Pride (The Elite Seven Book 2)

by J. D. Hollyfield

“All right. Let’s have it,” I say, looking around for guards.

  “Yeah, yeah. Nothing new on Evelyn Blackwell.”

  My stomach drops, just as it always does when they come back with no new information on my sister.

  “Did you try the different spellings on Facebook? Any of those other social pages?”

  “Yep. Nada. Plus, them computers are slow as fuck. Only got to print out the—”

  “Just fucking give it to me.” I snatch the tightly folded piece of paper from his hands, and he gets up and takes off out of the cafeteria. I get up and dump the rest of my untouched food. Heading back to my cell, the small piece of paper burns inside the palm of my closed fist. My muscles strain, driving me to walk faster, but I know I’m being watched. I always am. I turn the corner and get stopped just before I enter my cell.

  “In a hurry, Blackwell?” Asshole Berringer, the daytime guard, asks, smacking his baton against my cell bars.

  “Yeah, gotta get my daytime jerk off in before my daily prayer session.” His baton thrashes against the metal, inches from my face. I don’t flinch, which only pisses him off.

  “You think you’d learn. Outside.” He stands there, waiting for me to obey.

  “Yeah. Like I said. Busy. Unless you wanted to help me. You look like a guy who enjoys a good fat cock in your mouth—”

  The blow hurts, but the pain isn’t unfamiliar. His baton strikes me across my cheek, jerks back, then hits me behind my kneecaps. My legs collapse, and I drop to my knees. The taste of blood fills my mouth, and I raise my hand to my lip. “Sorry, did I read you wrong? I’m not really into ass fucking, but if that’s your—”

  He lashes out again, hitting my neck, and I stumble forward, losing my balance. My fists hit the concrete, scraping my knuckles. Fuck. That one hurt.

  “Get up.”

  “Make me, assh—”

  “Fuck,” I grunt as he kicks me in the side, hitting a still mending rib.

  “Boy, you’re gonna learn to show some respect. Get up.”

  I want to fight him more. This ain’t my first rodeo with an unwarranted guard beat-down. But my eyes catch my still closed fist, and I remember. He can’t see what’s in my hand. At least not before I’ve read what’s on it. I do as he says and pull my sore body off the ground. I do it slowly, so he doesn’t panic, thinking I’m gonna revolt on his ass, and force my flat hands to the wall, the paper smashed in-between.

  “That’s right. Fucking pussy boy. Where’s that mouth now?” Clutching the note, I turn around and give him my blank face, even though my body’s on fire. “Now, why don’t you give me what’s in that hand of yours.”

  No.

  My fists tighten, my nails digging into my palms.

  “Did you just go mute, boy? I said hand me the piece of paper before I make it so that hand don’t work.” Every muscle in my body tenses, preparing for the fight. He isn’t getting this paper. I take a menacing step toward him. With my height and build, I could do quite a bit of harm to him. He may have to fucking shoot me. “You back off, boy!” he hollers.

  “Better get ready to shoot me then.” I take another slow step, though I’m not sure what the fuck I’m doing. No end to this will be good.

  “Boy, I’ll shoot ya, and you know they won’t tend to ya. You’re on the do not provide medical assistance list. You’ll bleed out right here.” I wouldn’t be shocked if he was telling the truth. I stop in my advance. “That’s right. Hand me the paper like a good little prisoner or I’ll shoot your hand off and take it myself.” Fuck! The defeat rips at my insides. He retrieves his gun, and I know I lost. “Down on your fucking knees.” My knees fall to the concrete, and I put my hands behind my head. The piece of paper falls from my grip, and victory spreads across his face as he bends down and unfolds it.

  “Ah…smart little fucker. Having others do your bidding. At least Mrs. Griffin will be pleased at your curiosity.” He turns to a guard who’s arrived as back up. “Take him back down. Mr. Blackwell just doesn’t seem to learn his lesson.”

