Hard Justice: The Asylum Fight Club Book 3

by Bianca Sommerland

  “I don’t have time for this. Talk Leonov’s ear off if you want, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  The prison door, which was nothing but dark gray metal bars, slid shut inches from his face. Reality hit him and he tripped backward, pulse pounding.

  This is it. Not protective custody. A real prison. This is where I’m going to die.

  A soft rustling behind him made his whole body tense. His eyes widened as the man, Leonov, came closer. He cringed as the man’s hands came toward him. Closed his eyes, expecting those hands to wrap around his neck and strangle the life out of him.

  Instead, Leonov took the pile from his arms. His deep voice was soothing as he moved away. “Sit down before you pass out.”

  Sit. Yes. Sitting is a very good idea.

  He backed up without opening his eyes and plunked down when his legs bumped the edge of the bed. Cracked his head on the bottom of the upper bunk, knocking his ugly, black plastic-rimmed glasses off his face. “Ow, fuck!”

  “Jesus.” Leonov exhaled roughly. “Pull yourself together, boy. I’m not spending a month in solitary because you’re a damn mess.” The man stepped in front of him, slipping his glasses back on his face. “Open your eyes.”

  That rough, commanding tone calmed the panic spiraling through his mind. A familiar sensation spilled over him and he opened his eyes, meeting deep gray. Damn, this dude was hot. Wren bit hard into the edge of his lip, taking in the dark brown hair, cut short, but the curl to it would soften the man’s harsh features if it was longer. Stubble shadowed a hard jaw and framed lips that were firm, but he could imagine being soft for the right person.

  Not that Wren would ever be that person. He wasn’t delusional. But the slight curve of the man’s lips as his breathing slowed made his whole fucked up situation seem a bit less terrible. He’d pleased the man. That was good.

  “What’s your name?”

  The question made him blink. He wet his bottom lip, flushing when the man’s gaze lowered to his mouth. “The guard just told you. It’s Gibson. Not that anyone’s ever called me that. Or, well, not many people use my name either, not since I moved out of my aunt’s house. But she’s gotten really sick over the past few years and she can’t talk, so she didn’t call me anything anymore when she still wanted me around.”

  Brow raised, the man shook his head. “All that and you still haven’t answered my question.” He chuckled, then sat on the bed next to Wren. Not too close, but close enough that his presence wrapped around him like a heavy blanket. Focusing on his voice made it easier to forget the threats lurking beyond the bars of their cell. “First name.”

  “Wren.” Sliding back, Wren pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them. The stupid glasses the prison made him swap for his expensive Cartier ones slipped down his nose. “Not that you need to remember it or anything. I won’t be here long.”

  Turned slightly to face him, the man frowned. “Do you have a short sentence?”

  “Short life expectancy.” Wren lifted his shoulders when the man’s expression darkened. “I had information that was supposed to help this big case against this huge crime family. Told the D.A. everything, even where I’d stored all the files I had on them. I was supposed to plead guilty and get probation and community service. Instead, I got ten years and a price on my head.” He tightened his hold on his knees. “You’d figure people paying off cops and politicians and running major drug rings would be more important than me taking a few pennies a day from a bunch of different bank accounts, but nope.”

  The second he paused, the man reached out and put his finger over Wren’s lips. Amusement lit his eyes, but his expression was serious. “You need to stop talking.”

  “Like, forever?” Wren’s cheeks heated as his breath dampened the tip of the man’s calloused finger. He’d never had anyone touch him like that. Sure, the guy was trying to shut him up, but it was still nice. “It would suck to have to be quiet when I don’t have long to live.”

  “Are you trying to intentionally make that happen?” Leonov inclined his head when Wren shook his. “Good, then don’t draw attention to yourself. If you start sharing that kind of information, you’ll have every prisoner looking for some easy money ready to slit your throat. Setting up a hit on you will take some time. If you’re careful, we’ll have an idea of who you need to avoid.”

  Eyes burning, Wren stared at the man. “‘We’? Why would you help me? You don’t even know me.”

  The edge of the man’s lips quirked. “I’m bored. And other than talking a mile a minute, you’re not the worst cellmate they could’ve stuck me with.”

