “She told you we were involved.”

  Allie told me many things, including how good freedom could be.

  24

  Je Suis Lucien Tolan

  “I understand there will be certain difficulties,” Warden Kristina Jolly says a few days later. Her organized desk screams meticulous OCD. A few weeks ago, I ignored her rules, wrecked the desk, and got my rocks off to solidify our merger.

  I don’t love her; she doesn’t love me. But our pieces and parts run smoothly enough to unify us in a way I don’t expect.

  In short, I am the Warden’s pet.

  My dick earned me the spot, and I’m acutely aware of that fact. This thing between my legs has sealed more deals than I can count on two hands. It’s my pen, my mark, and at times, my greatest nemesis. Sometimes, the pen is misbehaved.

  Penis misbehaved.

  “We’ve accommodated injuries like broken bones before, and the buddy system is usually the best and easiest way. I want to move you from a single cell to a larger one. While I typically don’t ask inmates opinions, I’m going to with you because I like you,” she says with an eager smile. “Who would you like with you?” Her question stumps me, but she tosses her red mane over her shoulder and says, “Take a minute and think about that.”

  “Where are the four-person cells?”

  “Third floor is all four-person,” she politely informs. “Two-person are behind the main hallway in the back of cellblock D on the bottom floor. We have a couple of eight-person, but I wouldn’t recommend that for you. More assholes, more opinions, more drama. You need to stay out of the line of fire.”

  No assholes. No drama. No fire.

  Before I can think, my stupid mouth quizzes, “Why? I mean, why do you say that?”

  “Because your genetic good looking predisposition will serve you with a warrant to bend over.”

  And that’s a bad thing?

  In the context of which she speaks—being violated—it is a horrific experience. I know, I’ve been there. On the concrete. With gravel digging into my palms. Getting pounded by a violent beast with no willpower of restraint or functioning ability to connect with another.

  There is a flaw in the system, a chip in a sprocket, a misfiring synapse which cognitively allows rape to be acceptable human behavior to the rapist. It’s terrifying, but to understand and repair, we must have the ability to walk through the brain matter. I’m told I do this well—putting on someone else’s shoes.

  And I’m not sure what this makes me.

  But it’s not just vile perps that I can come to a place of understanding their mental landscape. I can do it with the serial killer who has a fetish for shoes, the man with the missing legs, or the misunderstood nomad preaching about justice and practicing his rituals. I can do it with the fat kid who got picked on and studied statistics and strategy. Reading the signs of the wayward rogue, the addicted burlesque diva, or the little geisha with the starry-eyed happy ending is second nature. I can see every side.

  And it fucking sucks.

  Because I overanalyze every stitch and square, busting my fingers until they bleed, to present the perfect quilted profile.

  Staring at Kit, I think about the guys I’m close with, and the obvious answer seems to be Naby. I have to consider all the possibilities. I could pick a big guy like Mock. He clearly has my back. Though I worry I would be head down, ass up real quick. I briefly consider Kevyn, but I think with his analytical perceptions and my neuroses, we might end up making our cell a war room of brainstorming. Pico doesn’t like me, but at least, we are some family. And I’m not convinced he wasn’t planted by upper ranked Cinco to keep an eye on me.

  I know—I should bite the bullet and go with Naby—but there are inherent problems with that. He offers no physical protection and securely affixes a target to not only his back but mine. It’s a terrible way of thinking, but in this case, it’s also true. Only a crazy man with zero fucks given would choose Naby to be their buddy.

  “Barnaby Shanks.”

  She blinks, realizing the same key points I just examined. “… Are you sure?”

  “Ma’am, I’m a Dominant, and if I don’t protect him, who will?”

  “You may be a Dominant, but you’re rocking double casts,” she points out the obvious. “Your decision is risky, but I will abide by your wishes unless an issue arises.”

  Leaning back, I snicker, “Do you think they’ll test me?”

  Her eyes shift between her folded hands and me. She looks almost remorseful. “I know they will, Sal.”

  “Good thing I’ve got a few friends.”

  The random summer storm comes on strong forcing most of the inmates inside after lunch. I’m making my first appearance back at the block as I follow Martinez into the unit. I’m refocused and ready to do my job.

  I need to get Violet talking because without his information there was no point to any of this. I have questions, and I will find the answers. My job is at the forefront of my mind, but I cannot ignore my own safety.

  Handcock is in solitary now, but he won’t be forever.

  I’m riddled with anxiety when we step past the main gate, but soon the quiet clapping turns into a momentous uproar. It’s startling because I haven’t spoken with very many people, but it only takes a few to know I’ve made enough of an impact to earn an upstanding reputation in the slammer.

