by J. D. Sloane
“Careful, Morlan. Right now, you’re still just what I would consider day labor. Now if you’d like to enjoy a place on my permanent payroll, just say the word. I’m sure I could find something more interesting for you to do than to pick up my mail and arrange my sabbaticals.”
“Christ, Ronan,” Morlan said, his voice tight and rushed. “I already told you that Dula is all over my ass lately. He finds any of this stuff on you and the guards are the first ones to get tossed. I never agreed to any of this.”
“Now when have I ever asked for your agreement on anything? So, what’ll it be, hmm? Day labor or entry level felon? I’m open to either one, I really am, but you have to decide now. I hate having my time wasted. You really can’t believe how much that annoys me.”
Morlan ran his tongue over his lips and Ronan turned his head as he heard voices outside Dula’s doorway, his dark eyes narrowing with an impatient type of amusement.
“Last chance to change your mind, Morlan,” Ronan said his voice low and careless as he tilted his head at him. “And believe me, no path you choose now will be any riskier than not doing exactly what I ask you to do.”
Ronan cocked his head as Morlan tucked the scrap into his front pocket, with the mute resignation on an animal that had wandered into a trap and couldn’t immediately think of an easy way out.
Informants and spies aren’t what they used to be, Ronan thought, his face twitching across the surface of his scar. Even the ones who know better. Let’s just hope it ends a little better for you than it did for them.
“It’s a favor,” Morlan said under his breath as he started to roll the tray away from the chair. “I’ll get it done.”
“Good to hear,” Ronan said as Morlan swiped his card through the electronic reader next to the warden’s door and then shuttled the metal tray out into the hallway.
“The girl,” Morlan said, lowering his voice as he glanced over his shoulder. “The one from the news. She’s coming back.”
Ronan raised his brows, turning his head towards the doorway, his face a polite blank.
“Alone?”
“That’s what Dula said,” Morlan said, following the tray out of the door. “He cleared her for another interview on Friday. No crew, just her.”
Ronan felt a dim thrill of surprise as the warden’s door whispered closed behind him and tried to decide what gratified him about it the most- the fact that the reporter had asked to come back so quickly or that Dula had taken the bait almost at once. He rubbed his chin as he thought about it, how rapidly this changed the timeline, and then closed his eyes as he thought of Alicia’s face, his mind suddenly spinning with smooth, electric clarity.
Alicia Gale, Alicia Gale, he thought. Such a pleasant little working girl. I wonder where you think you’re going to end up in all of this? Once the sun begins to set on all those Hollywood dreams of yours and you realize there’s only one place left to go.
Ronan opened his eyes, his eyes scrolling across the front of Dula’s desk and then slid his chair closer, thinking of the way Channel Six’s pretty blond flavor of the month had startled when he had walked into the treatment room, looking him over with a quick, self-conscious snap of her eyes. The fact that she found him attractive pleased him, but not nearly as much as the way she struggled to hide it, burying it beneath a mask of prissy annoyance that he found strangely and amusingly exotic.
As far as looks went, Alicia was at least as artificial looking as any bottle blond he’d ever met, with bright, shoulder-length hair that seemed somehow at odds with her skin tone and which was one of her more celebrated on-screen characteristics. Ronan brushed his knuckles over his lips as he thought it over, thinking of her round gold eyes that were dressed up with a little too much eyeliner for polite company and grinned slightly as he thought of the way she had pulled out the crime scene photos to trip him up, slapping them down on the table like an amateur poker player that had just lucked into a game changing flush.
The truth was he had never really been attracted to blonds, certainly not enough to keep one around for long. Even before his relationship with Brooke became serious he had rarely bothered with them and when he tried to nail down what was different about her, he found himself returning to her eyes again and again, those round gold eyes of hers that seemed to turn everywhere at once and then settled on him squarely like some precocious teenager, terrified someone would notice how wrong she was for her job and would yank her out of the limelight at any minute.
