CONVICT’S BABY_Black Dogs MC

by Zoey Parker

She took several deep breaths as she stared at her hands, willing them to stop trembling. After a few minutes, they did. Her heart was still twisting and slithering in her chest like a snake, but at least that was on the inside so no one could see it.

  Just remember to keep taking breaths, she thought. Slow and steady, one after the other. Keep your eyes blank. Keep your posture stiff and neutral. Keep everyone thinking that this is just a normal miserable day for you at this job—because if there's one thing the monsters in here are good at, it's sensing weakness and exploiting it.

  Sarah got out of her car, went to the small side door for the guards, swiped her key card, and stepped inside. She changed into her uniform in the locker room, and then came the familiar ritual of walking through a dozen different doors as they opened for her and clanged shut behind her.

  Finally, she arrived in cell block G and checked in with Gable. He eyed her with his usual air of mild contempt, then wrote her name down in the log book as he always did.

  So far, so good, Sarah thought.

  One of the first duties Sarah attended to at the start of her shift was transporting prisoners to the shower room. This was done in small groups—usually five convicts at a time—to maintain order and keep things manageable. The same procedure was used when bringing them to the cafeteria, except that three or four guards were used, and the number of prisoners went up to about twenty. The ratio of one guard to every five inmates was strictly maintained at all times.

  Too many prisoners plus too few guards could easily equal a riot—a grim equation that too many of the older COs still remembered from what happened fifteen years before.

  During her brief time working at River Oak, Sarah had largely become indifferent to seeing men naked. Half of the prisoners seemed to walk around the cell block in their underwear most of the time, and she'd seen all of them in the showers at one time or another. With little to do in prison except exercise, many of the men looked like they'd stepped right off the pages of bodybuilding magazines—their pecs, abs, biceps, and glutes bulged and glistened under the running water, and their dicks flopped around as they soaped up their bodies. Some of them tried to provoke Sarah by staring at her and pretending to jerk off, and they traded plenty of jokes and idle threats with each other. But for the most part, they just went about the business of cleaning themselves.

  The casual nudity shocked Sarah a bit when she saw it on her first day, but by her third or fourth, she barely registered it.

  The only exception was Kurt.

  Every time she saw Kurt strip down and step into the shower room, she couldn't help but remember how his lithe, muscular body felt pressed against hers. She imagined those powerful arms wrapped around her again, and whenever he turned his back to her, she longed to run her fingernails down his shoulders and kiss the nape of his neck.

  But even though it was her favorite part of every shift—the lone bright spot in her day, when she could cherish these memories of being with him—she had to remind herself not to stare, or even appear to look at him casually. Hawkeye may have already known about her prior relationship with Kurt, but if any of the other inmates sensed it, they could try to hold it over her. So she had to steal brief glances from the corners of her eyes, and no matter how many times she did, the quick flashes of his nude body just left her hungry for more. Then the shower was over in minutes, Kurt let her lead him back to the cell block without a word, and she'd look forward to the next day's shower.

  This time, though, before she could start to round up her first five prisoners for the shower, Gable said, “You can skip shower duty today. I'll handle it. The visitors' desk is understaffed, so you can spend the first couple hours of your shift there.”

  Sarah froze in her tracks. Her initial twinge of disappointment at not being able to see Kurt naked that day gave way to something darker within seconds—she'd never seen Gable personally handle a task as menial as shower duty, especially when he could delegate it to the lower-ranking guards instead.

  And what did he mean when he said the visitors' desk was “understaffed?” It was the least-demanding job in River Oak, since checking in visitors was fairly mindless work with no real possibility of danger. The same aging CO was assigned to it just about every day—and whenever he called in sick, Gable tended to simply cancel visitation for that day, rather than pulling another guard away from the cell blocks where their skills and training were more urgently needed.

  Gable noted her hesitation. “Got a problem with that, Martin?”

  “No sir,” she replied instantly.

  “Good. Then get to it.”

  But as she headed toward the exit doors of the cell block, she snuck a peek over her shoulder. Generally, when Sarah rounded up five prisoners to take to the showers, she was under standing orders from Hawkeye to make sure that the bikers and Aryans all went together for safety reasons.

  So why was Gable leading Kurt to the showers with four members of the Nation of Sinners?

  Chapter 23

  Kurt

  Kurt had gone plenty of nights without sleep before—doing long-distance rides with the Dogs, or partying until the sun came up. Maybe he'd be a little groggy or punchy the next day depending on how much he'd been drinking or watching the lines on the highway, but overall, he was able to shake off the after-effects and do whatever the MC required of him.

  But going a whole night without sleep in River Oak was something else entirely.

  After Wilder's not-so-veiled threat, Kurt had spent every minute in his bunk with his back to the wall. Every muscle in his body was tensed, ready to spring into action if Wilder tried anything. His mind played out a hundred different possibilities in the event of a confrontation—most of them involving some form of injury, since the odds of escaping a close-quarters fight unscathed when he was unarmed and facing a blade seemed fairly hopeless.

