by Sophia Gray
Then the kids would be punished by the gangs for trying to snitch, and the cycle would go on and on.
From the moment Hank realized that the gangs were the ones who really ran the orphanage, he was desperate to join one. But no matter how much he tried to prove himself to them, they still made fun of him and refused to accept him. Sometimes, they'd pretend they had changed their minds and tell him he was one of them—but it always ended with him humiliated as they laughed at him.
And the years ticked by, and the parents who visited the orphanage never even considered adopting him. They always cooed over the fresh-faced babies and toddlers, eagerly naming them and making plans for their futures as they signed the paperwork.
Too young to be accepted by the other kids. Too old to be accepted by the grown-ups. Trapped but unwanted. Treated like shit, without even an identity to call his own.
Just like here in Bluebonnet.
When Hank turned eighteen, he was turned loose on the big, cold world with next to nothing—not even a real last name. He didn't know who he was, or who he was supposed to be. All he really knew about himself was his bottomless rage, his constant desire to punch the faces of everyone he saw because they either reminded him of the older boys or the dismissive adults.
He worked a series of low-paying jobs, and was fired from each one for losing his temper and mouthing off to his bosses. Then one night, when he was washing dishes in a shitty bar, he glanced out the window and saw a bare-knuckle boxing match in the parking lot.
Even though Hank was still somewhat scrawny, he stepped into the circle and beat five men in a row, using nothing but his rage.
The next year or so was a blur of booze and fights. There were always new circles to step into, bigger opponents to take his anger out on, and more money to win. Eventually, the constant fighting began to develop his muscles and tone his body, and he started working out and training so he could get the most out of his newly-athletic frame.
One night, Bib stepped out of the crowd and offered Hank the family he'd previously been denied, as a prospective member of the Carnage Warriors. It was the single happiest moment of Hank's life, and he considered it the night that his life truly began.
Dutton had reminded him of the harsh and empty times that he'd endured before. And he had endured them. He'd been lonely, directionless, with no identity outside of his rage at the entire world—but he'd still made it on his own. He'd stared life in the eye without fear, and dared it to blink first.
That was the person he'd have to rely on in here, if he had a hope of surviving or protecting Beth.
Dutton nodded slowly, as though he knew every moment of Hank's history. And hell, maybe he even did—collecting information was the Shepherds' specialty, after all.
Or maybe Dutton had just been through it all himself, once upon a time.
“Maybe you're right,” Dutton said. “Maybe you won't survive in here without a gang backing you up. But you can either live on your knees as a slave, or die on your own two feet like a man. I made my decision a long time ago. Now it's time for you to make yours.”
Dutton walked away, leaving Hank with his thoughts. He tried to pump the hand weights a few more times to distract himself from what Dutton had told him, but he quickly lost interest.
As Hank lowered the weights to the floor, one of the Sinners sidled up to him, glaring. “You almost dropped that on my foot, motherfucker.”
“Sorry about that.” Hank stood up from the bench to leave, but the Sinner's huge hand dropped onto his shoulder, pushing him back down again.
“Yeah, you sorry. First you fuckin' cheat in the ring an' kill Manolo, an' now you gon' break my foot wit' your careless-ass bullshit? You 'bout to be one sorry white boy.”
Hank felt the Lullaby resting against the base of his spine like an itch, and he knew he could end this quickly by ramming it into the side of the Sinner's neck. Others had gathered around them in a loose circle—Sinners, Aryans, Shepherds, even a few guards. He was suddenly sure that all of them knew the order Bull had given him, and they were waiting eagerly, certain that he'd go through with it. He wondered whether they had bets riding on the outcome.
He felt his own blood slithering through his veins like deadly snakes. It was the same sensation he used to experience every time he stepped into the circle of men in the parking lots. The air was electric like an approaching storm, and every cell in his body wanted to lash out mindlessly.
Except back then, he'd fought for himself.
If he gave in to the anger today and put the Sinner down, it would be for Bull and his White Knights.
Even if he won, it wouldn't be a victory. It would just be another link in the heavy chain that was drawing around him, tighter and tighter, until he couldn't breathe.
So Hank stood up again, turned his back on the Sinner, and walked toward the door of the gym.
The room immediately echoed with hoots and jeers—men calling him a “pussy,” a “faggot,” and a dozen other ugly words for coward. With every step, he was sure he'd feel a shiv in his back, or strong arms pulling him to the floor so he could be kicked in the face and chest and stomach. His own body cried out for him to turn around and face these threats, but he willed himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other without looking back.
If they beat him, fine. He'd been beaten before.
If they killed him, fine. He'd be far beyond this place and its walls, and hopefully Beth could find some way to leave and save herself.
But he'd be damned if he was willing to spend one more second as Bull's puppet.
He reached the door and stepped through it, unscathed.
