by Zoey Parker
And I knew just who had fucked me, too, and why. That was the hell of it.
Jester, I thought, when I get out of here, I'm gonna find you and bash your skull in with a fucking wrench. I don't even give a shit if I get caught and end up back in here. At least this time, I'll have earned it.
Sam Gismondi was a powerful enforcer for the Mancuso crime family. They'd been the second-largest outfit in Chicago after the Bonaccorsos. Sam had earned the nickname “Jester” after he'd posed as a clown to get into a birthday party for the son of a rival gang, then slaughtered everyone there with an Uzi. He was known for being fast on the draw and savagely hardcore, not to mention the kind of dangerously insane that's reserved for guys who kill people while wearing clown makeup.
The Reapers never did any business with the Mancusos directly, but Jester's niece Abby started hanging around the Devil's Nest, which was the Reapers' base of operations. Abby was in her early twenties and hotter than hell. She started coming on strong from the moment she saw me, wearing barely-there outfits and sitting on my lap so she could wriggle her tight little ass against my crotch. I laughed it off at first, but when I actually started talking with her, it turned out that she was smart and funny, too.
When Bard, the President of the Reapers, found out that I liked Abby as more than just a hot piece of ass, he warned me to play it slow and cool to make sure Jester didn't feel like we were disrespecting him. So I mostly acted like a gentleman, and for over three months, Abby and I were in a legit relationship. Having Jester around all the time when I hung out with her was kind of creepy, but at least he acted friendly to me, even if he always had a dark look in his eyes that said, “If you hurt my niece, I'll stuff you in a fucking blender.”
I don't really remember when I first realized there was something wrong with Abby. Maybe it was the way she lost her temper with the servers whenever we'd go out to eat, bossing them around and insulting them. Maybe it was the phone calls I overheard with her parents, when she sounded spoiled and demanding at best, manipulative and borderline-psychotic at worst.
It got so bad that I felt like I was dating someone with Multiple Personality Disorder. Even when she was acting all cute and cuddly in bed with me, all I could think about was that ugly side of her. I wondered when she'd finally end up turning on me, like a pit bull that's fine one minute and shredding some kid's face off the next.
When Abby surprised me by getting my name tattooed on her left tit, I knew I had to break it off with her. I tried to take the blame by telling her I just wasn't ready for a commitment and blah blah blah, but she refused to hear it. She kept shrieking and cursing at me for a solid hour, calling me every name she could think of before she stormed out and slammed the door. It was a rough scene, but at least it was over.
Or anyway, that's what I thought.
Then came the phone calls. Sometimes she'd hang up as soon as I picked up. Sometimes she'd cry and beg me to take her back. Sometimes she'd scream at me, saying I was a “fag” for not wanting her back and threatening to cut my dick off. When I screened the calls, they'd get more frequent, until my phone was ringing nonstop for hours at a time. When I changed my phone number, she somehow got the new one. I told myself that crazy people have short attention spans, and she'd lose interest after a while.
Then Boomer, one of the other Reapers, told me he'd heard a nasty rumor. Word was going around that Abby had showed up at Jester's house, covered in bruises and swearing that I'd beaten her up and raped her.
Part of me was fucking horrified, while the other part felt pretty goddamn stupid for not seeing this coming.
Jester knew he couldn't come at me directly without starting a war between the Reapers and the Mancusos. He didn't have a lot of connections on the police force, but he didn't really need that many. Just enough to plant a fuckload of coke in my place and haul me in for it. He even paid off the judge to make sure I wasn't sent to Joliet, where there'd be other Reapers inside to watch my back. No, I got sent to Potawatomi Correctional Center where there wasn't a biker in sight.
So, yeah. Seven fucking years. During which time I'd managed to survive four attempts on my life. All of them had been ordered by Jester, but the hacks couldn't prove fuck-all on that score and life just went on. I definitely couldn't wait to be out of there, and finally, my last day had come.
I was thrilled about that.
I just wasn't thrilled about the fact that it was still three hours away.
A lot can happen in prison in three hours. And I knew that Jester wasn't just going to shrug and say we were even.
Clyde walked up to my cell, smacking the bars lightly with his baton. He was one of the few guards who wasn't a completely corrupt son of a bitch, and we'd generally gotten along okay. “Shower time, Logan,” he said, grinning. “Grab your towel and come on.”
“Nah, I think I'm good without,” I said, sniffing under my arms and shrugging. “I mean, yeah, there's a smell, but I like to think it's kind of manly, y'know? Musky, even. I'm thinking the chicks out there might really dig it. Thanks, though.”
Clyde raised his eyebrows. The smile on his lips went cold as he made a show of looking at his watch. “Gee, Logan, did I just hear you try to make a decision about when you take a shower? 'Cause that's something free people do, and it looks to me like you've got two hours and fifty-two minutes before you can call yourself free. So get your towel and get your ass in gear, because if I have to tell you twice, you'll be dragging two busted legs behind you when you leave this place.”