Ronan closed his eyes as he thought about her lips had looked, the exact place against her neck where her lush blond bangs had started to curl up beneath her jawline and felt a sudden wave of ugly hunger pulse through him as he thought about how thin and girlish her body was beneath her clothes, her expensive lace bra endowing her with curves that were not really there until even her womanly build seemed like some kind of costume, a young girl playing dress-up in a grown-up world.
His fingers twitched as he thought of the way her eyes had flown open when he slid her underwear to her knees, leaning closer as he brushed his hand down the narrow strip of auburn hair above her open cunt and watched her eyes shift from shame to a reluctant, knee-jerk excitement, her mouth sighing open suddenly as if she had momentarily forgotten how to feign outrage. Ronan slid his hand into his lap without thinking about it as he remembered the way she had slapped him, the anger in her expression running a slow, distant second to those strange, wild eyes of hers and then flinched as an image of Brooke’s gentle, too perfect face tore through it without warning, the picture so vivid and photograph clear that for a moment it was as if she was in the room with him.
Ronan ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his fingers curling into a fist as he waited for the image to pass, and then let out a slow sigh as he heard the quiet hammer of an external lock, the pain receding from his face as quickly as a desert mirage. He turned his head as he heard the warden enter and then twirled his eyes in Dula’s direction as he tossed a manila folder onto his desk, nodding to him without smiling as he stood by the open door. Ronan whistled a few notes under his breath as he stretched his legs out in front of him and then scratched his neck as another guard handed him something from the hallway, his face as grim and impassive as everyone else on this side of the prison.
Everyone but you, Dula, Ronan thought, his eyes rolling over the warden’s expression slowly as the guard closed the door behind them. And doesn’t that just say it all?
Ronan hummed a few more bars and then raised his brows politely, tapping the arm of his chair with one knuckle.
“Doing a little spring cleaning, Dula? That seems like a wise choice. All. Things. Considered.”
Dula followed his gaze to his empty desktop and then gave him a tight smile as he sat down in his curved back leather chair, resting his elbow on one arm.
“Very observant, Mr. White. The board thought it was for the best after the incident downstairs. And it also sounds suspiciously like a confession. Would you care to expand on what you know about that unfortunate incident in Cell Block D?”
“Not even a little bit,” Ronan said, his dark eyes twirling wildly for a moment before smoothing out into a more genial kind of amusement. “It is a shame what happened to Hax though. Poor little jailhouse canary. They never do have much of a shelf life. Then again, maybe he was just depressed. Maybe he became overwhelmed with conscience and decided to end it all. It’s so difficult to say what goes on in the lonely, cameraless stairwells of a man’s mind.”
Ronan shrugged and glanced around at the dark brown walls as Dula pulled a ring of keys out of his white jacket pocket and unlocked the top drawer.
“Plus it just speaks to the problem, wouldn’t you say? I mean so many unpleasant things in life can be avoided if people were just taught to be a little less careless with other people’s belongings.”
Dula paused with his hand on his chair and then flipped to a blank page of his notebook, scribbling into it quickly as he
met Ronan’s eyes across the desk.
“That sounds like a threat.”
Ronan rolled his jaw and then flashed Dula a sudden brilliant smile as he leaned forward in his chair, the gesture quick enough to make the warden flinch.
“Just a little friendly advice, Rusty. From one professional to another.”
Dula’s eyes flitted over his chained wrists as Ronan titled his head at him, suddenly wanting nothing more than to leap over his desk and plunge his ballpoint pen into the side of neck. He rubbed his fingers slowly as if twirling a ring that was no longer there and then shrugged and sat back in his chair, his eyes never quite leaving the warden’s face.
“I’ve asked you not to call me that on several different occasions,” Dula sighed, sliding his chair forward. “And now my staff tells me that the other inmates have been picking it up. Do you like creating problems for other people, Mr. White? Or are you just incapable of accepting higher authority of any kind?”