  Mock is at the forefront of the white crew, Tiny is leading the black, and in an odd statement, Pico is standing out for the Latinos. It’s strange because he’s relatively new, but it says plenty about the attitude of the population—they are all controlled by Cinco. The chomos and psych camp seek shelter away from the commotion.

  With his big barrel of a frame, Tiny toddles clo
ser as I glance up to the third floor and notice Violet in amongst the masses. He isn’t without reaction as he offers a very distinct nod. I don’t think he imagined I would dare return.

  In all honesty, who would?

  Tiny towers over me. His chubby fingers reach to lift my arm as he studies the new age looking contraptions binding to my forearms and fingers. “Those are the coolest looking things I’ve ever seen, Raniero. We were worried about you. Welcome back!”

  He wraps his heavy cloak-like arms around my body and squeezes my torso in a bear hug. He is amazingly gentle. “If you need anything…”

  “He needs his things moved from D-1107 to D-1064,” Martinez states, assessing the number of standby C.O. at the ready. “Move 1109, too.”

  Immediately, Mock cuts me a look of acknowledgement and respect. Tiny steps around, heading to my room, as Mock and I move closer together like we are narrowing the distance in our Wild West narrative.

  Mock is a unique inmate and one I haven’t spent near enough time with because his ink is a thing of envy.

  Hell, he is a thing of envy.

  We haven’t talked, but our body language has written tomes. His bald head shines under the lights as we silently call a truce, even though we were never at war. It’s a trained, instinctive skill—the belief that everyone is out to kill you. A precautionary measure of—I won’t tread on you, and you won’t tread on me—we both offer a smirk.

  If anything, I owe him for saving my ass – or at least my pretty mug – in the shower.

  The block resumes its usual bustle, carrying on without a care, but in the middle of it all, on the highly polished floor, I go toe to toe with Mock. His greenish-blue eyes radiate with intensity as his hard features show the lines from service and dedication. I note the anchor emblazoned on his forearm.

  Maybe being around these guys gives me a slightly different perspective, but I can spot ex-military or other security personnel from a mile away. Mock taking down Handcock wasn’t an accident but calculated with the kind of precision coming with years of study. He’s a fighter who knows how to tango. He stood up for the righteous in a land permeated with secrecy. That makes Mock a fucking hero in my book.

  My mind is beyond turned on as my brain is rocking some epic hard-on to make the nether bits jealous. But it isn’t because I want Mock.

  It’s because I want to be Mock.

  Twenty-five years old, and I finally find my idol behind bars.

  “Interesting choice,” he says with a deep intonation. I don’t expect his voice to be quite so commanding. The natural reaction in me is deference, but I haven’t encountered another male, which I felt garnered my attention like this since Tank or Dom. These men are rare. They don’t cockily boast about their overt alpha—it just exists. Alpha is in the air surrounding them.

  I inhale deeply.

  And pray like fuck I get contaminated.

  “Yes, Sir,” I cordially reply. “I suppose I like challenges.”

  “You must,” he acknowledges, sizing me up. “You showered since you been out of the hospital?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Come on,” he orders, and like the good little bitch I can be, I follow him. He hastily pivots back to look me in the eye and questions, “Et Tu, Lucas?”

  And you?

  With a mischievous smirk, I counter, “Je Suis.”

  I am.

  The shower sits practically empty this time of day as we walk to the very last stall. Maybe this moment now takes the top spot for the stupidest Sal mistake ever, but my gut instinct disagrees.

  Let me clarify, Mock is built like a fucking tank—he’s on the youthful side of middle-aged. He’s muscular and inked with gauged up ears, and it wouldn’t surprise me if on the street he was packing some jewelry on the junk. He’s one mean looking son-of-a-bitch.

  My size comes into play, especially in times like these. I’ve got two useless arms, and he has probably four inches and fifty pounds of muscle on me. If he wants me to be his, I won’t be fighting to overcome him. On a good day, I could likely outrun and dodge his moves because I am fast.

  Today is not that day.

  I’ve been in the hospital and on narcotics for over a week. My system is drawing from other resources to compensate for the loss.

  All that said, I’m not intimidated in the least.

  Because he’s acting like a man on a mission, my head says he isn’t even an actual prisoner. Casually, I ask, “What are you in for?”

  “I’m here on a run…” His brow flicks with intrigue. “We’re doing scouts on Cinco.”

  “…Faction?” I ask, snarling. If he picks up the beat, I’ll have my answer.

  “Merc. Former Ops. Frog,” Mock states clear enough as he wastes no time in helping me out of the orange shirt they put me in on my arrival. His demanding, inked hands drop my pants like this is just another trained ability in his arsenal. “I know who you are. And I know Vega.”