Fuck. Well, it was worth a shot. May as well get this over with and give them one last chance to shiv me.
I grabbed my towel and followed Clyde down the hall toward the shower room. The only other person inside was a slope-shouldered little sad sack named Jeff Carp, who was doing eighteen months for petty theft. He was short and bony and he had no friends inside, which meant he'd already been attacked a handful of times. Even the Aryans wouldn't take Carp once word got around that he was half-Jewish.
So far, so good. Jester wouldn't send this weak-ass cumstain to punch my ticket.
I peeled off my clothes and stepped under the hot water, soaping up my crotch as I thought about all the things I wanted to do when I got out—especially the things I wanted to do to Jester. As I did, I felt Carp's eyes on me and turned to look at him. His eyes were the size of dinner plates and he was shaking with fright. His back was pressed against the tiled wall.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, for Christ's sake, Carp! I'm here to clean my dick, not get your shit on it! Now finish washing up and fuck off!”
Carp turned away from me, quickly running the soap over his chest and shoulders.
Paranoid little shithead, I thought. As if I ever fucked a dude while I was in here, or anywhere else, for that matter.
Still, if I was Carp's size and I'd been pushed around in here as much as he had, I figured I'd be pretty squirrelly too. I almost felt sorry for him. It wasn't like he could just put a beat-down on some badass inmate to get a rep for himself in here like the rest of us could. That guaranteed he'd be a target from now until the day he left Potawatomi, if he even lived that long.
Suddenly, I saw a pair of large shadows fall across the wall in front of me. I knew who was standing behind me even before I turned around. Burger and Roach had each tried to shiv me individually, and I'd handed them their asses for their trouble. It made sense for them to team up and try to finish the job on my last day.
It just wouldn't do them any good.
I turned to look at them as Carp kept scrubbing himself frantically. Whatever was about to happen, Carp was desperate to be away from it, especially since Roach had already tried to do him in the showers at least once.
“This is so sweet,” I said. “You guys here to throw me a goodbye party?”
“Something like that,” Burger sneered. Both of them were carrying towels, and as they moved them aside, I saw that they were also carrying shivs.
“Okay, so you brought presents, cl
early,” I said, pointing to the blades. “That's nice. But fellas, come on...where's the cake? I mean, it's not a party unless there's cake.”
“You survived. All these years. Jester is disappointed,” Roach drawled, shaking his head sadly. Both of them were slowly edging closer to me. Next to me, Carp squeaked with fear and jittered under the water, trying to brush the soap bubbles off his body.
“Jester ain't the only one,” I said. I tried to sound casual as I stalled them, but my eyes darted between theirs as I tried to sense who would make the first move. “I just spent the past seven years eating fucking prison food and now you're gonna tell me there's no cake. I mean, holy shit, they even fucked up the goddamn instant mashed potatoes. How do you do that, huh? Tell me. There's flakes, there's water...”
“You're gonna be a fuckin' funny-boy 'til the end, is that it?” Burger asked, shaking his head.
It's you, motherfucker, I thought, looking at Burger's eyes as they flickered between my face and his shiv. You're the one who's gonna give me my going-away present first. Good.
Now that I knew Burger would be the first one to attack, I faked him out by pretending to focus on Roach, giving Burger the confidence to act. Sure enough, Burger lunged at me with his blade.
I snatched my towel from the nearby shelf and used it to deflect the shiv. The small blade sliced through two layers of cheap cotton, but didn't go any further. I slammed my knee into Burger's balls and he let out a pained groan, his body sagging against mine.
As Roach sliced at me with his shiv, I pivoted Burger's weight, using him as a shield. Roach's blade went into Burger's side and he howled with pain. I could hear an alarm sounding outside, and I knew I only had a few seconds to finish this before the guards showed up or else I'd have to deal with an assault investigation and I wouldn't be leaving that day—or for quite a few days to come.
I grabbed Roach's head and smashed it against the wall, knocking him out. He fell to the floor next to Burger, who was squealing in agony and clutching the wound in his side. I put my foot on the side of Burger's head.
“Next time, remember the cake,” I said. I kicked down once with my foot, smacking Burger's skull against the tiles until he flopped over, unconscious.
I heard the guards' boots thundering toward the shower room and I backed up into a corner, as far from the limp bodies as I could get. I checked my hands to make sure there were no defensive wounds, then looked over at Carp and widened my eyes.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Carp! What the hell did you do to them?” I asked, trying to sound astonished.
Carp stared down at Roach and Burger, then peered up at me, confused. “But...I didn't...”
The guards burst in, led by Clyde. “What the fuck happened in here?” he barked.
“It was Carp!” I blurted out before Carp could say anything. “Burger and Roach came in and tried to fuck with him, and he took both of them apart with his bare hands! I've never seen anything like it before outside of a goddamn Chuck Norris movie. You'd better make sure everyone knows to watch out for this dude. He's fucked up!”
Clyde glared at Carp. “You did this? Really?”
