by Pam Godwin
Two mattresses sat side by side on metal frames, leaving a small walkway to the toilet.
This was where he would be sleeping with Martin for the next three months.
On the bright side, it was a step up from the floor in the common area. The lock on the door would allow them to sleep with both eyes closed.
Martin glanced up and down the empty hallway and stepped into the cell. In two long-legged strides, he reached Ricky’s side.
His bruised face closed in, and his green eyes burned for a fight. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“My problem?” Ricky whispered harshly. “You’re the one who lost your shit. Why did you attack her?”
“It won’t happen again. Can you say the same?”
“About what?”
“You know what.” Martin scraped a hand over his head. “Jesus, fuck, Ricky. You can’t get butthurt whenever I talk to her.”
“Why did you tell her about your past?”
“I told her one thing. Nothing important.”
“It was more than you’ve ever told me.”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about. Your fucking jealousy—”
“Who did you kill?”
Martin’s head drew back stiffly, his lips flattening in a stubborn line. Then he narrowed his eyes. “I’ve killed several men with Camila. You were there.”
“Before her. Before the Freedom Fighters. Who did you kill?”
His silence stabbed with refusal.
“Why her?” Ricky slumped against the wall and wiped the pain from his expression. “Why now?”
“There’s something… Shit, I don’t know. She has this pure sort of openness about her that compels me. Not just her story, but the look in her eyes, the sadness in her voice.” Martin bowed his head, causing the shadows to shift across the sharp angles of his features. “She gave me a vulnerable moment.”
“I’ve never given you that?”
“No.” Martin braced an arm on the wall beside Ricky’s head. “There’s nothing vulnerable about you. You’re confident in your skin and strong as hell. Look at how you handled Van. You and I endured the same hell in his attic. Yet you overcame it without looking back. Fuck, I admire that and expect nothing less from you.” Martin touched Ricky’s jaw. “I wouldn’t want you any other way.”
“You don’t want me in any way.” He turned his neck, jerking away from the extraordinary touch.
“That’s not—”
“Forget it. I’m just being a dick.”
He’d mastered the art of pretending Martin’s rejections didn’t hurt, but every interaction hit hard and dug deep. For seven years, he suffered in silence, shouldered the agony of wanting what he couldn’t have, and buried the ache whenever Martin rubbed up against his space.
Like now.
He pulled in a breath and focused on the mission. “She’s not as vulnerable as you think.”
“No, she’s not.” Martin’s mouth hovered an inch away, his voice low. “She survived this place for two years on her own.”
“An American high school teacher, and she works for Hector La Rocha. It’s too unbelievable to be a lie. I mean, if she’s going to feed us bullshit, she’d make it easier to swallow, right?”
“Exactly. She hasn’t lied to us.” A muscle twitched at the corner of Martin’s swollen lips. A smile. Barely. But a smile, nonetheless.
“You’re attracted to her.”
“That’s an understatement. But…” Martin’s gaze darted to the hall, and he tipped his head as if listening for footsteps. Then he bent in and put his mouth at Ricky’s ear. “You are going to fuck her.”
Sudden, raw desire spun up his pulse and caught his skin on fire. The gravelly command in Martin’s voice, the heat of Martin’s body against his, and the thought of fucking Tula Gomez while Martin watched—all of it gripped him between his legs, tightening his balls and lengthening his cock.
He pressed himself against the cold concrete wall, fighting the impulse to kick his hips forward and mindlessly grind against the gorgeous man leaning into him.
Martin seemed to sense his inner battle and started to move away.
“Wait.” He gripped Martin’s waist, holding tight to hard muscle. “Let me have this. Just… Just let me feel us for a second.”
The cost of having feelings for Martin had left him needy and destitute. He had no romantic relationships, no interest in finding someone else. His heart wanted Martin or no one at all.
He braced for the bane of his life to push away, his mind already closing itself off to the possibility of a stolen moment.
Martin shifted and stretched an arm toward the door. His fingers caught the edge, and he swung it closed, blanketing them in darkness.
Every cell in Ricky’s body thrummed to acute awareness.
With a long, heavy exhale, Martin slowly eased his weight against the front of Ricky’s body. Chest to chest, hip to hip, Martin let him feel the press of hot skin and six feet of carved masculinity.
He fisted a hand in Ricky’s hair and rested their foreheads together, breathing softly, comfortably, sinking into the bond.
Goddamn, the divine torture. The blissful hell. It was everything and not nearly enough.
He dug his fingers into Martin’s waist, his cock throbbing in his jeans, trapped between the crush of their hips.
Martin didn’t rock against him or jerk away in repulsion. Ricky’s need was front and center, a bulging rock between them, conspicuous and unrequited.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you what you need.” Immersed in blackness, Martin tightened his fingers in Ricky’s hair and flattened his other hand on the wall. “If I’d met you before… Before my head got all fucked up, I would’ve made you mine.”
Ricky’s heartbeat went off the deep end and crashed into a pool of chaotic hope.
“You mean—” He choked on a leaden tongue. “You’re open to being with men?”