Chapter 19
Hank
As Hank walked down the hall with the angry sounds of the gym receding behind him, Ram walked up to him. Hank expected another altercation, but Ram looked concerned and kept his voice low.
“DiNovi just got tipped off that one of the dudes in the gym has a weapon. He's gonna search all of them, and you too, since you were just there. Quick, hand me the shiv so you don't get caught with it.”
Hank slipped the Lullaby from his waistband, trying to keep it out of sight as he passed it to Ram. The Aryan palmed it and strolled off casually just as DiNovi and several other guards charged down the hallway, barking orders at Hank.
“You! Get back in the gym and get up against the wall.”
Hank put his hands up and marched back into the gym, putting his palms against the wall. The guards rounded up the other men, dragging them away from the exercise equipment and shoving them up against the hard concrete blocks. A couple of the convicts murmured curses, but everyone complied.
As DiNovi's stubby fingers patted Hank's body up and down, he felt the murderous rage again, baking him from the inside out. He hated how many times he'd had to submit to strangers groping him since he'd come here—exploring his underarms, his torso, his crotch, even between his ass cheeks if the guard in question was feeling particularly surly. They never found anything on him, but it was clear that they enjoyed humiliating and dehumanizing him whenever possible.
Hank fantasized about grabbing DiNovi's hands—feeling the bones in the CO's fingers and wrists snap and pop, hearing his screams. If Hank applied the right amount of pressure, DiNovi wouldn't be able to wipe his own ass for three months, and the other guards would think twice about putting their goddamn hands on Hank in the future.
Best of all—even after the bandages came off and the physical therapy ended—every time the weather got cold or rainy for the rest of DiNovi's life, his hands would be filled with a deep and throbbing agony. And he'd wince and rub them, and he'd remember Hank.
But no.
The momentary satisfaction that would bring Hank wouldn't be worth the time he'd spend in the hole, or the extra years that would be added to his sentence for attacking a guard.
So Hank took a deep breath, waiting for DiNovi to move on to the next convict, and the next. One of the Sinners was caught with a tiny packe
t of coke, and another had a “Manifesto”—which was Bluebonnet slang for a shiv made of paper that had been folded many times and then coated with varnish. Those two prisoners were sent to Ad-Seg as their contraband was confiscated, and the rest were let go.
Hank brushed himself off and returned to his cell. Ram was in the top bunk, reading an old paperback of “The Count of Monte Cristo.”
“Thanks for the warning, man,” Hank said.
Ram smirked, tossing the book aside. “No need to thank me. See, I was the one who tipped off the guards that someone in the gym had a shiv.” He dangled the Lullaby in front of Hank for a moment, then slipped it under his own pillow.
Hank raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to give that back, or do you and Bull expect me to whack a Sinner with my teeth?”
Ram laughed. “I wouldn't advise it. Half of 'em probably got AIDS or some shit. No, you had plenty of chances to do what Bull told you today, and you pissed 'em all away. You've made it pretty fuckin' clear that you've got no intention of following orders, but hey, that's okay. Bull's an optimistic dude. He's still convinced he can get through to you somehow.”
“How's that?”
“That's for me to know. For now, all you need to know is that I've got the shiv now, and in about forty minutes, we're gonna be locked in together, the lights are gonna go out, and the guards are gonna take a nice long walk so we get plenty of private time.” Ram grinned. “Hope you sleep well tonight, Hank.”
He didn't.
In fact, he didn't get any sleep at all that night.
Chapter 20
Beth
Beth pulled her car into the parking space in front of her apartment complex. She was exhausted from her shift, her entire body ached, and she hated the way the scents of Bluebonnet clung to her skin no matter how hard she tried to wash them off. Every time she inhaled, her nostrils were filled with piss, shit, filthy concrete, rusty metal, bland food steamed in plastic, and male musk so raw and pungent it was like being in a zoo.
Sometimes, she imagined she could smell something else hovering above it all—a harsh, meaty scent that was primal and dizzying.
Was it desperation? Hopelessness?
Or just the smell of evil men, thinking evil thoughts and doing evil things until the air around them was a cloud of constant poison?
Bull's threats had been banging around in her head ever since he'd made them. She hadn't been able to eat or sleep since then, and she was gripped by a penetrating sense of dread and despair. No matter what she did or didn't do, it seemed like she was doomed to go to prison, die, or both.
Even if she did everything she was told, how long would it take for Bull to grow bored with tormenting her and start demanding sexual favors from her anyway? Worse, how long would he hold Hank's well-being—and that of the other Warriors, for that matter—over her head? Could she really live with this level of terrified anticipation day in, day out, indefinitely?
No. She couldn't. She was sure it would eventually drive her insane.
