Broken (The Addictive Trilogy Book 2)

by Ashley Love

  “Wha’d you say?”

  “I said fuck you.”

  The cell grows quieter as a few more men look on at the heated exchange. Tension rises in the air and Lex can’t pretend he doesn’t know that these guys could gang up on him and he’d be helpless in a matter of seconds. His stomach lurches at the silence and he thinks he hears his name being called down the hall, but he questions it. In a jail cell, you question a lot of things, not just what you see and hear. He hears it again, coming closer, but he doesn’t break his gaze away from the men surrounding him, keeping his guard up because he knows a moment of weakness could be the breaking point.

  “Taylor!” the voice booms right outside of the bars and he jumps and turns his attention.

  “That’s me!” he says a bit eagerly and a few of the other men snicker.

  “You’re up,” the jail guard says flatly after briefly scanning a sheet of paper held onto a clipboard, and he turns away to fish for the cell key on the ring hooked to his belt loop.

  “You got lucky this time, faggot. Pinche pendeja…” The rest of the man’s hushed Spanish curses float away as Lex is suddenly back in the little diner, just for a moment, all those year ago sitting at the bar…listening to Remy sling Spanish insults… “And next time you might not be so lucky. You’ll get yours, bitch. You’ll get what’s comin' to you.”

  “We’re gonna go ahead and transport you tonight since obviously you’re not going to get an arraignment hearing after 2 a.m,” the jail guard informs in an authoritative tone as he leads Lex down the narrow hall to a backdoor exit. A tall man with sandy hair, he stands a good three inches taller than Lex and packs at least 60 extra pounds of solid muscle. Garrett, his nametag reads.

  “Why can’t I just stay in a holding cell? I have someone who can pay my bail. I have the money,” Lex replies coolly, wanting to talk with his hands in order to be more convincing, which would be easier were they not cuffed behind his back.

  “All our holders are full. And like I said, you can’t get bail paid until it’s set, and you’re not gonna get a hearing tonight. So unless you wanna sleep standing up, I suggest you just take this as your best option.” Officer Garrett pushes the door open and the warm dry air of early morning Los Angeles hits Lex in the face and he realizes how cold and clammy it was inside…how cold and clammy it will be inside…

  “Well, where the fuck are you taking me?” His tone is short and he tries to cover up the panic in his voice as he’s quickly tucked into a squad car and he knows this is it…this could be it.

  “I would watch that mouth if I were you, since I hear it’s what got you into this trouble from the get-go.” Officer Garrett slides into the driver’s seat of the car and radios to someone that he’s en route to “MCJ” with the suspect in custody.

  “And who exactly did you hear that from?” Lex asks over the radio static, meeting eyes with him in the rearview mirror.

  “I really just suggest you stop talking until we get where we’re going.” Garrett replies over a scratchy Roger that answer on the radio, and he starts the car.

  “I already asked you where that was,” Lex says smartly and waits a beat for a response.

  “Men’s Central.”

  Men’s Central…“MCJ”…Men’s Central Jail…it finally clicks in his head…

  “No. No! No fucking way am I going there.” Lex shakes his head adamantly. He’s heard about Men’s Central. Anyone who plays the law and tries not to get locked up has heard of Men’s Central.

  “It’s been decided. You have no choice.”

  “No! Hell fucking no I am not going to that goddamn place!” he shouts, sitting up in his seat and kicking his loose laceless sneakers against the floorboard. “Turn this fucking car around!”

  “Unless you want another misdemeanor charge of disorderly conduct tacked on to your running tab of offenses, I advise you to control yourself,” Garrett replies coolly and Lex scowls, kicking the bottom of the passenger’s seat as he slumps back against his own seat with a sigh, not saying another word.

  They cruise quickly through town, Lex keeping his eyes down for the most part, but he looks out his window as the car rolls up to a red light and he notices a small car stopped next to them…a Mazda Miata…white…top down…

  He pushes down the memory...every memory: late night drives, movies, getting rides to work, begging “please let me drive,” turning up the radio and singing until he laughed so hard he couldn’t say the lyrics anymore...always happy, always together. It all seems so far away now. He lays his head back against the seat and just lets it all come...and lets it all go.