“I never told you I wasn’t. You made assumptions.”
“You never told me you were.” An overload of ecstatic hope consumed him. “If you can be with men…”
“I’m broken, Ricky. Incapable of being with anyone.” With a sigh, Martin removed his touch and stepped away. The mattress squeaked, signaling his distance in the dark.
“Why? Because of the man you killed?”
“Never said it was a man.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Ricky was tempted to open the door so that the hallway would shed light on Martin’s expression. But maybe the concealment of darkness would make it easier to expose secrets.
“Tell me what he did to you.” A pang gnawed in his chest as he imagined the level of hurt Martin would’ve endured to push him to kill someone. “How does it connect to Van Quiso?”
“I can’t talk about this.”
“Why not? I’m your best friend. The person you trust more than anyone else.”
“Because everything that happened…” Martin’s voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “It was my fault. My ignorant choices. I’m fucking ashamed of it, and I won’t… I refuse to change your perception of me.”
“I would never—”
“Drop it. I’m done discussing it.”
His heart collapsed. “I need to say one more thing.” At Martin’s silence, he pushed off the wall and glared into the rancid darkness. “It doesn’t matter who you open up to about your past. If it helps you to talk to Tula, I won’t get butthurt over it.”
When Martin said nothing, he opened the door and surveyed their dismal cell in the light. They needed to eat, but he wasn’t in the mood to scrounge up their next unsatisfying meal.
Instead, he tackled the filthy mattresses. Martin helped him drag them into the hall and beat the dust out of them.
Once the beds were put back together, he cursed his sore ribs and surveyed the darkening bruises on Martin’s face.
As Martin reclined on one of the mattresses, his movements were slow and stiff. An indication
he was in more pain than he let on.
Today’s fight in the yard wouldn’t be their last physical altercation. The inmates were walking powder kegs, ready to explode and looking for a target. If he and Martin limped into the common area in search of food right now, they would probably be attacked again.
They needed to sleep, give their wounds time to heal, and discuss Tula Gomez.
“Can you wait until tomorrow to eat?” He gave the quiet hall another glance.
“I’ll manage.”
He closed and locked the door and lay beside Martin in the foulness of their pitch-black cell. His mind churned through everything that had transpired today and stalled on something Martin had said.
“Why did you tell me to fuck her?”
“She’s our way in, and women never refuse you.”
“I could say the same about you, but your damn self-imposed celibacy—”
“It’s not an option.”
“Fine, but she might not know anything about the sex trafficking operation.”
“She works directly for Hector and has the means to find out. The first step is getting her to trust you.”
“In bed.”
“Yeah.”
His cock twitched, ready to jump on the idea. “Fucking her doesn’t guarantee she’ll switch sides. Hector probably sent her to us to figure out where our loyalties lie.”
“We’ll tread carefully.” Martin shifted, creaking the mattress springs. “Keep in mind, if we convince her to work against the cartel, it’ll no longer be just our lives at stake.”
Good point. The cartel thrived on its draconian rules. If she turned her back on them, they would kill her.
He and Martin would be released from Jaulaso in three months, but Matias wouldn’t be able to free Tula.
Maybe she was a conniving murderous cunt and planned to gut them while they slept. But deep down, he agreed with Martin.
There was something about her. Like a shyness beneath the tattoos. Uncertainty behind the gun. He’d detected sweet, straight-laced schoolteacher vibes long before she told them her career.
Turning on his side, he strained to see Martin in the blackness. “What will you be doing while I’m with her?”
Matias Restrepo had been adamant about them never being alone in Jaulaso. As long as they stuck together, they had twice the eyes and double the strength.
“I’ll try to help,” Martin muttered.
“What?” A shocked laugh erupted from his chest, and he sat up, reeling in the dark. “You’re going to help me have sex? How would that work?”
“Fuck off, asshole. I’m not fucking impotent.”
“Are you sure? You haven’t used your dick in seven years.”
“My dick works fine. It’s my goddamn head that—” Martin grunted. “Doesn’t matter. Let me worry about it.”
The thought of Martin watching him having sex was a glorious turn on. But if Martin participated? Holy fuck.
“I can hear the direction of your thoughts.” Martin whacked him across the head. “Shut that shit down and get some sleep.”
Swallowing a groan, Ricky stretched out on his back and closed his eyes.
He should’ve gotten laid before the arrest. Between the daily training for this mission, the horrifying disappearance of his roommate, Kate, his move to Colombia to work with Camila, and Kate’s rescue two weeks ago, his downtime had been nonexistent.
How long had it been since he’d had sex? Six months? Longer?
On that thought, he slipped in and out of restless sleep, his senses piqued for sounds in the hall.
The second floor seemed to be the quietest section of Area Three. Whoever resided in this cellblock didn’t spend a lot of time in their rooms. Most inmates kept to the yard and common area, where drugs, whores, and parties coalesced every night.
After an endless hour, maybe two, he lay wide awake, listening to someone’s footsteps pause just outside the door.
“Martin,” he whispered.
“I hear it.”
They stood at the same time as a fist rapped on their door.