Ronan tipped his head at him, the overhead light turning his expression into something unexpectedly vicious.
“If I ever met one I might,” he said, his voice low and languid.
He flexed his left hand lightly and then glanced towards the door.
“And I’m feeling a little edgy today, unfortunately. Maybe you can have one of your staff slip in for little tune-up? What do you say? Promise I’ll play nicely.”
Ronan tipped him a wink and then watched Dula’s jaw set slowly, the veins below his jawline doing an unpleasant little dance for a few moments before settling. Ronan’s expression didn’t change but he felt all the nerves in his fingers jump to high alert, dancing on the arms of his chair like the phantom twitch of a master pianist. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, trying not to let his rage cloud his better judgement and rolled his neck in sudden annoyance.
“No? Because I’ll be frank with you, Dula, these sessions of yours aren’t exactly scintillating. Why don’t you send that other therapist in to do the interview, hmm? Mrs. Sherry? The one who wears all those nice red sweaters.”
“That isn’t her name either,” Dula snapped. “And you know it.”
Ronan blinked slowly and then shrugged.
“No. But I like Sherry better. And she isn’t exactly memorable, now is she? Outside of the sweaters that is.”
“I’m sure Mrs. James would prefer to be called by her given name.”
Ronan rolled his eyes towards him slowly, something bright and unpleasant stirring in their depths.
“Has she complained about it?”
“No,” Dula asked, tipping his head at him in sudden anger. “She hasn’t. And what if she did? Would you attack her in some dark hallway on the way to lunch?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. Whoever took care of Hax didn’t have much imagination. I’m sure I could find something a lot more inspired to do with the lonely little Mrs. Sherry. So sweet. So diligent. So pleasantly forgettable in every conceivable way.”
Dula looked up at him and then tapped his pen against his pad of paper, setting it down on the table in front of him before folding his hands on top of it.
“And how about Miss Gale, Ronan? Do you find her just as ‘pleasantly forgettable’?”
“Oh, I’m sure you know her better than I do, Dula. What with her fucking your best friend and all.”
“I’m certain I never put it quite that way.”
Ronan smirked and then sat back in his metal chair, watching Dula’s pen carefully as he shrugged.
“Didn’t you? Well that’s how I heard it anyway. I’d actually be curious to hear more about that, if you wouldn’t mind. Exactly how well do you know your old friend, the station manager? Does he just like his girls young or is it a compulsion to, ahem, dip it in the company ink?”
“I already know what my opinion is of Alicia, Mr. White. I was asking for yours.”
“Hmm. Man to man?”
“If you like.”
“She seemed very- ambitious. A little too blond for my tastes, but que sera.”
“Ambitious. What do you mean by ambitious?”
“Oh, well. It’s hard to say with women like her. You know what I mean. All business. Talk, talk, talk.”
“And what did you two talk about?”
“A little of this, a little of that. She did ask about your Wonderland project though. She seemed very intrigued by the whole thing. And about the murders, my childhood. Women always seem curious about things like that, don’t they? Who can say why?”
Dula’s shoulders stiffened and he gripped the top of his notepad harder, his blue eyes narrowing.
“She mentioned our program to you?”
Ronan made a careless gesture.
“Oh, I wouldn’t get too worried about it if I were you. She isn’t asking any of the right questions yet. At least not yet. Our first encounter wasn’t much to write home about, I’m afraid. I’d give the entire date a C plus overall.”
“I’m a little surprised by that, frankly. With your track record I thought you’d have her eating out of your hand within the hour.”
“Sorry to disappoint. Like I said, we really didn’t have much of a love connection. If you were looking for an inside source you might want to rethink how you bait the hook next time. Think dark hair. More exotic overall. I don’t mind the all-American type to round out the deck per se, but in general it’s not my go-to image, if you know what I mean. Just FYI.”