  “Unlawful possession, felon or drug addict in possession, concealed firearm, carrying a loaded firearm, and possession of a controlled substance…you know what you’re lookin' at for these charges, Taylor?” Officer Garrett’s voice snaps him out of his daze and he opens his eyes to see that they’ve pulled up to the intake entrance of the jail. He meets eyes wearily with the man in the rearview mirror and shrugs.

  “An orange jumpsuit and a dick in my ass?” he replies smartly and Garrett simply gives him a disapproving look and gets out of the car, opening the back door and assisting his exit from the vehicle. He escorts him to the intake doors where a heavyset black man is awaiting his arrival and gives Lex a once-over before nodding to Garrett and taking a folder of papers.

  Garrett leans in and gives Lex a quick pat on the back before gripping his shoulder tightly and leaning in closer to him. “Don’t drop the soap,” he chides with a grin, and Lex shrugs him off with a grunt. He starts to turn around and respond but is stopped short by the heavy hand on his shoulder guiding him into the doorway.

  “This way, tough guy.”

  Lex scowls as he is led through a narrow corridor to a window much like a bank teller station. It's covered in thick plexiglass and adjacent to a heavy metal door with rusty hinges and a small square barred window, which makes him tense up slightly.

  “Checking in,” the bassy voice of the large jail guard echoes in the small space. The smaller man behind the window nods and takes the folder of papers as it is slid through a thin slot. Lex simply looks at the floor.

  Sheets of paper are stamped with a rubber inked pad and a few numbers are entered into the computer. A heavy click of the door lock signals admittance and Lex is handed off to another man standing just on the other side of the door as it opens. He is short and stocky and Hispanic, his nametag reading Emilios, and Lex gives him a brief nod as he passes into the doorway and is instantly in another world as he looks around the vast open space of the entryway to the facility.

  He can see up onto the second and third floors of the building, heavy doors leading to separate wings of the center. He weaves through tables bolted to the floor with attached bench seats as he follows Officer Emilios back to a hallway at the far end of the first floor. The noise gets louder and louder as he wanders through a maze of halls, stopping by a small supply closet to exchange his sneakers for thin, rubber-soled black and white canvas shoes common among all inmates.

  Some men are awake even at 3 a.m., leaning against the bars of the cell with their hands out toward the openness outside of their confines. Lex trudges down a dimly lit hallway lined with barred cells, all of which are dark from a lack of inside lighting, only barred patterns of light casting against the back walls from the brightness of the hallway. A cool wet stench hangs in the air and he longs for the dry heat of the outside world.

  Emilios stops outside a cell numbered 261 in the A-Pod and opens the door with a key and a rusty turn-handle. Two of the inmates are awake, sitting on the edge of their respective beds. While the other two were sleeping before, when the cell door slides open with the scrape and squeak of metal on metal, they open their eyes and fix their gazes upon Lex, who steps into the open cell quietly after Emilios removes his handcuffs.

  “Sup?”

  He receives no response, and simply sits on the concrete floor of the cell, lea
ning his back against the far wall, eyeing the two sets of bunk-style beds filling the room, one to his right and one to his left, all four beds full of course. He looks at the three walls and barred door surrounding him and remembers every story he ever heard on the news about MCJ…the killings, the riots, the overcrowding, and he remembers telling Fabian that he’d rather be in Twin Towers with the high-risk guys than end up in MCJ…

  It’s funny how things work out.

  Lex watches the two guys sitting up in their beds, one on the top bunk to his right and the other on the bottom to his left, as they eye each other and then glance at him and look at each other again knowingly. He slumps down against the wall and fixes his eyes down to the floor but he feels the walls pressing in around him, tightening as his chest tightens and his stomach lurches and he quickly stands to his feet, walking to the barred cell door and trying to peer down the hall. He sees another uniformed guard standing at the end of the hall and calls down to him.

  “When do I get my phone call? Don’t I get a phone call?”