  “Oh, thank fuck.”

  “Stop that.” Interest sparked in the man’s eyes as Wren clamped his lips shut. “You’re a submissive.”

  Sucking in a breath, Wren nodded quickly. “I mean, I’ve only really done stuff online, but it totally counts. One Dom I had was really intense and we’d spend hours on video cam. He’d make me—”

  “We don’t know one another well enough for you to be sharing those kinds of details, boy.” Leonov tapped his cheek lightly. “But this could come in handy.”

  How could using a dildo on a suction cup, getting his freak on to orders from a man jerking off on the other side of the world, be of any use in prison? Wren opened his mouth to ask, but a hard look from Lenov had him shutting it again. Right, no overshares.

  Instead, he tried to follow the man’s example of appropriate topics. “Do you want me to call you Leonov or something else?”

  “Noah.” The man pushed off the bed. Went to the shelves between the built-in desk and the metal toilet-sink combo. He picked up a small bag of trail mix. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.” Wren grinned as he caught the snack, tearing it open and pouring the mixed nuts and raisins into his palm. “So, Noah, what are you in for? You seem like a nice guy. It can’t be anything serious. I’m thinking…” He cocked his head, studying the man as Noah folded his arms over his chest and gave him a level look. One that had Wren filling his mouth with more nuts, chewing and swallowing before chancing a smile. “That I shouldn’t be asking that question?”

  Leonov—or, Noah, his name was Noah—shook his head. “No, you shouldn’t. But I may tell you, one day.” He motioned for Wren to stand. “Go fix your bed. We’ll talk more after you’ve rested up a bit.”

  Finishing the trail mix, Wren glanced around the room for a trash can, finding one under the desk. He dusted off his palms and climbed up to the top bunk, grateful for something to do other than imagine all the painful ways he was going to die. Once the sheets were perfectly spread out, the thin blanket laid over them, he set his head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

  Below him, he heard pages flipping slowly.

  “Noah?”

  A chuckle. Then Noah’s deep voice. “Yes, Wren?”

  There were so many questions he wanted to ask. So many things he wanted to say. But only one that really mattered. He pressed his eyes shut, tears breaking free as he whispered, “Thank you.”

  Two weeks. He’d managed to survive two weeks. All because of Noah. Wren folded his legs on the big wooden armchair in the library, shuffling the cards he’d bought himself the first time his cellmate had decided he could actually keep his mouth shut long enough to stand in line with the other prisoners from their block. Aside from the cards, he’d gotten snacks and a few extra pairs of socks, because the cell was always cold. Layering his clothes meant having to wear the same thing for more than one day, which was gross.

  At least he got to shower most days, but that was tricky. Noah would pay attention to talk during rec time and let him know if it was safe. They’d go together and Wren couldn’t look at anyone. Or talk. He had to finish before Noah did, be dressed and out a few seconds ahead, so the man could make sure he wasn’t followed.

  If Noah was busy, Wren had to stay in his cell and...wait. He spent a lot of time waiting, reading books he borrowed from the library. This was the first time he
’d been able to hang out this long, though. Noah was making a phone call and he’d given Wren permission to spend his free time here, after a few words with the inmate who worked in the library.

  With practiced motions, Wren dealt himself a hand of solitaire. His Aunt Steph had taught him to play cards when he’d gone to live with her at four years old—shortly after his parents died in a fire at a party they’d attended at a neighbor’s house. For a long time he wouldn’t say a word, but his interest in the cards she constantly fidgeted with had given her the idea of using them to communicate.

  He’d picked up games fast so she’d started having him play online for real money. The winnings earned him his own laptop, desktop computer, and cell phone by the time he turned ten. They were able to move into a nicer house she’d saved up for, and even while he was in school, he’d been able to stay in touch to help her keep winning. He learned other ways to make money. Betting on sports. Horses.

  At sixteen, he dropped out so he could use his skills full time. His aunt was thrilled at first, but a bad bet put her into a depression, about the same time as she was diagnosed with throat cancer. Along with her treatment, she began therapy, then Gamblers Anonymous.

