Prison Promise (Prison Saints Book 1)

by Demi Vice

  “What did I tell you about hiding my marks Ahrianna?” I growled lowly. “What is mine is only fucking mine. I hate sharing just as much as you do. I’m a jealous motherfucker when it comes to the things I’ve claimed.”

  Ahri stayed quiet again. This time her wide eyes full of lust.

  “You were a mistake, and we’re not going to fuck again,” she said, and I stared down at her face, full of lies.

  I licked her sweet neck, skin prickling under my touch. “You don’t strike me as a liar, baby girl…so if you call me a fucking ‘mistake’ again. I’m going to tie you up and fuck you so hard until you realize that I am the best damn thing to ever happen to you, Ahrianna Lore. Because I am.” I turned into an animal, sucking and nibbling on Ahri’s neck as she held in her moans.

  “It’s going to happen again.” I continued. “We are going to happen again. All ten inches of my cock crave, obsess, and are driven for you, Ahri. I’m a man with dire urges, and right now, you’re the only one that can fill them. Would you like me to prove that to you right here while Agata watches?”

  I might’ve not been into sharing, but I loved public sex, even just the thought that people were watching or hearing me fuck got me off. It’s always been a turn on. I loved showing off what I—and only I—could touch and be inside, but if someone does get the chance to touch what’s mine. I’ll fucking kill them.

  I smiled with Ahri’s soft flesh between my teeth. Her perfect ass fitting like a puzzle piece in my palm as I pulled her into my boner. I let Ahri go as fast as I pulled her in, a tease if you will. Something to get her as hot for me as I was for her. Ahri’s cheeks were red as roses when she walked away from me. Pulling her hair behind her ear, she revealed her new hickey.

  “Why are you trying to get me fired from all my jobs?” She looked at Agata for a split second when she spoke, covering her new hickey until I raised my eyebrows. My mini-threat signal for her not to do that.

  “I’m starting to think it’s a subconscious goal. I think sitting on my face and satisfying me might be your next job description after you get fired.” I flashed her a devilish grin before I turned my back to the only person staring at us and adjusted my cock. “I’ll see you later tonight and be prepared to be my three favorite things. Red, sore, and a hot sexy mess.”

  “Probably less than three months?” Ahri asked.

  “Without a doubt.” I reassured her.

  “Good.” Ahri bit her bottom lip and flashed her dimple perfection.

  I growled, unable to control myself. Grabbing the back of Ahri’s neck, I suffocated her with a sex-driven kiss all while a chill shot down my spine. I was never going to get used to this new feeling. Ahri pushed me away, hands still on my chest as she petted the striped red and white fabric of my shirt.

  “If you ruin this shirt I’ll end you, Jack. I promise.”

  I laughed. “If you miss him so much why don’t you call him or visit your brother at this ‘all-season kind of camp,’” I said with my eyebrow in a curious state.

  Ahri scrunched up her lips. “It’s complicated.”

  I hummed and nodded. “Now, if you don't mind. I’m going to have lunch with my landlord's daughter.”

  “You’re still having lunch with her?” Ahri’s emotionless face was carved from stone.

  I nodded, my grin spreading from ear to ear.

  “You’re getting spit in your food Jack,” she growled.

  “If it’s yours, it’s just extra flavor, baby girl. Don’t worry though, I’ll be flirting with my waitress the whole time, and when I’m done, she’ll have a generous tip for being such a good girl. Unfortunately, I have to look like a decent human being if I don’t wanna get kicked out before I move in. I’ll keep the first part of my agreement with Wazowski, but I’ll do the shopping on my own. How ‘bout that?”

  I plan to do a lot of shopping tonight. Some clothes, bathroom essentials—a fucking razor—kitchen essentials, a new mattress, etc.

  A small smile appeared on Ahri’s face as she slapped the wrinkles off her dress and pulled her hair forward to hide her hickeys. “Twenty percent tip or it's not generous Jack.” She raised her eyebrows under her messy blonde bangs and headed inside the diner.

  I rubbed my pulsing chest. The feeling of Ahri’s hands branded onto my flesh.