Carp stared at me for a long moment. Then he spat on Roach's face, looked up at Clyde, and nodded. “You're damn right I did. And if he ever tries it again, I'll do a whole lot worse.”
Clyde squinted at Carp as though he'd discovered some strange new species of bug. Finally, he shrugged and grabbed Carp, marching him out of the room. “Well, I guess you'd better do a day or two in seg until you cool off. Let's go.”
As Clyde led Carp away, Carp turned to look over his shoulder, winking at me. I knew there was a better-than-even chance that I hadn't really done Carp any favors—once they woke up, Roach and Burger might get a whole lot of their buddies together and fuck him up for real next time—but that wasn't my problem to worry about.
No, all I had to worry about was getting out of Potawatomi alive so I could give Jester the punishment he so righteously deserved.
Chapter 2
Jewel
“Oh, honey, it's beautiful!” My mother looked around at my new apartment wide-eyed and spoke in a comically hushed tone, as though she were touring a palace in Europe.
The place wasn't actually beautiful. It was a studio apartment near Loyola and the moving boxes stacked around my bed and dresser made it feel like a cramped maze. The kitchen was the size of a small closet. The bathroom was so tiny there wasn't even room for a tub—just a coffin-like shower with cheap frosted glass that looked perpetually soap-scummed even when it was clean. When the faucets were turned on, they spewed reddish-brown water that took two minutes to come out clean and about twenty minutes to come out warm.
But none of that mattered because it was mine. After the embarrassment of living at home during an unsuccessful two-year search for employment, I finally had a job, and I could afford to rent my own place for the first time in my life.
Even with a Bachelor's degree in business administration, the job market in Chicago was scarce, especially for people without any experience. Other than academic achievements, my resume was very thin. I'd spent countless days scrolling through listings on job-seeking websites and met with over a dozen recruiters at staffing agencies, all of whom had smiled with the empty encouragement of a preschool teacher and promised to call as soon as something became available.
But day after day, my phone remained silent, and I spent every night sleeping in the bed I'd had since I was eight. Being surrounded by all of the posters and stuffed animals from my childhood made me feel like I'd never really grow up, especially since I couldn't bring dates home.
There were several nights when I felt like giving up on looking for anything related to business and just applying for part-time positions serving fast food or working a cash register. Each time I talked about it at the dinner table, my parents would exchange a look of concern, then turn to me and encourage me to keep at it.
“You're worth a heck of a lot more than a name tag, Jewel,” Dad used to say, “so you should hold out for more. Someday, someone will see how valuable you are and snatch you right up. Until then, your room will always be here for you.”
As though he could read my mind, Dad stepped around a stack of boxes and put his arm around my shoulders, smiling. “See? I knew you could do it. I'm so proud of you.”
The job I eventually found was a lot like the apartment. It was shabby and low-rent, but at least it was mine. I was offered a position as a general receptionist and administrative assistant to a CPA. His office was at the southern end of LaSalle Street in a plain gray cement building with narrow windows. There were retail spaces at the street level, but they were boarded up and covered with graffiti.
I'd taken the slow, creaky old elevator up to the fifth floor, gripping my resume as I nervously prepared for my interview. The walls of the outer office were painted an ugly putty color, and the desks, chairs, and electronics all looked like beige relics from the 1980s. There was no one sitting at the front desk and I had to knock on it loudly before Bertrand Heeney, the owner, came out of his office. He was a short, egg-shaped man in his fifties with a bad wig of mousy brown hair. He wore an ill-fitting green suit and a loud yellow tie, and the lenses of his glasses were so thick that his watery brown eyes seemed to bulge like a frog's.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Bertrand droned all the way from his office to the front desk like some kind of mantra. He kept his head down and slowly shuffled the entire distance with his hand out for me to shake, as though he couldn't actually determine how close I was until I took it. When he'd made it two-thirds of the way, I couldn't resist closing the distance and shaking the hand.
“Sorry, no receptionist, quit last week, sorry, sorry,” Bertrand continued as he pumped my hand. His lips were always parted to expose his yellowed teeth, and all of his sentences seemed to run together in a single tired groan.
I opened my mouth to sympathize with him, but he continued. “Okay, sorry, so can you answer phones, t
ype, do basic math, greet clients, make coffee, water the plants...”
I expected his inflection to rise at the end, implying a finished question. Instead, he trailed off, blinking at me as though he expected a response. I waited a moment to make sure he was finished, then answered. “Well, yes, I can do all of those things. I can actually type over 80 words per minute, but if you want me to take some kind of test to prove...”
“Don't need to,” Bertrand replied. “Hired, start tomorrow. Twenty-four grand a year, hour for lunch each day, five sick days a year. No benefits.”
I wanted to be delighted by my good luck, but I mostly felt confused. As Bertrand turned to shuffle back to his office, I cleared my throat. He turned to stare at me blankly.
“Um, thank you very much,” I said. “I certainly appreciate this opportunity and I won't let you down. But out of curiosity, I have to ask...”
