by Nesly Clerge
CHAPTER 3
STARKS PAUSED AT the threshold of his empty cell. The walk-in closet in the mini-mansion he’d shared with Kayla and their children was four times this size. He shook his head as he glanced at his few possessions. Still, he was grateful for the moments of solitude that wouldn’t last.
He hadn’t spoken to Jackson since sometime prior to seeing his attorney, Michael Parker, the day before. After that god-awful meeting, he’d returned to his cell. Jackson, who considered himself a mentalist, didn’t have to guess something was wrong. The smell and splatter of vomit on Starks’s scrub set, as well as his dead-man-walking demeanor made it obvious. Starks’s climbing into his bunk and facing the wall was another clear signal. Jackson had been prudent enough to leave Starks alone and not pry as he usually did. Nor did they speak when they got up this morning, or during the eight o’clock count.
Jackson’s shift in the kitchen was only half a day on Sundays. He’d have to return soon for the count at three. In the meantime…
What to do about Jeffrey?
He was still reeling from what Parker told him. It was bad enough Kayla had humiliated him with her rampant, all-too-public cheating. It was bad enough that her three-year love affair with Ozy Hessinger had led him to attack her married “use-’em-then-lose-’em” lover in such a brutal fashion. Then there was all the crap that had happened since he got here. All of that was bad enough, or so he’d thought, until he learned what Jeffrey had done. So much for his so-said best friend and business partner.
The bomb Parker dropped on him had spun him out of his already unpredictable, tumultuous orbit. The betrayal made him feel like a serpent with skin grown so tight it was smothering him and had to be shed.
Maybe it was all a huge mistake. Maybe Parker got it wrong. No. Parker’s key piece of evidence about Jeffrey was all too accurate.
How could you do that to me? To us?
While he was stuck here, Jeffrey ran the business, handled all his financial matters, took care of paying five Sands guards for extra protection. Jeffrey was the go-to person if his three young children needed help. And so much more. He’d entrusted Jeffrey with nearly every aspect of his life. It was his own fucking mistake to trust anyone, and he had to find a way to fix it.
Sweat beaded on his scalp. His right arm and the raised scars on his abdomen throbbed. He threw a book against the opposite wall. “Goddamn them!”
And damn Mathew Demory for taking a leave of absence. No way was he going to meet with Edward Townsend. He’d seen the young substitute counselor sitting at Demory’s desk. The guy was maybe thirty, at least eight years younger than him. Correction—nine years younger. He’d forgotten about turning thirty-nine while in a coma back in May. Afterwards, there had been too many other things to think about, like the agonizing physical therapy, coping with pain without medication once back in prison since he couldn’t afford to have his senses dulled, and how to get revenge against Lawson and Big Bo.
Starks picked up the book and checked it for damage, gently placing it back on his desk. At the small stainless-steel lavatory mounted atop the seat-less toilet, he studied as much of his face as he could see in the tiny mirror secured to the wall then rinsed his face and scalp with cold water. He wiped down the lavatory and toilet rim then unfolded and refolded his few articles of clothing. It was when he was reorganizing the items on his desk that Jackson entered the cell.
“Who the fuck are you and what the hell you doing in my cell?”
Starks straightened up and faced him. “You mean our cell.”
Jackson’s eyes opened wide. “Starks? What the hell, man?”
“What do you think?” Starks turned in a slow circle.
“If I wasn’t such a beautiful black man, you’d see how pale I just turned.”
“It’s the new me.”
“I liked the old you.”
“That Starks is dead.”
“You can be such a drama queen at times.” Jackson plopped into the hard plastic chair on his side of the cell, keeping his gaze fixed on Starks. “This is about whatever the hell happened to you yesterday. You didn’t even wash out the stink from your shirt. I had to do it; couldn’t stand the smell. That ain’t like you, man. You’re Mr. Keep-It-Fucking-Clean. You gonna tell me about it, or what?”