  Oh, Jack likes a LOT.

  AHRI

  I got the two-hundred-dollar commission Wazowski promised me. Better yet, my rent won’t go up after my lease ends in September. I didn’t know what Jack did to get Wazowski to fall in love with him. Jack was the spitting image of a punk, a troublemaker, a good-for-nothing, and Wazowski was your average old school kind of guy. They shouldn’t have gotten along, but I guess Wazowski’s weakness for people who spoke in his native tongue was greater than I thought. That, and the fact that Wazowski got a shiny new bread mixer that he had been too cheap to buy himself.

  I had too much on my plate to try to figure out Jack. But it was a small dose of relief not to worry about my rent or the commission. I folded the cash-filled envelope, shoved it into my apron and let the smile across my face hurt my cheeks. That was until it hit me like a brick.

  The money wasn’t mine.

  It wasn’t Luke’s.

  It was hush money for him.

  It wasn't going to go into my savings, or Luke’s. It was going to go to him. I tried to look on the bright side. I still had a week or two before I saw him again, but the gnawing feeling in my stomach never released. I swallowed the distasteful mixture of anxiety and hopelessness, trying to forget everything about the past. It's easier not to think about it. To forget, even though I’m reminded every time I look in the mirror.

  What should I be worried about right now? Sleep and food.

  I’d spent the last few nights sleeping at Diablo’s, and I desperately needed my bed for a few hours before I went back there. I jogged upstairs, my door still sad, broken, and wide open, but I didn’t overthink it. My room was clean and organized—Jack’s doing—and a smile crossed my lips before I could stop it.

  I always hated cleaning, but I loved a clean environment. Aurora always made that happen in my life. She was the one who cleaned and cooked, while I was the one who worried about getting money and food. I moved closer to my bed. Luke’s striped shirt was neatly folded, followed by an unopened box of earphones, and a ripped sheet of notebook paper on top of it.

  Here’s your generous tip. - Jack

  “Ha.”

  Surprisingly, Jack had kept his promise.

  I figured since I was going to use his tip money for some new earbuds, Jack might as well buy me some new ones. The earbuds were expensive. The kind that had a fancy remote control on the strap, allowing me so to change the song or the volume. They had definitely cost more than the ten dollars I would have spent on the flimsy earbuds I always bought. I unwrapped the box, grabbed the high-quality earphones, and blasted “The Fire” by Bishop Briggs. All my worries melted away, leaving me on my own personal little island.

  My music had never sounded so vivid, tranquil, or therapeutic. Music had always been my escape, my source of sanity in the cage that was my life. Going a day without music in my world was physically painful. The kind of day where minutes dragged, and hours beat around the bush. I looked at the back of my classic iPod engraved: I love you, Kimmie. Love Daddy.

  I’d stolen it.

  My source of sanity came from petty crime. I’m not even going to lie. I took it off a random girl’s lap on the CTA when I’d just started high school.

  I didn’t regret it.

  Not even a little.

  Kimmie was on the phone complaining to her friend about how her Daddy didn’t love her enough to spend the extra money to get her the iPod with more gigabytes. She was ungrateful, and so, I gladly relieved Kimmie of her first-class problem. I snatched her iPod, ran out, and watched the train doors close behind me. The memory of Kimmie’s opened mouth and wide-eyed face still brought a smile to my face. It was one of my happier m
emories.

  Initially, I was going to sell the iPod for some cash as I did with all the things I stole. But I fell in love with the idea of having music with me all the time. Kimmie’s song selection was weird, but it had helped me figure out what I liked. Like my clothes, my music was odd and all over the place, but not so much stuck in the past.

  I dropped my iPod in my apron, and I took four steps to get into my kitchen to grab some food I desperately needed.

  What. The. Fuck.

  I stared at an empty cabinet, which once held a bulk size box of ramen. Was it missing? Stolen? Thrown out? The last person who was in my apartment was Jack, and that was only yesterday.

  I furiously slapped the cabinet shut. I hadn’t eaten anything since six this morning, and that was just a grilled cheese sandwich with some tomato soup. I checked my fridge, but I knew there was nothing in there.