  She tried to get him to attend as well, but he didn’t need it. He wasn’t addicted, gambling was his job. Besides, how else was he going to make enough money to take care of her?

  Still, she told him either to quit or move out. So he moved out. Got his own place with his earnings, replaced everything she refused to let him take. He’d been seventeen. And for five years, he’d been doing fine.

  Until he’d made bigger bets. Took loans to cover them—from the wrong people. And those people gave him the option to work for them or have some very unpleasant visits. Running money through different accounts for them, erasing records, cracking random codes, seemed a good alternative. But he wouldn’t keep doing it forever. He’d used the access they’d given him to collect all the information he’d need to earn his freedom.

  Another month and he could’ve put his plan into motion. Paid off his loans with the pennies he’d fleeced, building up over time into millions, and put himself in a position where no one would risk coming after him.

  He hadn’t planned for his own activities to bring the cops to his front door. Or for that information to go to waste. Something had gone wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what. The stuff he’d had should’ve landed so many people behind bars. Including the head of the DeFede family.

  Now he had nothing. Not even his aunt, who’d written to tell him she’d pray for him, but she couldn’t forgive him for what he’d done.

  But he had Noah.

  A shadow fell over him. He stilled, looking up at the skinny, toothless guy with pock-marked skin and patches of gray hair on his bald head, grinning down at him. “Name’s Donny.”

  “Wren.” Wren held out his hand and they shook. He followed Donny’s gaze to the cards and grinned back at him. “You wanna play?”

  Pulling out the chair across from him, Donny nodded. “Gin? I win, you tell me your story. Word is, no one knows much about you.”

  Good. Wren didn’t plan to tell the man anything. Because he didn’t plan to lose. He pushed his glasses up with his thumb. “Fine, but I win and you owe me three postage stamps.”

  “Deal.”

  Postage stamps were worth a lot in prison for some reason. So were cigarettes and...ramen noodles. He didn’t quite get it. Or know how to make trades for anything, but he knew how to make bets count. And those stamps were important.

  An hour later—and dozens of unanswered questions because no way was he giving Donny what he wanted for free—he was the proud new owner of three stamps. Donny handed over the stamps, snatching Wren’s wrist when he took them. His grip tightened and nausea pitched through Wren’s stomach at the pain in his wrist. He tried to jerk away, but the man was too strong.

  All this worrying about the mob and I’m gonna be taken out for winning a game of gin.

  He cried out as the man twisted until he dropped the stamps.

  Donny’s acrid breath in Wren’s face brought bile rising in his throat. “Why are so many people interested in you, you little shit?”

  “You lost.” This was so much easier online. No one touched him or hurt him there. He could leave a server if someone was being an asshole. Here, there was no escape. “Please, j-just let me go.”

  The big, burly inmate Noah had spoken to came over. Didn’t say a thing, but his presence had Donny releasing Wren. Raising his hands in surrender. He backed up before turning and making himself scarce.

  Disapproval in his eyes, the inmate stared down at Wren. He was built like a tank, his skin a rich brown, his face looking like it would brighten right up with a smile, but was damn scary when he was pissed off. The expression he wore was somewhere in-between right now, and Wren wasn’t sure what to say.

  Maybe nothing. Noah told him all the time he’d be better off if he didn’t say every single thing that came to his head, but he should thank the big dude or something, shouldn’t he? His aunt had taught him more than how to count cards. His manners had been almost as important as the smoothness of his shuffle.

  But when his mouth opened, the man shook his head. “Leonov will be back to fetch you soon. He ain’t gonna be too happy about this. Cool your jets and read a book or some shit.” He let out a heavy sigh. “How that man talked me into babysitting, I’ll never know.”

  “Babysitting? Look, man, thank you for saving me, but I don’t need a babysitter. I’m twenty-two and I’ve been living on my own since I was seventeen, while supporting my aunt. She’s not talking to me anymore, but I set up some stocks for her that pay out regularly, so she’ll be fine and—”

  “Holy fuck, what gave you the impression that I care about any of this?” The man’s gaze went to the door. “Thank God. Price is double next time, my friend. This one’s exhausting.”