  “You’ll get it when we see fit, Taylor,” he replies, walking briskly down the hall to stand in front of the cell. “Honestly if we can’t get you in front of a JP to get you outta here, who gives a fuck if someone knows at 3 a.m. that you’re in here to sit for a few days? It can wait til morning.”

  “I want my fucking phone call,” Lex hisses tight in his throat, gripping the cell bars, trembling slightly as panic and discomfort settle in his stomach and veins. He starts to sweat.

  “Well you’re not gonna get anything acting like that. I suggest you calm down.”

  Lex smacks the bars with his open palms, making the door shake and clatter, echoing in the hall and his voice raises as he shouts almost in desperation, “I want my motherfucking phone call!”

  “Shut the fuck up,” a voice calls from down the hall and he frowns, dropping his forehead against the cold metal. He hears a voice snicker thinly from behind him.

  “You wanna call ya boyfriend, white boy?”

  “Fuck you,” Lex snaps back, turning to look over his shoulder at the thin black man lying on the bottom bunk closest to him, sneering up at him, squinting his eyes to shield against the light peeking in from the hallway.

  “The fuck you say to me?” the guy replies with a scowl, two gold-capped teeth glinting barely visible in the light.

  “I said it’s none of your fucking business who I call.”

  The guard shakes the door a bit to get their attention. “Hey, shut up, both of you. You know the number?” he asks, looking at Lex with hard eyes.

  “Yeah...I know it.”

  “Then let’s go. And you better make it quick.”

  Lex takes a seat at the pay phone station, slightly nervous because he’s not really sure if he remembers the number or not, but of course he said he did because he wanted out of that damn cell. He runs the numbers over in his mind a few times for sequence and he picks up the receiver, dialing quickly.

  It rings once, twice, and he prays for someone to answer because he knows this dickhead cop won’t give him a second call if this one doesn’t go through, not after the hell he raised.

  “Hello?”

  He sighs with relief. “Damn I’m glad you answered the phone…it’s Lex…listen, I need you to do something for me…”

  “What? Dude, what the fuck is going on?” Kyle asks, his voice thin and sleep-laden but Lex pushes on quickly.

  “I need you to get in touch with Tony, get the name for Felix’s lawyer. Some bad shit came up, man.”

  “Wait...where the fuck are you?”

  “I’m in Men’s Central.” He doesn’t hear a response. “Hello? Kyle?”

  “What?! What the fuck happened to you?” Kyle explodes and Lex sighs wearily.

  “Shut the fuck up and listen.” He lowers his voice and speaks clearly and with purpose. “Don’t talk to any of the boys, okay? I don’t need any of you motherfuckers up here causing a scene. Just do whatever you have to do to get in touch with Tony…get the name of Felix’s lawyer…call that motherfucker. Tell him you’re calling for Lex, a friend of Felix’s, and it’s important…he needs to call up here and get me out of this fucking place. Can you do that?”

  “I guess so man, I just—”

  “No, I asked you can you do that? Can you take care of shit for me or not, Kyle?” he interrupts harshly and Kyle stutters slightly before responding.

  “Yeah…yeah man, I got you. I’ll take care of it…”

  Lex nods slowly, releasing a pent up sigh. “And another thing…they took all my phones and shit. So, uh…take care of what’s important to me…you hear me? Handle my business…make sure what I care about is taken care of…”

  Kyle waits a beat, sorting out Lex’s words in his head before replying unsurely. “Yeah man, I’ll uh…I’ll call Leala as soon as I hang up with you…make sure she’s okay…”

  “No bitch! Think about what I just said. Damn! Take care of my shit!” Lex groans and hangs up, muttering a “sorry” when he receives a disapproving look from the guard.

  He stands up slowly and waits to be escorted back to his cell. When he reaches the back hallway once more the guard turns to him as they approach 261 and speaks.

  “Now, are you gonna keep quiet and quit raising hell around here?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Don’t I get like…a bed or something?” Lex shrugs and the guard scoffs.

  “You think this is the Hilton? We don’t have room for more beds.” He pulls the door open slowly and Lex steps inside. “I’ll have a guard bring you out a cot or something,” he adds quickly before closing the cell with a click and Lex nods, eyes trained on his through the bars.

