by Zoey Parker
Kurt raised his eyebrows. “Twenty or thirty fights, about four or five losses. You tell me.”
Hawkeye cackled, rubbing his hands together. “Good, good. See, we've got a boxing match coming up against the Sinners in a few days. They're putting up Rodrigo Porto, whose brother Roberto runs the gang. We need someone who can clean his clock. What do you say?”
Kurt thought it over. The idea of boxing on behalf of a bunch of skinheads made his stomach turn—but on the other hand, he had to admit that as favors went, it was pretty tame. Most prison gangs would demand a much more dramatic show of loyalty than putting on some gloves, stepping into the ring, and going a few rounds.
And the bottom line was, whether he liked it or hated it, he'd still need protection while he was in River Oak. Trying to go it alone would be suicide.
“Shouldn't be a problem,” Kurt said.
“Excellent! I'm so happy to hear you say that. I'll tell Gable to make sure you've got extra time in the gym if you need it. Meanwhile, Bear can take you back to your cell. I made sure you got Wilder as your cellmate. He's my right-hand man, and he'll be able to watch your back.”
“Thank you.”
Hawkeye shook Kurt's hand again. “It was absolutely a pleasure to meet you, Kurt. And I meant what I said earlier—ideological differences aside, I'm certain we'll be the best of friends.”
Chapter 8
Kurt
“See?” Bear said as he walked with Kurt back to his cell. “Hawkeye ain't such a bad guy, is he?”
“For a fucking Nazi, I guess,” Kurt replied grimly. “How come I'm just finding out about all of this now? Why doesn't Ron know the Dogs in here are bending over for the goddamn Aryans?”
“Aw, well, I was gonna tell 'im,” Bear mumbled. “But Hawkeye said it'd maybe be better if he didn't know. Hawkeye said it'd be best for all've us if things in here kept runnin' smooth an' simple. He said if Ron heard about our arrangement an' decided to interfere, it could fuck up his whole operation an' then he might not be able to protect us no more.”
“Jesus Christ, Bear, do you hear yourself? You were one of the founding members of the Black Dogs. You swore an oath to the club, to your brothers, and especially to Ron. And now it's 'Hawkeye says this' and 'Hawkeye says that,' like you're some kind of hand puppet. I mean, what the hell, man? On the outside, we used to stomp these racist goons for fun on weekends, just because they're so fucking pathetic, and in here they're telling us what's what?”
Bear seized Kurt's upper arm. Despite how scrawny he was, his grip felt like a vise.
“Now you listen to me, Mister I-Ain't-Never-Done-No-Time-Before,” he hissed. “Me an' Ron formed the fuckin' Dogs back in the day 'cause we were both realists, and we saw that the ways things were goin' in this country, a man couldn't protect what was his without plenty've bikes, guns, an' brothers to back 'im up. Well, I dunno what kind've bullshit fairy tale kingdom Ron gets to live in these days while he's still breathin' the free fuckin' air, but I'm in here, which means I still gotta be a fuckin' realist. You gotta stop thinkin' of these Nazis as lazy slobs an' trailer trash meth heads like they are out there, 'cause in here, they're an army that outnumbers us about twenty to one an' they're the only ones willin' to put their arm around us. You get with that program, you get to live an' maybe even serve your time a little easier. You don't? You get treated like that fucker over there.”
Bear pointed across the cell block. Kurt looked, and saw that Carl was sweating and stammering nervously as a group of Sinners surrounded him, taunting him and shoving him.
“You go ahead an' make your choice, kid,” Bear said. “I already made mine.” With that, he turned and walked away.
Kurt rubbed his temples, trying to take it all in. But as perplexed as he was by the relationship between the Dogs and the White Brothers, it was the thought of Sarah working as a guard in River Oak that made his brain vapor-lock.
He walked into his cell. Wilder was still reading in the top bunk.
A few minutes later, Sarah appeared in the doorway of Kurt's cell, holding a Wendy's bag and a large cup. “Here's your food,” she said tonelessly. “Before you eat it, though, you'll need to come with me. The warden's secretary wants to go over some of your paperwork with you to make sure everything's accurate.”
Wilder sat up. “What do you mean? What's wrong with his paperwork?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Don't ask me. I just do what I'm told, remember? Come on, Bellows, let's go.”
Kurt set the bag of food on his bunk and got up. “You want some of my fries, help yourself,” he said to Wilder. “You can do the ketchup in the shape of a swastika or something.”
“Wiseass,” Wilder muttered.
Sarah led Kurt into an empty stairwell. Once the door shut behind them, her expression relaxed. Now that they were standing so close, Kurt saw that even though most of her face looked the same, her eyes made her look like she'd aged ten years since he'd seen her.
“Sarah, what the fuck is happening here?” Kurt asked. “Have I stepped into the goddamn Twilight Zone or something? What are you doing in River Oak? Why are you taking orders from that Nazi shitheel?”
“I know, it's a lot to process at once. Just take a few deep breaths and try to relax, okay? I'll tell you everything.”