A voice blared over the intercom, “On the count!” Starks and Jackson took their places outside their cell.
Jackson whispered, “I mean it, man. Why’d you do it?”
“I heard the dragon roar,” Starks replied. “It gave me a clear message.”
“Yeah? What’d it say?”
“Wake the fuck up, asshole.”
CHAPTER 4
JACKSON SLOUCHED IN his chair and studied Starks. “Time to tell your partner what’s going on.”
“I don’t have partners. Not anymore.”
Jackson cocked his head. “You got rid of your memory, along with your hair?” Starks gave no reply. “You were able to take out Bo as easy as you did because of me. You think you’d’ve had the same success on your own? You asked me to help and I did. I did the legwork. I set everything up.”
“I didn’t ask. You offered and I accepted. Actually, you pushed your way into my business. But you can’t forget there was outside assistance that made a significant difference. Your plan wouldn’t have worked as well as it did without Lewis Mason’s solution. Pun intended.”
“Three fucking cheers for Mason. You can stick his rubber thumbs and poisonous powders up your ass, for all I care. Listen, all I’ve done is help you since you moved into my cell. I look out for you, man. Have from the start.”
“Everybody uses everybody. Stop trying to make yourself out as my personal Good Samaritan.”
“Man, you turned into some kind of prick overnight. You use me, too, and you know it. Only I don’t call it using. I call it collaboration. You think you’re gonna go solo inside these walls? You’re off your fucking nut.”
Starks walked to the mirror and stared at his reflection. “From now on I’m not helping anyone unless it helps me more.”
“That philosophy’s gonna bite your ass. Look, I can see something bad went down yesterday. But we’re just getting some good stuff going for us in here. Your rep with the inmates, for one. You can talk to me, man. You don’t want to tell me what happened, at least consider what this,” Jackson gestured at Starks’s appearance, “new you could lose.”
“I’ve given up losing. It doesn’t suit me.”
“Neither does a coffin.”
“You threatening me, Jackson?”
“Get it through your thick bald head: I’m not your damn enemy.”
“Enemies are not always obvious about it. Especially the ones who pretend to be your friend.”
Jackson’s gaze met Starks’s mirror-reflected one. “I’m beginning to see the light.”
“You don’t see shit.”
“I see you better than you wish I did.”
“Fuck you.”
“I don’t do dragons.”
Starks climbed onto his bunk and faced the wall, wondering what it might actually take to get respect in this hellhole. It might not happen as automatically as he’d hoped.
CHAPTER 5
STARKS GLANCED AT the red digits on his clock and groaned. Recurring nightmares had once again interrupted his sleep. He dragged himself out of bed and began his morning routine: Push-ups and lunges despite the pain, washed his face, shaved, got dressed, made his bed. Two packaged cinnamon rolls served as breakfast as he waited for the eight o’clock count. The rolls were fattening, but he wasn’t ready to go to the chow hall just yet. He’d avoided the communal sharing of tasteless crap erroneously called food the night before, relying on items from his commissary stash. The chow hall tended to be an explosive environment. With his tattooed arm as sore as it was, he wanted to avoid even minor altercations for a little while longer. His appearance was bound to draw negative engagement sooner or later. He preferred later.
After the count, he made his way to the library to begin his eight thirty shift early.
He grinned in anticipation of what Paco might say when he saw him.
Paco was already seated at his preferred computer in the library, the older inmate’s intense focus on the screen obvious.
Starks stood next to the desk and asked, “How’s the memoir going?”
“It’ll be memorable, amigo. I’m telling it all, and there’s a shitload to tell about this place.” Paco stopped typing and sat back. With a slow shift in attention he said, “How’s it going with—” Then he glanced up. “Jesus, Maria, and Jose.” Paco hesitated a moment then added, “I have one question for you?”
Starks smirked. “Yeah, I know: why?”
“No, amigo. My question is, What will your niños think?”