  Or so I thought.

  I found myself staring at a clear container with a blue lid had a note on it.

  Yep. I threw out your ‘food.’

  I also cooked too much, so here you go.

  You’re welcome, baby girl. - Jack

  I sighed heavily looking at the chicken pasta with white sauce. My stomach screamed at the top of its lungs, like a commander whipping his recruits in shape. But in my case, my commander was yelling, ‘EAT THE DAMN FOOD, CADET LORE!’

  Jack did say he was a chef, but it was still hard to grasp the idea that a man who looked like Jack liked to cook and clean. I mean, seriously?

  My stomach growled again. This time, I tossed the food into the microwave and tapped my foot eagerly to each second the food spun around. When the countdown hit zero, I grabbed the container and dug in, not caring how hot it was. While I filled my stomach, I burned half my taste buds and my fingertips.

  It was worth it.

  Fuck!

  It was so good.

  I couldn’t even tell you the last time I’d had a real home cooked meal. It must have been—nope, I legit couldn’t remember.

  I relished my food, leaning against the stove I never used and stared at my bathroom door. I hummed to my music, dancing from the waist up taking in the small things in life that still made me unbelievably happy even with everything that happened to me.

  I was halfway done with my meal when I stopped and blinked slowly.

  I’d been tired before.

  The kind of tired that makes you see things, but there was no denying there was a black circular-shaped robot on the floor. It entered my apartment, moving at snail’s pace and cleaned my floors. My music changed, and for the second it was silent. I heard the sound of crumbs being sucked up into the machine.

  I sucked on my fork, the prongs poking at the roof of my mouth while I walked around the robot and into the hall. I stopped at Jack’s apartment and stared through his open-door. He didn't have a door anymore; he’d taken it right off the hinges like it was an inconvenience to have privacy.

  Sure, okay, fuck doors. Why don’t we just get rid of them and break them down altogether?

  I stepped into his apartment and did a little spin. You could tell a lot about a person by their apartment and belongings. I’m sure Jack did the same for my place, my comic books were rearranged, and my ramen, gone.

  It’s only fair I returned the favor.

  I started with the kitchen which looked the same as mine aside from all the kitchen supplies he’d brought. Pots, pans, knives (a lot of them), silverware, bowls, etc. I checked his fridge, and my jaw dropped to the ground. There were containers on top of containers full of food. ‘Cooked too much’ was an understatement. Jesus, what was Jack trying to do? Feed a starving country?

  Jack bought a lot of organic, expensive food. He didn’t strike me as a man who thought too much about what he ate, especially when he had three full entrees at Maddy’s yesterday. He ate like a pig, yet his body was sculpted to perfection and had been used as a canvas for all of his tattoos. I looked at the side of the fridge door, no milk, but there was a shit ton of pineapple juice and water.

  I ate some more food, sucked on my fork and moved into his bathroom. Black towels, black bathroom rug, and a black and white striped shower curtain that reminded me of an old-prison uniform.

  I wanted to write Jack a little letter.

  Dear Jack Baron,

  There are more colors in the world than black and occasionally white

  -Sincerely, your colorful neighbor.

  His shampoo, conditioner, and body wash were all brand name and organized neatly on the edge of the bathtub. His sink had the usual: toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap. What caught my eye was a small box next to the sink. It had a professional straight blade razor, the type a barbershop or Sweeney Todd would’ve used. It came with shaving cream and a brush, but I focused on the insanely sharp blade. I’m sure Jack knew what he was doing, but he if he ever fucked up, he could’ve easily cut his throat open with that thing.

  I put the razor back where it belonged and went back to snooping. Jack had a cologne from Versace, the blue crystal bottle filled to the brim. He must have spoiled himself and bought it a few days ago, maybe yesterday. It smelled sweet, musky, and sour. I couldn't say I liked it, but I didn’t hate it. I wonder what it smelled like with Jack’s natural smell? I took one more sniff, letting the scent confuse my nose.

  Moving over to Jack’s toilet, I saw a stack of magazines. Men’s Health, Men’s Fitness, Maxim, and Playboy. Basic guy things.