Ronan rolled his tongue over his lips as Dula sat back in his chair and tented his fingers before picking up his notepad and flipping to a fresh sheet. He watched the warden spin his chair until he was almost in profile and felt all the muscles in his back tense and go quiet, his wide dark eyes shifting around the room restlessly for a moment.
“Why do you want to do this interview, Mr. White? It can’t help you. Not really. No matter what you do or how many stories you tell, the fact remains that unless you agree to full treatment in our program here, you’re going to die in prison. What could you possibly hope to gain from something like this?”
Ronan felt his face twitch across the surface of his scar and leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes twirling with amused contempt.
“Sometimes the truth is its own reward, Dula. Don’t forget that. And don’t think for one second that I intend to let this city forget it either.”
“Things are really getting quiet out there,” Morlan said, doing his presto chango routine with the syringes as Ronan rolled his back against the back of his chair. He watched Morlan wheel his cart against the wall and flipped a card into one of the line of aces across the table, shrugging slightly as he whistled under his breath.
“Well that should make Dula nice and proud,” Ronan said without glancing up, his cuffed wrist giving off a faint clang as it brushed against the edge. “Nothing spells success like a cell block full of silent inmates.”
“No,” Morlan said, his voice lowering. “Not just in this wing. In the other blocks too. Ever since Lincoln. Word is that the other dealers are having a problem getting their product through.”
“That is a shame. What can I say, Morlan? The open market is a funny thing. Maybe they should reconsider their distribution lines. My men certainly haven’t had any problems worth mentioning.”
Morlan looked at him seriously as Ronan shifted two cards to another row and then admired the stack before picking up his tune where he had left off.
“Yeah. That’s the other rumor I’ve been hearing. That your crew is the only one that’s been able to get their product through in the last few weeks. And that they’ve doubled their asking price. Some guys are getting antsy. Say they can’t afford it.”
Ronan looked up and gave him a smirk as Morlan froze beneath his gaze, staring at him like a hooked fish that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to keep treading water or run out the line.
“Now, Morlan,” Ronan said, his voice curling with a violent sort of good humor. “Who would want
to walk around in this place and spread a rumor. Like. That?”
Morlan swallowed, his eyes bulging slightly as Ronan rolled his jaw at him and then turned his head as someone knocked twice at the outer door, his brow furrowing as he glanced at his watch. Ronan craned his neck towards the door as the hum of the electronic lock went off behind them and felt a pang of amused gratification as he heard Alicia arguing with someone outside the door, the sharp crack of her heels echoing down the hallway.
He watched Morlan scratch his neck, talking to another guard rapidly as he glanced down the hallway and then beckoned her inside as his radio went off, pursing his lips with annoyance as he waved off the other guard. Ronan whistled low under his breath as Alicia brushed past him into the room and raised his brows as she looked at him once and then glanced away, her expression so haughty and adolescent he grinned.
“You’re a half an hour early, Miss Gale,” Morlan said, shaking his head. “Dula specifically said that he wanted to speak with you before…”
“I’d love to play this game with you today, Morlan,” Alicia said, her gold eyes gleaming in her smooth, flushed face. “I really would. But I had to bump an appointment up later this afternoon just to make it here. Tell Dula he can page me when he gets in.”
Ronan looked her over before he could stop himself, her pleated black skirt kicking up slightly as she set down her bag. He considered her pinned up blond hair thoughtfully for a moment, something about the style bringing out all the delicate angles of her face and watched her tight gray button-down shirt pull across her small breasts as she argued, the sudden vicious desire to make her strip for him on her hands and knees racing though his mind in a brilliant flash of annoyance and fury.
“Look, Miss Gale…”
Ronan cleared his throat as Alicia turned in his direction, her round gold eyes flashing with triumph like a wayward teenager that had just scored a petty win from her superiors.
“It’s fine, Morlan,” he said, his voice low and careless as he glanced back down at his cards. “You can leave us.”