And she did.
Chapter 9
Sarah
Becoming a prison guard hadn't exactly been the cakewalk Ron told Sarah it would be.
The initial application was easy, sure. It was simple enough to list members of the Dogs as personal and professional references, and give them fake stories to tell in case they were called—which, it turned out, none of them were.
Then came the interviews. The first one was conducted by the warden's secretary, an obese, disheveled, mumbling woman in her fifties with thick glasses and thicker orthopedic shoes. The second was with Warden Glass himself, a gray-faced, professorial-looking man in his early sixties who spent most of the time talking about the home he was having built in Corpus Christi for his retirement. In both interviews, the same bland questions were asked:
What was her previous job experience? A year sweeping up hair in a salon, a summer doing bookkeeping for a garage, and six months waiting tables in a bar. Yes, she could provide specific dates of employment and phone numbers for her supervisors—although the salon had long since closed down, and she was pretty sure she'd heard that the owner of the garage might have died the previous year.
Why did she want to work as a corrections officer? The money and benefits, mostly, although she also felt she currently lacked direction and felt a job as a CO would provide her with a more focused career path. Her father had encouraged her to join the Marines—like he had when he was her age—but she felt this was a better option.
Had she ever been a member or associate of any gang or criminal organization? Not unless she counted her old cheerleading squad from high school, ha ha.
Did she have any friends or relatives who were currently incarcerated in the state or federal prison system? No.
Was she willing to submit to drug screenings and strip searches when required to do so? Yes, of course. She had nothing to hide.
After she was sent to an outside lab to pee in a cup, she was ordered to undergo a psychological examination. The multiple-choice questions they asked were laughable, since it was obvious which answers they were looking for. She received a letter with her official job offer less than a week later.
Then came basic training.
Eight hours a day. Five days a week. For three long weeks.
Four sweaty, aching hours a day spent doing endless push-ups and sit-ups, climbing ropes, running laps, learning self-defense and disarming techniques, and routinely getting her ass kicked by her sparring partners—all while drill instructors screamed and cursed in her face:
“You call that a push-up, girlie? You just bought yourself ten more, and I'd better see your nose touch the fucking floor on each one! Count 'em off!”
> “You think you're on the way to the fucking prom or something, princess? Get that goddamn hair tied up before someone yanks your head back and cuts your throat!”
Then—while her face was still red and her muscles were twanging like badly-tuned guitar strings—Sarah had to endure four hours of classes a day on prison procedure, with entire books full of rules and codes and statutes to memorize. There were dozens of gangs whose symbols, hand gestures, and tattoos she had to learn. There were first aid classes and drills on how to react to a hundred different emergencies. There were tests almost every day, and every night, she went home with at least three hours of homework to complete. Some nights, she was so exhausted and sore that she cried herself to sleep.
But through it all, she kept telling herself that it was all worth it. Soon, she'd be able to see Kurt again, and she'd be in a position to help him when he needed her the most.
At the end of the training period, Sarah graduated with mediocre grades and received her certification, along with her new uniform. She took it home and tried it on in front of the mirror, modeling it for herself proudly. She liked how it looked on her. She liked how powerful and authoritative it made her feel, with the baton and pepper spray hanging from the shiny brown belt.
But most of all, she liked the fact that she'd actually earned it. She hadn't finished high school, and all the jobs she'd ever worked had been easy to get and easier to keep. She'd abandoned piano lessons, she'd dropped out of dance classes, and she'd never even bothered to try out for the cheerleading squad in real life. The path of least resistance had always been the obvious choice for her.
This was the first time she'd ever really worked hard to achieve anything, and now that she had, it felt exhilarating.
She reported for duty at River Oak a week later, just a few days before Kurt was scheduled to go there. Captain Gable was polite but curt as he showed her around, asking most of the questions she'd already answered during her interviews and nodding tightly at her responses. He told her she'd be assigned to cell block G, and said that if she had any questions or concerns, she should come directly to him for the first week or two.
Sarah's first day was largely uneventful. There were plenty of lewd comments and invitations from the prisoners, but she ignored them, and they soon lost interest. Two inmates got into a shouting match over a game of checkers, but she was able to break it up before it got violent. She saw a pair of Sinners making a drug handoff and enlisted the aid of two other guards to search them, which earned her a tight-lipped “Good work, rookie” from Gable.
When she saw Bear, she felt a brief flutter of anxiety. He hadn't seen her in over ten years, but would he still recognize her somehow? She walked past him and he looked up, but he didn't seem to know who she was.
He would soon, though. Once she'd had a chance to settle in and see how things worked at River Oak, she'd be able to tell the Dogs that she was here to help them.
Especially Kurt.
Toward the end of the day, Sarah saw Gable speaking in hushed tones with Hawkeye Frontley, the leader of the Aryans. As they talked, Gable handed a cell phone to Hawkeye, even though phones were considered contraband. She was surprised, and quickly walked away before either of them noticed her.