  And there it is.

  The only confirmation I need.

  I understand now why Kit is allowing him to do ink. She is in on it, too.

  “What are you looking for?”

  Cranking the shower on, he carefully handles me like I’m fine china. His arm braces against my back as his other extends, prepared to catch me if I fall.

  “Can you get them wet?”

  I nod as he squirts the soap into his hand. I don’t think I’ve ever had another man bathe me. It’s a weird experience. I’m naked, and he’s dressed. His bubbly hands run through my hair. “We’re searching for an operative.”

  Washing my hair, I tilt my head for him. “Target?”

  “Running weapons for Cinco,” he informs, his hands scrub my scalp. I have to admit it feels incredibly good. “Considered highly dangerous, but we believe there is a contact in here who knows the details.”

  Pico.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Sherman Hendrix goes by Vi—”

  “Violet,” I interrupt with a whisper, rinsing my hair. Mock keeps eyeing the entrance, but something tells me the inmates know better. “I’m Sibyl.”

  “I know who you are, Lucien,” he mutters, spreading his arms across the top of the stall. Lucien Tolan—my operative name. He knows me by reputation alone. “The question is, why are you here?”

  “I’m after the same guy.”

  He nods. “Have you made contact?”

  I’m careful what I say, so I take a second and let the water pour over me. I don’t know if slow and steady will work on Mock, but it’s all I’ve got. I step out of the spray and shake my hair. He pumps at the soap dispenser and gets to work on my body.

  I’m not sure about this.

  If he were Deacon, it would be one thing. He’s thorough in washing me but never veers to a place where sexual prowess takes front and center. He’s methodical and routine—chest, back, ass, junk, and legs. I peer down as he’s lathering up my legs. My dick is in his face.

  Nothing.

  “Who is the outside contact?”

  Rising, he counters, “If I tell you…”

  “If you tell me, I’ll help you,” I concede. The Unholy have kept a good relationship with Cinco since my wife’s passing. She was adopted by one of their upper ranked members—Juan Neves, Pico’s biological father. And everything I’m about to do goes against that long-standing relationship. “What is Je Suis?”

  “My new mercenary operation based right outside New Orleans.”

  Hit for hire is like playing roulette with a loaded gun. Sometimes they’re righteous; sometimes they’re worse than the bad guys. Knowing Je Suis is a small, and up and coming Sibyl, I decide to toss him a bite.

  “… Are you recruiting me?”

  “Do you want me to be?” he asks with a flicker in his eyes. I’ve never considered leaving Sibyl, even with all the skeletons in the closet. “Because I’ll give you a job today.”

  His offer surprisingly tempts me. To be on the upstart – a founding member – a
nd building a business based on integrity is appealing as fuck.

  Kaci Hope’s agenda led me to Sibyl. I didn’t choose it, but I’ve got a resume a mile long with a valuable skillset. I have worth outside of her box. Going against the grain would be the ultimate rebellious act as would leaving Iris.

  These are the things she wanted.

  But standing naked in the shower in front of the militant man known as Mock, I start to question—What do I want? Who am I? What do I want to be seen as?

  “Consider me a resource,” I reply, letting the truth fill me. “Who is the outside contact?”

  “Her name is Cas.” I show no reaction, but inside my jaw scrapes the floor and my guts turn to mush. “And your cellmate is mine.”

  Oh, shit.

  I pissed off Daddy.

  25

  In My Blood

  A couple of quiet days pass with Barnaby Shanks. I couldn’t have asked for a better bunkmate. He reads a lot, says little, and doesn’t snore. He’s well behaved, keeps to himself, and doesn’t stare. Not to mention he doesn’t complain about holding my dick and giving it a gentle, firm shake when I’ve got to piss.

  Naby is a good kid.

  I’ve yet to pick up any remote signs of involvement with Mock. Not saying it doesn’t exist. They’re just good at hiding it, but so were Dom and I.

  It’s early in the night when the block is full of grunting, moaning, and the occasional scream in the distance. Tossing and turning, Naby is awake. I’m awake. Hell, I imagine everyone, but the elders are awake. “Who do you think is doing it?”

  His question rakes through me. He wants to know who is doing the rapes. It could be anyone. Logic veers towards the chomo, but the answers aren’t always cut and dry. They’re complicated, disfigured, and often make no sense.

  “I don’t know,” I mutter, rolling on my back. We have a posh spot. We’re in the corner with the wall on one side and an empty cell on the other. The front of our cell is entirely barred but secluded with a wall on the outside. We have one of the cushiest spots in the joint. “Do you?”