  Six months later…

  The whistle sounds from the speakers indicating it’s time for outdoor recess. It reminds me of when I was a kid, itching in my little school chair, waiting for that bell to ring so I could line up. The anticipation of knowing I was so close to a game of four square or the gigantic playground, or whatever other stupid ass outdoor games I played at that age, flowing through my tiny veins. I can almost still feel the excitement of being that young and carefree.

  But it ain’t nothing like that here.

  It’s more like the Hunger Games. Inmates stand in corners. Crews segregate themselves from the punks, to the stoners, to the gangsters—you name it. If the movies got one thing right, it’s who made friends with who in here and for what benefit. One being to stay alive.

  I no longer had anyone doing my bidding. Once I came back up, I had to be even more careful. Some lifers didn’t care, but some were hoping for an earlier parole, so they backed off and no longer wanted to be on the warden’s naughty list. It seemed that while I was down, word spread. If I was assisted in any way, consequences would come. After being in lockdown for three months, it took me another three to finally get someone to help me out.

  I walk down the hallway of the second floor and take the side stairs to get outside quicker. Ricky had a visit with his sister yesterday. In his recent letter to her, he asked her to ask around town about my sister. At this point, I’m only worried about her. I just need to know she’s safe. She’ll be turning eighteen soon, and I’ll be at peace when she does. She’ll be free.

  I shove through the steel doors and walk out to the open area filled with orange jump suits. I shield my eyes, searching for Ricky, and find him standing in the corner, leaning against the barbwire fence. My boots hit the concrete, making it over to him. “What you got for me?” I ask, wasting no time.

  “Today’s your lucky day.” He fumbles with something up his sleeve, then a small piece of paper appears in the palm of his hand. I go to grab for it, but he yanks it back. “Not so fast. You got something for me?”

  I dig in my pocket and slip him the two packs of smokes I jimmied from the laundry room. He stares down at the packs, then hands me the paper. I know I’m not being smart, but I open it right there.

  Public files show there’s been paperwork filed for the adoption of E. Blackwell submitted by L.P. Griffin.

  No.

  No.

  “No!” I growl, shaking the ground below me.

  Ricky takes a step toward me, catching me off guard, and raises his hand. The bright sun gleams off the rusty blade in his grip, and my eyes catch it just as it protrudes into my ribcage. The pain shoots through me, stealing my breath. He draws back, bringing the blade out of my punctured flesh, then stabs me again. My arms shoot up, trying to fight his grip on me, but the pain is too fierce. He lowers his head, his mouth over my ear. “Sorry, bro, but you know how it is. Every man for them self. They gave me a message for you too. Time to make a choice. You know they won’t tend to ya. Bleed out or give in.” He rips his shank out and drops it next to me. Blood seeps thick and fast from my open wounds. I grab his jumpsuit and pull my arm back to throw a punch, but I’m too weak. My closed fist falls to my side as my knees buckle, dropping myself to the ground. My mind goes to my sister. The regret—shame I couldn’t protect her.

  My chest tightens, and breathing is more painful than the effort is worth. My body slams against the warm concrete. The strength in my hand weakens, and my palm opens, the small piece of paper falling out of my grip.

  I can’t leave my sister.

  Not in the hands of a monster.

  “Tell her she wins,” I mumble, struggling to get words out. Using my hands to force myself off the ground, I slip and fall back down. I howl in pain, blurriness creating an overcast in my vision.

  “What was that?” I see the steel boot of the warden.

  A growl low in my stomach grows, giving me a burst of strength. I reach for
ward, grabbing the warden’s leg and tugging hard. Losing his balance, he howls, slipping and falling to the ground. I pull myself up over his body as he struggles to escape from my grip. “Get the fuck off me!” he yells, fighting and kicking out from under me. I grab the shank he dropped.

  “I said tell her she wins, motherfucker,” I grit out, then stab him in the ribs.

  She finally wins.

  That’s my last thought before blackness consumes me.

  I’m in and out of consciousness.

  I remember screaming as they sewed me up. Of course, those motherfuckers didn’t use anything to numb me first.

  I remember the infirmary. The white room. Beeping sounds of machines.

  Then I remember her.