So Gable was in with the Aryans. So what? She was here to help the Dogs, and she figured other guards were probably bought off by other gangs. At least now she knew she wasn't the only one there with an agenda.
After her shift, Sarah drove to Shotz to celebrate with her uncle and the other Dogs. They toasted her over a dozen times that night, and every time, her heart glowed in her chest. She knew that Ron loved her and always would, but this was the first time she felt like she'd actually done something to make him proud of her.
When the night was over and Sarah returned to her apartment complex, she found Gable waiting for her.
“So you run with the Black Dogs, huh?” he sneered. “That's funny, because on your employment forms, you stated that you'd never been affiliated with any gang or criminal organization. By signing a legal document which you knew to be false or misleading, you committed perjury. The punishment is up to five years imprisonment.”
The blood in Sarah's veins turned to ice. She felt her hands start to tremble, but she tried to keep her voice calm. “Captain Gable, I don't know what you think you saw, but I can explain—”
“Save it. You think you're the only one who's ever tried to become a guard, so she could bend the rules for the gang she rolls with?” Gable turned his head and spat on the pavement contemptuously. “A word to the wise, lady—just because your shift ends doesn't mean I disappear. What goes around on the inside can easily come around on the outside.”
“But sir...I mean, with all due respect, I saw you and Frontley earlier today...”
Gable slammed his fist on the hood of Sarah's car, silencing her.
“We've got a special way of doing things at River Oak, and it doesn't include doing favors for bikers. Only Aryans get special treatment in my prison. They decide to let those favors trickle down to the Dogs, that's their business. I catch you doing an end run around them again, you're going to be out on your butt and facing criminal charges.”
Sarah cleared her throat nervously, summoning all of her courage. “If you report me, what's to stop me from reporting you?”
Gable barked out a harsh laugh. “Try it. I've been through over a dozen disciplinary hearings, and each time, I've come out smelling like a rose. I've run River Oak for going on twelve years now. You're a nobody. Remember that.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “And don't go running to your Dogs with any of this, thinking you can hide behind them. One word from me and you'll find yourself in a dark and lonely part of River Oak, surrounded by a dozen rapers and killers with no backup on the way. Think about it.”
As soon as Gable was out of eyesight, Sarah ran up to her apartment and locked the door. Then she curled up into a ball against it, shivering uncontrollably.
What had she gotten herself into?
Chapter 10
Kurt
“Since then, they've basically been treating me like a waitress,” Sarah finished. “Ordering me around, having me bring in food, alcohol, cell phones, anything they want. Hawkeye's even mentioned having me fuck some of the guys, but I'm pretty sure he was just joking since Gable already lets them have 'conjugal visits' with hookers whenever they want.”
“He'd goddamn well better be joking about that,” Kurt growled.
Hearing the gruff, protective edge in Kurt's voice made Sarah feel better than she had in days. Even though he was a prisoner and she was a guard, she still safer somehow, knowing that he was here with her now.
“But Jesus, Sarah, now that you know this is how it is here, why the fuck are you still here?” he demanded. “Why didn't you just quit?”
“If I quit, I've got no guarantee that Gable won't use my paperwork against me. Or that Hawkeye won't somehow take it out on the Dogs in here. It seems like I'm as trapped here as you are.”
There was another reason too, one Sarah couldn't bring herself to say out loud—she hadn't quit because she'd wanted to see Kurt again. Now that she knew how the Dogs were getting leaned on by the Aryans, she felt like she had to stick around for his sake, if only so he wouldn't feel so alone. It seemed silly to care about him so much, since they'd still only had one rushed encounter in a bathroom with no time to process it before Kurt was hauled off in handcuffs. But she couldn't help it.
Kurt sighed angrily. “Well, I guess we'd better think of something—either a way to get you out of here, or a way to let Ron know what the hell is going on, or both. The good news is, I've got plenty of time on my hands to come up with an idea. Come on, you should probably take me back to the block before people start to get suspicious.”
Sarah knew he was right, but after the days she'd spent waiting to see him, she couldn't bear the thought of ending their private time together so soon. “Kurt? I know things are awful here, and i
t's not what either of us expected, but...aren't you glad to see me? Just a little? I'm glad to see you. I've missed you.”
He scowled at her. “I still can't believe you thought it was a good idea to become a guard here. Even without the bullshit with the Aryans, how the fuck did you think this whole thing was going to play out when I got here? Some kind of big, tearful, romantic reunion? It was one night, Sarah. Hell, it was barely twenty minutes. I was depressed and drunk off my ass. When I got arrested, you should have done the smart thing and stayed the fuck away from me. Instead you follow me all the way to prison, and now you're one more goddamn thing I need to worry about while I'm in here. It's not enough that I have to watch my back—now I need to watch yours too. This was a shitty thing to do to both of us.”
Sarah tried to keep her expression neutral, but tears stung her eyes. She knew he was right, and she hated him for it. His words had made her feel like some stupid schoolgirl with a crush.