Martin rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, silently telling him to go ahead.
He shook out his arms and loosened his muscles for whatever waited in the hall. Then he opened the door.
Stark light poured in, and he shielded his eyes.
Tula stared up at him, holding a large box in her arms.
“No light bulb?” She squinted into their dark cell.
“No.” He glanced back at Martin and winged up an eyebrow.
Martin slid his hands in his pockets, his face expressionless.
She set the box on the floor and dug through the contents.
“Hopefully, this works.” She removed an old dusty bulb and held it out.
Martin took it from her and screwed it into the socket. Rusty metal squeaked with each turn until light flooded the room.
As Martin returned, Ricky leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and gave her a questioning look.
“So…” She pulled in a breath and released it with a rush. “You’re from the States, and I miss my life there. You speak English, and I miss that, too. You don’t have track marks from drug use or tattoos that celebrate the kills you’ve made. You don’t have any visible tattoos. Not that I have anything against ink.” She held out her tattooed arms. “Obviously.”
He exchanged a look with Martin.
“From what I can tell, you guys don’t belong in a place like this. Neither do I.” She bent down and lifted the box, hugging it to her chest. “You seem like… I don’t know. Maybe if I’d run into you in a park or at a bar, we would’ve been friends. Maybe not. But I could really use a friend here.”
He stared at this inviting woman, with her black hair twisting around her slender arms, and her makeup-free face angled upward, unguarded and staggeringly beautiful. Eyes of molten brown were steeped with susceptibility—an attribute he and Martin would either learn to trust or use against her.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” Her gaze drank him in and slid to Martin. “I’m lonely.” She lifted a stiff shoulder. “That’s why I’m helping you.”
Tula bit down on the inside of her cheek.
She did it. Against Hector’s advice, she’d spoken the truth and put herself at the mercy of two intimidating, potentially dangerous men.
After Ricky Martin—yeah, she referred to them as one entity—left her cell, she went straight to Hector and gave him an update.
He wanted her to move forward under the ruse of turning against the cartel. He believed if she pretended to be a traitor, they would be more inclined to confide in her.
But since he left the plan up to her, she decided to do it her way. She was already uneasy about the job. Putting on an act would’ve turned her into a blubbering nervous wreck.
Coming here alone was the scariest thing she’d ever done. If they worked for another cartel, they would likely kill her before she figured out who they were.
The smart thing would’ve been to keep her mouth shut and let Luis get rid of them quietly. But her conscience couldn’t accept murder as a solution until she knew for sure they were bad men.
So here she was, standing before them on the microscopic chance she was saving their lives, which would only happen if they joined sides with La Rocha Cartel.
Martin folded his arms across his shirtless chest, the valleys between his abs obscenely deep in the glow of the dingy light bulb.
The swollen bruises around his eyes didn’t diminish his hotness. His square jaw bore a speckle of darker hairs in an otherwise blond five o’clock shadow.
The golden hair on his head was short enough to maintain order while Ricky’s spiky black strands stuck up in every direction.
Ricky took the heavy box from her, and the sight of veins and sinews bulging in his sculpted forearms swept a tingling heat through her.
God, had she ever seen anything sexier?
Arms. She was drooling over
forearms.
“Come in,” Martin said, making the invitation sound more like a command.
She stepped in and locked the door behind her, scrunching her nose at the putrid stench of sewage.
“There’s a scented candle in the box.” She coughed against her fist. “It might mask the smell.”
They stared at her with blank expressions. Maybe her spiel about needing a friend had been too honest? If they didn’t believe her, they might kill her on suspicion alone.
The gun in her waistband felt hot against her tailbone. She wasn’t a good shot, and Ricky had already disarmed her once. She was out of her league.
“Smells like you brought food.” Ricky turned to the box and removed the candle, followed by plastic containers of pork pozole and Mexican rice. “This is for us?”
“Yeah. Everything in there is yours.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans. “I gathered what I could.”
The box included basic supplies, such as clothing, soap, shaving razors, toothbrushes, towels, blankets, toilet paper, cutoff plastic milk cartons to use as dishes, powdered milk, instant coffee, and her only cooking stove.
Martin removed a stack of shirts and cotton pants. “How did you get all this?”
“I bartered a few things. Some of it I already had.”
Home-cooked meals were brought in by families of the inmates, and she knew who to approach to trade for it.
Ricky dug through the box, the muscled column of his neck stretching into sloping shoulders and taut ripples of brawn along his spine.
Her cheeks heated.
“This is incredible, Tula.” He lit the candle with a match and located a plastic spoon for the pozole.
She glanced at Martin and found him watching her with a glint of suspicion in his emerald eyes.
Her mouth dried. “I promise I didn’t poison anything.”
His expression hardened.
She returned his glare. “If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve just let you starve.”
“Eat.” Ricky smacked the container of rice against Martin’s chest and turned to her. “Come here.”
Two uncertain steps carried her the short distance. She craned her neck to look at him.
Lord have mercy, he wasn’t even touching her, yet she felt him up and down the front of her body. As she swayed into his force field, his dark masculine scent curled around her.