  “You made the right decision, Mason. Now, rest. Your recovery puts a damper in our schedule, but we can work around this. I truly do admire the love you have for your sister. The things some do for family. Fast recovery, pet.”

  I remember the coldness of her lips on my forehead before she left me to spend it in a recovery room—before I can walk out of Louisiana State Penitentiary into a worse hell.

  Two weeks later…

  The sun is angry, scorching all of Louisiana with its sweltering temperatures as I step through the prison doors. I shield my eyes, already feeling the heat on my skin, sweat forming into droplets down my back. While being discharged, they handed me a sealed bag containing the shit I came in with. Clothes I’ve long grown out of. My torn wallet, holding two dollars, a picture of Dahlia, and some receipts. Tossing it in the trash, I walk past the entrance guard. The moment the prison gates are behind me, I breathe a sigh of relief. Two fucking years. I’m finally out.

  They don’t lie when they say the air smells different when you’re free. I inhale the humid air through my nose, and exhale. “Free air is fucking glorious.” I laugh, then turn to walk down the mile or so long street where a cab would be waiting to take me wherever I want to go. Fuck if I know where that is, but I have a whole mile to figure it out. A black sedan pulls up next to me as I begin down the gravel sidewalk. When it fully comes to a stop, my steps slow as well, until I’m halted, watching a suited man get out of the car to open the back door.

  “Get in.”

  I don’t need to bend down to know that evil voice or the hideous scent of her perfume seeping through the open doorway, choking me along with the humidity and heat. Dread quickly replaces the light feeling of being out of that hell hole, reminding me how fast I had forgotten why—I’d made a deal with the devil.

  Lillian slides to the other side of the car and pats the open seat next to her. “Don’t make me repeat myself. In. Now.”

  My eyes light with the fire that holds bright and angry when it comes to Lillian. A rumble deep in my chest sounds, and I throw myself into the back seat.

  “That growl… You know, women nowadays have quite a fondness for that rugged, bad boy persona. You should be careful who you use that on. Might give someone the wrong impression.” Her hand slides across the seat and lands on my thigh.

  I peel her fingers off my skin, throwing her hand off me. “Where’s my sister?” I demand, no bullshit in my tone.

  She holds up a folder, and I reach for it, but she retracts. “Not so fast, pet. There are some rules we have to discuss first.”

  “I ain’t doin’ shit until I see Evelyn,” I bark.

  “And I think you forgot who makes the rules here. I’m calling the shots. Not you. It’s best you quickly realize that.”

  My hands shake. Keeping them at my sides and not around her neck is almost impossible. I need to see my sister. “Fine. What rules?”

  “Good boy.” She hands me the file. “As promised, here are all your registration papers. Congratulations, you’re officially a student at St. Augustine.”

  I read over the documents. Acceptance forms, test scores. All bullshit of course. “And how the fuck am I gonna pull this shit off? I didn’t even graduate high school, no thanks to you.”

  She waves her hand. “You have your GED from LSP, and that’s for me to handle. Just attend class. I’ll take care of the rest. No one will ever bat an eye at my underprivileged pet project.”

  Fuck her. And fuck this. This is crazy. I continue scanning the papers. “This says I’m eighteen.” I look at her.

  “And you will be. You should be thankful I devoted so much time to you. But now that you’re past your prime, we’re gonna have to work around it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Simple. You’re eighteen. Newest freshman attendee. Scholarship given by the university for disadvantaged kids.”

  “I don’t understand. You can’t just—”

  “You don’t need to understand anything but what I’m telling you. And what I’m telling you is you need to attend class and sit tight until I come calling.” She raises her hand to graze my cheek, but I slap it away.

  “Where is my sister?”

  “Oh, yes. Well, first, I need you to prove to me your worthiness. I need to trust you won’t just take off once I give you what you so desperately want. And even then, I’d be advised not to cross me.”

  “Where the FUCK—?”

  “Oh, hush. All this aggression. You’d be happy to know Evelyn has been given the same specialty treatment as you.”

  My vision goes blind with rage. What did they do to her?