  Whenever Wilder shifted in the upper bunk, Kurt clenched, preparing to defend himself. There were even a couple of times when Wilder hopped down from his bunk to piss—and as he did, he leered across the cell, savoring Kurt's anxiety before climbing back up. Kurt was sure that Wilder was even moving around in his bed more than usual, enjoying the knowledge that every creak of the springs set Kurt on edge.

  And through it all, a part of Kurt's brain kept insisting that no matter how much he tried to prepare himself for an attack, it didn't matter. This would be his last night on earth, and there wasn't a goddamn thing he could do about it.

  He'd been in plenty of life-threatening situations before, and he'd always managed to keep his cool, so he was surprised by the fear that accompanied these thoughts. After a while, he understood that he'd previously been prepared to accept death as long as he'd been living as a free man and a Dog.

  But not like this. Not curled up in a cage with a number instead of a name, wearing prison-issue clothes and lying on prison-issue sheets, staring at drab walls and smelling the sweat and shit of his fellow inmates.

  This was no way for a man to die. But in this place, it happened all the time, and often went unpunished.

  And why? Because he'd let himself get too drunk and too morbid on the anniversary of his family's death, and lost control in what turned out to be the most crucial moment in his life. He silently wished, prayed, begged to take that moment back—just as most of the men in River Oak focused on that one mistake, that one bad decision that put them in here, and swore they'd do anything to erase it.

  One moment. One split-second choice made differently, and he'd have been home in bed or riding with the Dogs right now, and Sarah wouldn't be putting herself at risk every day.

  By the night's final hour, the tension in Kurt's shoulders was making his head throb like it was being smacked with a hammer, and he hated absolutely everyone in the world.

  He hated Sarah for making him care about her, when those feelings had no place in this hellhole. He hated Ron for sending her in here as a guard without knowing the first fucking thing about how this place worked. He hat
ed Bear for forgetting his oath to his fellow Dogs, for being weak enough to let the Aryans piss all over his sworn brothers instead of telling Ron or fighting back.

  He hated his parents for abandoning him, alone and defenseless, to spend the rest of his life chasing a new family and a sense of belonging he'd never truly feel like he deserved. He hated his wife and son for dying and leaving him in a bottomless pit of grief and despair.

  Most of all, he hated himself. For everything, for his whole life, for every decision that led to him being locked in here.

  Finally, the lights in the cell block flickered on and the barred doors slid open. Kurt tried to relax his muscles, but painful cramps shot through his whole body. When he moved forward on the bunk, he felt his bare back peel away from the gray paint on the wall—his sweat had dried at some point in the night, causing his skin to stick.

  Wilder hopped down from his bunk with a big smile, yawning theatrically. “Wow! Nothing like a good night of deep, restful sleep, is there? I don't know about you, but my batteries are fully recharged. I feel like a million bucks!”

  “I'm so happy for you,” Kurt grumbled.

  The first part of the daily routine was for the men in cell block G to be taken to the showers a few at a time. Kurt hoped the hot water would wake him up a bit.

  Also, it was his chance to spend a little time with Sarah, even if neither of them could openly acknowledge it.

  He saw her trying not to watch him in the showers, and even though part of him hated that she was still being more obvious about it than she should, he had to admit to himself that he enjoyed her attention on some level. He liked the feeling of her eyes on his naked body while he washed himself. It was the closest thing they had to intimacy in here, and it allowed him to fondly remember their brief, passionate encounter in the bathroom before everything went wrong for both of them.

  Kurt saw Sarah enter the cell block, and tried not to look at her too overtly. It wasn't easy. Even in that uniform, she was gorgeous, and the soft curves of her body were still quite visible.

  She started walking toward him as she always did in the mornings, but before she reached him, Gable took her aside. Kurt couldn't hear their exchange, but whatever it was, Sarah looked confused and unhappy about it. She stole a quick glance in his direction, then walked back the way she came.

  Gable sauntered over to Kurt. “Shower time. Get your butt in gear.”

  Kurt almost asked why Sarah wasn't on shower duty today, but he stopped himself. That was exactly the wrong kind of question to ask if he wanted to keep his prior relationship with Sarah a secret. He knew that Hawkeye and Gable were already aware of their connection, but it still wasn't a good idea to bring it to the attention of the other inmates.

  So Kurt stood and followed Gable, expecting him to round up four bikers or Aryans as well.

  Instead, Gable paused outside a pair of cells a few steps away. “White, Samson, Morales, and Hitcher. Come on, it's shower time.”

  Kurt's heart froze in his chest as the men emerged from their cells. He knew those names. All of them were members of the Nation of Sinners.

  And all of them were huge.

  Gable led them to the outer chamber of the shower room where they stripped off their clothes and grabbed their towels and wash cloths. The four gang members' eyes burned holes in Kurt as they whispered and snickered among themselves.

  So, this is my punishment from Hawkeye, Kurt thought. This is why Wilder made sure I stayed awake all night—so I'd be in no shape to face these brutes today.