  With long strides, Noah crossed the library, his eyes darkening as he looked Wren over. His gaze locked on Wren’s wrist, which was blotchy red and swelling already. “What happened?”

  Rubbing under his nose, Wren reached out with his uninjured hand and picked up the stamps. “I won these… I thought, you know, since you have so many people who miss you, but can’t visit, you could write to them. I know you talk to them on the phone all the time, but this would be special, right?”

  “Damn.” The other inmate clapped Noah on the shoulder. “Okay, I get it. I’ll keep an eye on him when I can. This place is gonna break him, but...he’s sweet.”

  Noah nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he kept his focus on Wren, even while speaking to the other man. “I appreciate it, Renner.” He curved his fingers under Wren’s wrist gently and lifted it. “Who did this?”

  Renner’s jaw hardened. “Donny. He’s a fucking weasel and they were playing a harmless game of cards, so I figured it’d be fine. Word’s spreading that the kid’s worth something.”

  “I see.” Noah cut Renner a hard look. “It’ll be good money. Tempted?”

  “Not at all. You’re the reason my baby has diapers and formula. That my woman was able to pay the damn rent. I won’t forget that.” Renner held Noah’s gaze. “My loyalty’s worth more than their blood money.”

  Lips curving slightly, Noah inclined his head. “Say the word and I’ll get her a place in Anniston Falls. Good neighborhood, people to help her out when she needs it.”

  “I might take you up on that.” Renner grinned and considered Wren for a moment. “Kyle and Cruise are in the infirmary and they’ll mess with him just to fuck with you. But I’ll see if I can get someone to bring an ice pack and something to wrap that with to your cell. Green owes me one.”

  “That would be perfect, thanks.” Noah inhaled slowly, brushing his hand over Wren’s hair before taking the stamps. “This was nice of you, but we’re going to have a very long talk about your gambling.”

  Wren began to gather his cards, but the stab of pain when he tried
to bend the fingers of his right hand almost dropped him to his knees. He whispered his thanks when Renner picked them up and handed them over, then followed Noah out of the library. Thinking back on his cellmate’s last words, he frowned and shook his head. “There’s no reason to talk about my gambling. I’m good at it and I almost always win.”

  “Because you cheat.”

  “Not always. And I didn’t need to with Donny, he’s just really bad at gin, but I figured he was bored and it wouldn’t be a huge deal. But if I can win stuff playing cards, that would be good, right? You won’t have to call in favors to keep me safe. You shouldn’t have to do that anyway, but it’s awesome of you.” He bit his bottom lip, glancing over at Noah, whose jaw ticked as he led the way to their cell. “Are you mad at me?”

  Past the bars, Noah stopped and pointed at his bunk. “Sit.”

  Wren sat, his stomach churning. Yeah, Noah was definitely mad. The only person who gave a fuck about Wren on this side of the planet and he’d managed to ruin it. Why did he have to be such a failure at everything that didn’t involve numbers and strategy and coding? He lowered his head as Noah began to pace.

  He didn’t stop until a guard came in, handing over an ice pack and a roll of self-adhesive elastic bandage. Once the guard was gone, Noah came to the bed. Sat beside him, closer than he used to, which Wren took as a good sign. It always relaxed him when Noah was near. His casual touch, his very presence, fed a need he seemed to understand better than Wren. Any affection was brief, and limited, but whenever he was overwhelmed, or scared, or ready to curl up in a ball because everything was so hopeless, the man would be there. Squeezing his shoulder, brushing a hand over his hair, looking into his eyes in a way that made Wren believe all he had to do was trust Noah. He’d get him through this.

  Fifteen minutes of silence while Noah iced his wrist. The pain faded to a dull throb. He held still as Noah carefully wrapped his wrist, tearing the tape with his teeth when he’d used all he needed.

  “Better?” Noah smiled at Wren’s nod. “All right, as I said, your gambling. It stops. You told me about your aunt, and she was wrong to abandon you, wrong to get you involved in betting so young, but she was right about one thing.” He held up a hand before Wren could interrupt. “It’s an addiction, Wren. And your need to feed that addiction is what got you in here. Betting on stamps might seem like a small thing, but it’s setting you on the same path.”