For the first time, she seriously considered going to the police. It was an alien thought—her uncle had been the president of the Carnage Warriors for as long as she could remember, and he'd always told her, “No matter what happens, Bethie, never, ever call the cops. You have a problem, you come to me. If I ain't around, you talk to the VP or one of MC's other senior officers. But you call the cops, and no matter what happened or who's in the wrong, you can bet your ass they'll end up arresting all the wrong people and letting the right ones go.”
But she couldn't go to Bib, or any of the other Warriors. Not about this. They were good guys, and she knew how much they cared about her—but their methods tended to be blunt, and no matter what they did to try to fix it, she was afraid all they'd do is make it worse.
Maybe the cops have dealt with situations like this before, she thought. Maybe they've got ways out of this that I haven't even thought of, since I'm so scared. Sure, okay, she'd lied on her CO application, but surely they'd overlook that when confronted with crimes that were so much more serious. She was still basically an innocent person, and that meant they had to do everything they could to protect her.
Didn't it?
Beth went up the steps to her door and put her key in, but the handle turned and the door swung open before she felt the lock turn over. Her breath stuck in her throat like a jagged bone.
It was open. Someone was here waiting for her.
Why? She'd done everything they asked, hadn't she? Was Butler here to intimidate her again? Was there a gang of Aryans standing in her living room, ready to teach her a lesson over some perceived slight?
She was unarmed. Defenseless. She could turn and run, but where would she go?
Beth stepped into her apartment and took a deep breath. She tried to keep the quiver out of her voice, but she was unsuccessful. “Who is it? Who the fuck is in here?”
A lamp switched on, revealing Bib. He was sitting in an easy chair in front of the darkened TV screen. Under his bushy eyebrows, his eyes looked sad and concerned.
“Uncle Bib? Jesus, you just about scared me to death! I hope no one saw you, or else they've probably already called the cops to report you as a burglar.”
Bib shook his head. “Nope, no one saw me come in. I was very careful. There's just you and me here, no one else.”
Beth frowned. “Okay. So what's up? I thought we were going to hang out at the garage tomorrow night, like always. Why did you want to see me before then, and why are you sneaking around in the dark like this? Is something wrong?”
“I don't know, Bethie. Why don't you tell me?”
Beth forced an uncomfortable laugh. “Have you been drinking? Because I have no idea what you're talking about. You sound weird.”
Bib nodded. “I probably do. That's because, for the first time since you've known me, I am just about terrified out of my goddamn wits. I truly am.”
“I, uh, don't...I mean, I'm not really sure what you could possibly be so afraid of,” Beth stammered uneasily. “Everything's fine at work, and—”
Bib pointed a finger at her. “Yeah. That, right there. That look in your eyes when you tell me 'everything's fine at work.' That's what's got me so fucking petrified. Bethie, do you remember when you were six years old and you wanted to sit on my bike?”
Beth was caught off guard. Yes, of course she remembered that. It was one of the only times Bib had ever yelled at her, which made it one of her most unpleasant childhood memories.
“I said no, so you waited 'til I left the garage and then you tried to climb up on it by yourself,” Bib continued. “The bike fell over and got all scratched up on one side, and you tried to feed me a line of crap about how the wind blew through the door and knocked it over. You weren't good at lying then, and you ain't gotten no better at it as you've gotten older. You get that same pinched little rabbit-looking expression on your face, and you've gotten it every goddamn time I've asked you about Hank and your job at Bluebonnet. I figured whatever was wrong, you were just too proud to let me know, and you'd find some way to fix it yourself.
“But so much time has passed, Bethie, and you've still got that same look on your face. And now I'm starting to wonder if you just feel so trapped and confused by whatever it is that you think it's too late to talk to me, or it won't do any good. But that just ain't true, hon. Whatever's happened, I'm sitting here and begging you to tell me. Every problem in this life has got a solution, and we'll find it together, no matter what it takes.”
Beth's lower lip trembled, and tears spilled down her cheeks. She wanted to shake her head and insist that everything really was fine. But the look of hurt and worry in his eyes was too much for her to bear.
She told him everything.
Chapter 21
Beth
By the time Beth had finished telling Bib everything, she'd gone through almost an entire box of tissues and he looked like he'd had his heart ripped out. He sat in the chair, utterly deflated, his eyes full of sham
e and remorse.
“Holy fucking shit,” he breathed. “I can't believe it. I must be the dumbest fuck on the planet, letting you go in there as a guard without knowing what the real score was.”
Beth shook her head. “It's not your fault. You had no way of knowing.”
“Well, it damn sure feels like my fault. I did a couple of short stretches in county jails here and there, but I never did time in a real prison like Bluebonnet. I guess I just figured it wouldn't be much different, y'know? And now I find out Speed Bump's been lying to me about it all this time...I mean, Jesus, after everything he and I went through together over the years...”
“I'm so sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I wanted to, but even if you knew, I figured there was nothing you could do about it. And if you tried, you might even make it worse.”