Starks’s breath caught in his chest. He pivoted and went into the small office at the back of the library, lowered himself into the chair, and stared at the blank screen of the computer monitor. His hand shook as he reached for the On switch. Elbows on the desk, he cradled his face in his hands.
Paco was right, of course. His children would be shocked and appalled at his transformation. Blake would soon turn thirteen. Although his children had been taught to be respectful, his oldest son was the most outspoken of the three. He could imagine what the boy would say, or, worse, say only with his eyes. Nathan was a few months away from turning eleven. He’d draw back and wrap his arms protectively around his slight frame, losing himself in silence as he so often did when upset. Kaitlin, who’d recently turned seven, and who had yet to visit him in prison, would be horrified at how her daddy now looked and would probably burst into tears. It was possible all three would refuse to ever visit him again.
Maybe he should block their visitation rights as a way to protect them. But this would mean never seeing them. Fourteen and a half years was too long for him to be completely absent from their lives. No matter what reason was given for keeping them away, they’d take it personally, if not now, later on. They may never again want to have anything to do with him.
His gut tightened at the thought. They were the only genuine saving grace in a life that had gone wrong.
He decided that when they visited, he’d wear a long-underwear top under his scrub shirt to cover his arms. But that still left his right hand, where the dragon’s head began. He’d have to make certain he kept it from sight. His shaved head was easy: An outbreak of lice—now contained, of course—had caused him to shave his hair off. Better safe than itchy, he’d tell them. And he could say he’d decided to keep it that way, just in case. It was a lie they’d choose to believe. These diversions would last only so long, though. He’d have to come up with an explanation, but not until they were older, if he could get away with it that long.
He shuddered at the thought of what his children were learning by example from their parents. This was not the life he’d dreamed of for them, had worked and sweated so long and hard for. The stable, secure, loving family and home he’d wanted to provide for them no longer existed. Who was he kidding? It had been a fallacy for years. They’d all just pretended it was better than it was.
There was nothing he could do about it now. His children were as safe as they could be in their nanny’s care. Better nanny Anita minding them, tending to them, showing them affection, than Kayla’s parasitic live-in boyfriend, Bret, getting too involved with them.
Kaitlin was going to be a beauty, and he hoped like hell Bret was long gone by the time she’d be considered old enough to… No, he couldn’t allow himself to think about that now. It would make him insane.
He did regret that the nanny now also had to care for Bret’s two young daughters, as well, but the girls were as innocent in this sordid mess as his own children. Thankfully, Anita had a big heart. The last thing he wanted was for any child to feel abandoned or as though they were insignificant.
Not like Kyle was by me.
But in Kyle’s case it hadn’t been complete abandonment. He’d supported his illegitimate son financially and had spent time with the boy, albeit brief and sporadic.
He shook off the thought, reminding himself that in a few months, Kayla would give birth to Bret’s bastard.
The thought that followed sickened him even more: the child’s paternity wasn’t a given.
He couldn’t afford to think about any of this now. There were plans to implement and closer enemies to deal with.
CHAPTER 6
AT 6 A.M., the lights brightened to full strength; the electronic cell doors clanged open. Starks yawned and stretched. Jackson was already getting ready for his breakfast shift in the kitchen.
Jackson slid his shirt over his head and said, “Damn, man, all that tossing and turning kept me up. You’re doing a number on my beauty sleep.”
Starks dangled his feet over the edge of his upper bunk and ran a hand over his scalp, momentarily surprised to feel skin instead of hair. “I don’t think more sleep would help how you look.”
“Oh goodie. You’re in one of your better moods today.”
“My moods aren’t your concern.”
“Funny, though, how they have a way of becoming my problem.”
Starks glanced at the clock. “Jesus, Jackson, the sun’s barely up and you’re already ragging on me.”
“It’s just my two-cents, but when are you going back to the chow hall? Your absence is drawing attention.”
“Not that it’s your business but I’m going this morning.”