  “Thanks.”

  “Good luck.”

  Lex turns and resumes his position on the floor, being sure not to sit too close to the toilet unit sticking out from the wall while remaining a comfortable distance away from the bunk bed adjacent to him. He slumps against the wall further and further until he reaches a somewhat comfortable reclining position and he studies the walls, the old yellowing paint marked and scratched with drawings and patterns, an oversized “L.A.” on the wall to his right, and he brushes his fingers over his neck where his tattoo marks the same brand upon his skin. He remembers the hard time he used to get from his boys that L.A. stood for Leala Always, and he smiles at the thought.

  A shadow on the floor makes him looks up at the cell door and he sees the outline of a large guard, different from the one before, holding a small foldout cot and a blanket. He sighs with relief as the door slides open and the cot is laid out on the floor, the blanket tossed on top. He nods a thank you and crawls over to stand up his makeshift bed, but before he can reach it the man sleeping on the bottom bunk, the same one who had made the jab at him before about his phone call, pulls it away.

  “You ain’t sleepin' on this cot, faggot.”

  “The fuck I’m not,” Lex growls in response, but doesn’t dare reach for it, the look in the other man’s eyes signaling that he’s not one to be fucked with.

  “Nah. I gotta rest my dick on something when I sleep.”

  Thr guy pulls the cot over by his bed and folds it out, resting it next to him but he doesn’t touch it, keeping one eye on Lex, daring him to take it. Lex doesn’t even bother, snatching the blanket up from the floor and crawling back over against the wall, watching the dim light flicker off of the two gold teeth of his crooked smile and he wants to bash those teeth in.

  But he just lays down and pulls the blanket over his lanky frame, his bones digging in hard against the concrete of the floor, and he curls up into himself, eyeing the cot, seething until he can bear the angst no more, and his eyes flit over to the other wall, eyeing the L.A…thinking of all it means to him…of all it’s taken from him…until he finally closes his eyes.

  13

  I’m all groggy when I roll over and there’s pounding on the door waking me from a half-ass sleep. My head is
heavy and it feels like my brain is pressing into the backs of my eyes and the pounding just won’t cease...on the door, I mean. Or in my fucking skull.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I call, my voice still thick and sleep-laden as I trudge to the door, my bare feet padding across the carpet, shivering a little in my tank top and shorts without the warmth of the comforter, and I make a mental note to turn the thermostat up once I see what the fuck this person wants outside.

  I unbolt the heavy lock as well as the turn-lock on the knob, and the pounding on the door is so hard it’s vibrating against the frame and I can feel it under my feet. “I fucking hear you!” I shout, my sleepiness mixed with my frustration causing me to just slide the chain-latch out of its hole without a second thought and fling the door open, ready to bitch out whoever is on the other side.

  But before I can get a word out I’m quickly pushed back by a large familiar hand as his other one grips the door and slams it shut, turning to deftly relock all of the devices which I had just opened. I gasp at his haste, his hands working frantically with the locks until he has them all secured and he finally rests his forehead against the door, arms braced over his head, his back expanding and falling as he pants.

  It’s quiet like that for a moment. Him panting, my eyes wide and uncertain trained on his broad back, blinking several times to make sure he’s really there, shaking my head once or twice.

  “Lex…” My voice has a questioning tone, as if to ask him what in the holy fuck is going on just by saying his name.

  He turns, resting his back against the door and his breathing is still heavy as he looks anywhere but at my face, his eyes unfocused and flitting around the room, pupils wide with fear or excitement or something else I can’t place, but he doesn’t look like himself. His blue eyes look black in the dark of the room, the moonlight through the window barely aiding my ability to make out his features as I look him over. Dirt is smudged on his face, which is marked with cuts and lacerations and a few bruises. His hands are dirty to match, and his blue jumpsuit is pulled down off of his shoulders, the knees soiled and wet and the arms tied in a knot at his waist, his torso covered by a white wifebeater that’s slightly damp between the muscles of his chest.