  Before they stepped into the tiled shower area, Gable stopped Morales and made a show of examining his towels. “That wash cloth looks kind of dirty to me,” Gable said. “Here, I'll send it back to the laundry, and you can use this one instead.”

  He handed Morales a wash cloth that was clearly folded around a shiv made from a sharpened toothbrush. Morales took it, grinning from ear to ear.

  The five convicts entered the shower, and Gable switched the water on. The room filled with steam almost immediately.

  “Well, I guess you boys are going to want some privacy while you wash up, huh? I'll come back in a few minutes.” Gable gave Kurt a sly wink and walked off, leaving them unsupervised.

  “Would you guys look at this?” Morales brandished the shiv as the other men surrounded Kurt. “If it ain't Rocky fuckin' Balboa himself, with none of his Nazi-ass white friends around to back him up. You wanna try out some of those sweet boxing moves on us, Rocky? Or you wanna poison us like some kind of cowardly bitch, the way you did Rodrigo?”

  “I had nothing to do with what happened to Rodrigo. Hawkeye told me it was a regular fight. When I found out what he'd done, I tried to stop the match.” But Kurt knew these words would mean nothing to them, and he was already preparing himself for the inevitable attack.

  “Save your bullshit for some motherfuckers who care,” Morales sneered. “Roberto says we need to take you out the first chance we get, an' this looks like a hell of a chance to me.”

  “Yeah, and who gave you that chance? Gable? He's in Hawkeye's pocket, so why the fuck would he help you? Think it through, guys. You're being used.”

  The Sinners continued to press in all around him. Morales tossed the shiv back and forth between his hands, licking his lips in anticipation.

  Kurt tried to tense his body, but his major muscle groups cramped again sharply. Worse, he was still foggy from lack of sleep, and the heat surrounding them was making everything around him seem blurred and dreamlike. He tried to stay aware of all of the men around him, but all his eyes could focus on was the sharpened toothbrush.

  You're going to be stabbed, Kurt told himself. There's four of them and one of you, and that shiv is absolutely going into you, no two ways about it. Stay afraid of that, and you'll be too busy trying to avoid it to survive this fight. Accept it, embrace it, and you might have a chance.

  One of the Sinners behind Kurt gave him a light shove, trying to distract him as Morales lunged forward. Kurt leaned into the shiv instead of away from it, using his forearm as a shield to catch the blade. Morales' eyes widened, and he was caught off guard enough for Kurt to close his other hand around the handle of the shiv and yank it away from him.

  In the seconds it took for Kurt to pull the shiv from his arm, the men behind him managed to kick his legs out from under him. He tried to maintain his balance, but the slippery tiles betrayed him, and his kneecaps hit them hard. Morales loomed in front of him, and Kurt propelled himself to his feet again, sinking the sharpened toothbrush between the ribs in Morales' left side even as the other Sinners' punches connected with his spine and kidneys.

  Morales shrieked in agony, backing away until he hit the wall. Kurt felt the plastic shiv snap in half.

  Shit. So much for using it against the others.

  Kurt spun around to face the rest of them, but he was too slow. Another savage kick to his legs almost brought him down again, and a fist slammed into his face, smashing his nose and stunning him momentarily.

  Okay, he thought groggily, raising his own fists and preparing to strike. The blade is out of the picture, and you're down to three guys. Fine. Good. You've taken on three guys before. You can win this.

  But pain kept blooming in Kurt's face and lower back, and his vision was starting to double. And those other fights had mostly been against drunken truckers, hicks, and barflies in parking lots—not these hardened mountains of muscle and hate.

  The Sinners spread out, surrounding him again in a loose circle. Kurt tried to surprise them by targeting the one behind him with a backward kick, but he missed and the man grabbed him by the ankle, sending him back to the floor. A bare foot slammed into his side, and he felt two of his ribs snap.

  Before Kurt had a chance to move, the three men were on top of him, shoving him facedown and holding down his arms and legs. He felt hot breath on his neck and naked flesh pressing against his back.

  “Since you feelin' so frisky an' all,” the man said, “I figure
we can have a little fun wit' you 'fore we kill you.”

  Suddenly, Kurt heard a loud crack near his ear, followed by a howl of pain...and Sarah's voice.

  “You get the fuck off of him right now!”

  Kurt didn't have time to process this before he heard another crack, and another, mixed with a wet snap and more yelling. The hands retreated from his body, and he saw blood oozing between the tiles on the floor, mingled with the hot water.

  “You men get back against the wall and stay there, or I swear to God I'll break every bone in your fucking bodies.”

  Sarah again.

  Kurt tried to lift himself off the floor, but only managed to slump over onto his side. The Sinners were sitting and leaning against the walls of the shower. One was bleeding from a gash over his eye, while another held onto his arm as it jutted out at an odd angle. The third appears unscathed, but his back was against the wall and his arms were raised. Morales was still clutching the wound in his side.