Jackson slipped on his lace-less shoes. “About time. Speaking of time, I gotta go. Later.”
Starks leapt down, grabbing his side when some of his internal scars resented the action. He followed his usual routine then waited for the eight o’clock count before heading to the chow hall.
The line for inmates to get pre-prepped trays from the slot in the wall moved at pace. Skullars Bailey stood four men ahead of him. The Jamaican’s nearly waist-length dreadlocks stood out, as did the man’s pronounced height and bulk. As though intuition was at work, Skullars glanced behind him.
Starks indicated his request to sit together with a jerk of his head toward a table. Skullars nodded.
Several minutes later, Starks did the required rapping on the table then sat across from Skullars. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Okay as it can go in here, mon.”
“Anyone giving you any shit?”
“Nah, mon. When dem batty boys see me, they turn and go the other way. I think they passed the word that my backdoor is closed and locked. Ever since they saw you take up for me, they don’ wan’ to risk it.”
Starks chuckled. He placed a forkful of rubbery fake scrambled eggs into his mouth and frowned. “I’d almost give my left nut for Eggs Benedict.”
“Not worth a nut, in my opinion, mon. But a live chicken that lays eggs…”
Starks pointed his fork at his companion. “You’ve got common sense.”
“And I got sense enough to see people staring at you.”
“You didn’t say anything about how I look.”
“Not my business.”
“Definitely have good sense.”
The remainder of the meal was eaten in silence punctuated by periodic generic dialogue and under the stipulated ten minutes allowed. The two men knocked on the table to indicate they were finished, dumped their trays, and then parted at the door, Skullars going in one direction and Starks heading to the library for his shift.
The library had been left messy and disorganized by whoever had been there the evening before. He thought about printing new signs to put up but realized there was no point. The last time he’d posted directives about keeping the place in order, the notices had quickly become canvases for explicit graffiti about what he could do with his directives. The new Starks couldn’t afford to ride inmates about neatness: They’d wonder why he’d put a dragon on his arm instead of a kitten. He couldn’t do anything that would cost him the reputation he needed to establish in o
rder to achieve his goal.
Starks was filing books back into their proper places on the shelves when Paco walked in and took his seat at his usual desk. Correctional Officer Luke Roberts entered seconds behind the old man. The CO jammed his hands into his pants pockets. “Gotta talk with you, Starks.”
“Let’s go into the office.”
Starks closed the office door and took a seat in the chair behind the desk. “What can I do for you?”
“Spencer’s coming after you. He’s been chewing the investigative council’s ears.”
“What do you mean?”
“I overheard him talking about an investigation. He mentioned your name.”
“Details.”
“I don’t have any.”
“That’s not what I want to hear, Roberts. What the hell am I paying you for?”
Roberts’ cheeks flushed. “As I said, I overheard him, and that’s all I heard. I don’t have the rank to be included in some details. I get information on a need-to-know basis.” He looked down at the floor and started moving up and down on the balls of his feet.
“What else?” Starks asked.
“Payment’s a week late.”
Starks’s brow furrowed. He leaned back in the chair. “You called the contact?”
“No answer. Didn’t return my calls, either.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. Anything else?”
“That’s it. I’ll see if I can find out what Spencer’s planning.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
Starks kept his gaze fixed on Roberts until the CO exited the library. What the hell was going on? Realization of the extent Jeffrey’s contribution was to his survival hit him like a blow: his life was literally in Jeffrey’s hands. And, Jeffrey knew this.
What was the man up to?
All the money he’d told Jeffrey to pay out to others. Easy enough to get it started then keep the funds. But to what end?
It was more likely that some slip-up had occurred and could be easily straightened out with one phone call. After all, it wasn’t Jeffrey making direct payments to the guards, or wasn’t supposed to be. He’d instructed Jeffrey to involve Jim Rogers. The private investigator was to line up someone reliable to make the payments. The potential pitfalls for this arrangement were glaringly obvious now. He should have thought of them before.