  Lillian’s laugh has me spiraling. “Down, boy. She’s enrolled at St. Augustine as well. Set up with housing and a comfortable class schedule. I hear she wants to be a writer.”

  A writer. My sister wants to become a writer? Pride fills my chest knowing she has goals. She aspires to be something. She hasn’t grown up into a fuck up like me.

  “I’m warning you, try anything stupid and all this goes away. That also goes for spilling any of our arrangements to your sister. You will obey me. You will do everything I ask of you. I promise you, every move you make will affect your sister. Do I make myself clear?”

  Oh, she’s making herself very clear. “All this obeying bullshit, you haven’t even told me what you want from me. How the hell do I know what rules I’m breaking?”

  Her smile is what nightmares are made of. Hidden behind that sweet lie is hate and destruction. “You will soon enough. For now, here’s your housing information, phone, keys, and some cash to get yourself cleaned up. May I recommend some more appropriate attire?”

  I take the items she hands me, and the side door reopens. “That’s it?” I ask.

  “For now.”

  I sit there, staring back at her.

  “This is where you get out, Mason. Hurry along, I have a busy day.”

  Crunching the items in my grip, I throw my leg out and exit the vehicle. The door shuts, and her henchman climbs back in and speeds off down the gravel road. I stand there confused, shocked, angrier than before. I jingle the set of keys in my hand when I notice the key fob. I press down on the worn off buttons to hear a beeping sound erupt from across the street where a line of cars are parked. I press it again, and the back lights to a vehicle light up.

  “How nice. My ride’s here.”

  St. Augustine College - New Orleans.

  Three weeks later…

  Mason

  “Keep going?”

  “Don’t ask me again. Finish it.”

  Crow, the tattoo artist, shakes his head, his laugh gruff from the three packs of smokes he inhales a day. “You one bad ass motherfucker. But all right. Prah’ got another four hours on this side.”

  I nod. My skin is on fire, but I welcome the pain. The last two weeks, I’ve sat in his chair while he covered both arms with ink. Everything on my body has meaning. Symbolization. Starting with the thorns suffocating the flower over my heart. The last two weeks have been hell but sitting in the chair with the buzzing of the needle permanently bleeding into my skin allows me to feel something other than guilt. Regret. Anxiousness. Lillian has yet to beckon me. She has yet to give me my sister. I’m starting to think she’
s lying. Only dangling my desperation in front of me so I do what she wants. And right now, it’s play nice until she’s ready for me.

  In the meantime, I’ve done what she asked. Attended my bullshit classes and laid low. Just as she promised, I was handed a scholarship, all expenses paid. And no one batted an eye at my GED or low-grade point average. Not a single person questioned my jail record or why I’d been locked up the past two years. I don’t know how the fuck she thinks I’m going to pull off a full schedule of college classes. She knows this isn’t where I belong; it’s just another thing she taunts me with. I don’t and won’t ever have the brains to attend a real university. I told her as much, but it’s no concern to her. Her instructions were simple. Just show up to class and she’ll take care of my grades.

  The housing was a fucking joke. It may have been in one of the nicest areas around campus, but don’t be fooled. It was all just a ruse. A ploy to toy with me. Inside the lavish apartment is dingy, used furniture. The couch is covered in rips and tears, and it reeks of vomit. The bed is in the same condition. I have a better chance of escaping bed bugs by sleeping on the floor. She wants me to remember I come from nothing. Same goes for the car. Broken down piece of shit. I’d rather sleep on the streets, but for now, she makes the rules. I stay here or else. I’ll hold my chin up, my pride high, because in the end, it’s all for her: Evelyn.

  The sun peeking through the dingy shutters alerts me that I’ve been here all night. I look at the time to see it’s going on six in the morning. Crow is just finishing the final touches on the snake around my bicep when my phone buzzes in the back of my worn jeans pocket. Only one person has this number.

  Which means I’m being beckoned.

  Lillian sure had me at the edge of my seat, anticipating what she had in store for me. But today, now, is when I learn my fate. When I find out what I really signed up for. Agreeing to her terms was no different than signing my death warrant. I knew the day I did, it would be the last time I had control over myself.