  I sat on the toilet, ate more of my pasta and enjoyed the Men’s Fitness magazine. All the men featured in its pages were muscular, ripped, and massive, but my mind ran to Jack when I saw a man with his form. Lean and flawlessly fit, minus the fact that the model had perfectly airbrushed skin with no tattoos or scars. The more I looked at the model, the more I thought about Jack’s tattoos.

  With the help of my imagination, I copied and pasted some of Jack’s tattoos on the model’s flawless skin. The skull with vines on his chest, the snake on his stomach, the words ‘Linked Forever’ on his chest and the rose on his neck. There were so many more to choose from, but even with all the options, the model didn't look nearly as sexy as Jack.

  I bit my lip and took the last bite of my food before I dropped the empty container in Jack’s kitchen sink. I stepped into his living room/bedroom, my eyes glued to the massive flat screen TV that had been mounted on the wall between the windows. It was fucking huge. I spread my arms to measure it, but it was a little longer than my arm span.

  Never have I ever seen a TV this big.

  It’s crazy to think, but even at the age of twenty-four (almost twenty-five), I still had a lot of firsts.

  Never had I ever been in a car. I made public transportation my bitch. Even when I moved to Birch Park, I grabbed a trash bag full of my things and took the bus.

  Never had I ever bought ‘new’ clothes (unless you count underwear) or sometimes shoes. I’ll forever be a thrift store girl, no matter how much money I had.

  And never had I ever cooked a meal from scratch or say I’d never done drugs like Jack. I could write a book on things I’d never done as well as a book of things I should never have done. In a way, I guess I did write that book, and now it was biting me in the ass.

  I strolled to Jack’s bed, covered in the silkiest black sheets I’d ever seen. I slid my hand across the fabric, my eyelids drooping at the realization that this is what clouds must feel like. Peeling the blanket off, I revealed Jack’s new mattress. Yeah, I was going to tell him to replace it considering my last roommate invited all the men in north America upstairs.

  I pressed down on the mattress and watched the foam go back to its normal shape. I did this a few more times, the foam hugging my hand then slowly rising. It was hypnotizing how unbelievably comfortable it looked. I was tempted to lay on it for a few minutes, but I knew the second my body dropped onto Jack’s bed I’d be out.

  I turned behind me to look at a once empty wall now filled with a full-length mirror, clothes rack and a bookshelf
. I checked myself out for a split second. I haven't seen my entire body in a reflection that wasn’t a window in a very long time. I usually only saw my head and part of my shoulders, and even then, I hated staring at myself for too long.

  I cleared my throat, taking one last look at myself. I looked horrible. There was no denying that, but it's what I have to work with right now. My eyes focused on something I hadn’t looked at yet. Jack’s clothes rack.

  No surprise here. All of his clothes were pressed and clean, and all the same shade of black. Jack didn’t have many clothes. There was the leather jacket he wore yesterday, a black hoodie, two shirts, long and short sleeved, and two pairs of jeans, the ripped ones from yesterday and another pair that were ripped at the knee. I looked at the label of the clothes, all Levi’s.

  I looked down at the clothes rack. No shoes. I guess Jack lived and breathed in his worn-out Docs. Jack’s life had limited things which made sense if your apartment was the size of a shoebox. Well, it was double the size of mine, but for a man like Jack, it was small.

  I sidestepped in front of the bookshelf. There were only a few things on it. An expensive camera case, a digital camera that looked like it was worth half of my savings, and a woven black box on the last shelf. I took a seat on the threadbare carpet and started snooping in the box.

  It was full of black socks and briefs. I picked up one of his briefs. The waistband was printed with white text that read: Fuck Me.

  I laughed and bit my lip.

  I picked up the camera, wrapped the strap around my neck so I wouldn’t drop it and tried to find the ‘on’ button. I should’ve figured that Jack was into photography. He kept trying to take my picture at the diner with Agata staring at us, but in each picture, I’d hide my face. I haven’t had much experience in front of cameras in my life. Shit, I don’t think I even owned a picture of myself or my family. I’d only had my faded memories and face to remind me of them.