by Parker, Zoey
“I just thought I could make things easier for you while you were here,” she whispered. “That's all. Ron thought so too.”
“Yeah, and I'll be having that discussion with Ron if I ever get out of here. Meanwhile, you need to keep your head down and do your job. No more pulling me aside on flimsy excuses, no more secret stairwell rendezvous. They'll see through that shit real quick, and then we'll both be screwed. Understand?”
Sarah nodded briskly. “Fine. Let's get you back, then.” She hoped her words would sound cold when they came out, but instead they just sounded petulant.
She led Kurt back to cell block G, her heart sinking lower with every step. Even after Gable had showed up at her apartment complex to scare her, she'd still spent almost every waking moment thinking about how good it would feel to be reunited with Kurt.
Now she didn't even have that.
Chapter 11
Kurt
Kurt spent the next few days working out in the gym—jumping rope, doing sit-ups and push-ups, and relentlessly hammering the heavy bag and the speed bag with the ferocity that had earned him his nickname.
As he did, groups of Dogs and Aryans would assemble nearby to cheer him on, and groups of Sinners would inevitably appear to jeer and curse at him. He tuned it all out, trying to focus on the sound of his breath entering and exiting his body, or his fists connecting with their targets.
But instead, all he could think about was Sarah.
He knew how much his words in the stairwell had hurt her. That had been the point. The truth was, he had been happy to see her. He'd thought about their night together a lot—no matter how much he'd tried not to—and his feelings about her reasons for being there were more complicated than he wanted to admit to himself.
He should have felt weird about how willing she was to become a CO just so they could see each other. That wasn't normal behavior for someone who'd only had sex with him once, was it? Yet instead of being creeped out by it, he was surprised to discover that he liked the idea of someone caring about him that deeply. He hadn't felt that from anyone since Diana had died. What he saw in Sarah's eyes when she looked at him—the affection, the compassion, the desire—made him wonder if he might be able to find that kind of happiness again someday.
Which was why he'd had to shut it down so definitively.
Caring about anyone or anything in this place was a mistake. Sooner or later, someone—a guard, another inmate—would learn about it and find a way to take it away.
So, Kurt knew that if Sarah had a hope in hell of surviving this, it would require her to do more than just put on an act. The men in here were predators, with absolutely nothing else to fill the minutes and hours of each day than sniffing out weaknesses in the guards and exploiting them. The warmth in her eyes when she looked at Kurt needed to be snuffed out quickly and decisively, for her own good.
Still, the harsh things he'd said to her had made him feel oddly queasy. He'd killed men for the Dogs, he'd beaten a man almost to death for almost no reason at all, and he'd broken plenty of hearts in the days before he'd been married. Why was he squeamish about telling off some girl he barely knew?
And why did he find himself spending so much time thinking about how it would feel to be with her again—to taste her hot breath on his tongue as their sweaty bodies slid against each other and their hips moved together?
These thoughts tied his brain in knots, and no matter how many times he smacked the heavy bag to erase them, they seemed to twist and snarl even more tightly until his temples throbbed.
A new group of Sinners drifted into the gym, and Kurt glanced over at them between punches. Carl was with them, but he was barely recognizable. He'd already lost weight, and his eyes were hollow from lack of sleep. He stared at the floor as he walked, not making eye contact with anyone.
Also, he was wearing makeup and a blonde wig, and he had an NOS symbol carved into the back of his neck.
River Oak was overcrowded, and on Carl's first night, he'd been tossed into a cell with three Sinners. After the lights went out, Kurt and the entire block had listened to the sounds coming from the cell—Carl squealing, weeping, begging, and finally screaming as the Sinners beat him savagely. He shrieked for the guards, and they were outside the cell within moments.
But not to help.
Instead, they stood and watched and laughed.
From that point forward, the Sinners had fun parading Carl around in drag, just to humiliate him in front of the other prisoners and demonstrate their ownership of him. The message was clear: We can make him do anything we want, we can punch him and kick him until we've broken every bone in his body, and there isn't a goddamn thing he can do to stop us.
“So much for owning the fucking place, huh, pal?” Kurt grunted quietly.
This sent his brain spinning back to unwelcome thoughts of Sarah, like a roulette wheel that kept landing on the same unlucky number over and over. She thought Hawkeye was joking about pimping her out to other inmates, and maybe he was. But she had no idea what horrors these people were capable of, and she was powerless to stand against them. Putting people in hopeless situations and making them do terrible things was what they were good at.
Kurt wanted to believe he could figure out a way to get her out of here. But as it was, he had enough trouble looking out for himself, and not a lot of time to reflect or come up with a workable plan.
Now the Sinners who surrounded Carl were tweaking his chubby cheeks and slapping his ass playfully, while others whistled and catcalled him as he passed them. He looked like he was wishing for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
Kurt noticed that this time, Roberto and Rodrigo were with the Sinners. Roberto was a short, skinny man with a shaved head and vivid tattoos that seemed to cover every inch of his body, including dozens of skulls and an NOS symbol on his forehead. His eyes blazed with the promise of mayhem like a pair of fiery coals, and he always seemed to be moving his shoulders and hips restlessly, as though keeping rhythm with music only he could hear. By contrast, Rodrigo was well over six feet tall, with neatly-trimmed hair and a large black mustache. His shoulders were so broad that he looked like he had a wooden plank hidden under his prison uniform.
“Well, well, if it ain't the Great White Hope,” Roberto sneered.
Before Kurt could respond, Hawkeye was standing at his side with Wilder, Spikes, and 88. They seemed to appear out of nowhere, like a magic trick.
“What's the story, Ro- ber -to?” Hawkeye chortled, drawing out the pronunciation of the name and rolling his Rs with an exaggerated Mexican accent. “You guys come to see what a real champion looks like?”
“I don't see no champion,” Roberto spat. “All I see is a dumb-looking gringo who's gonna spend so much time kissing canvas tomorrow, he may as well start selling ad space on the soles of his shoes.” He turned to Rodrigo. “How about it, hermano? What do you think?”
Kurt didn't enjoy being used as a prop in the confrontation between Hawkeye and Roberto, especially while he was trying to work out. And from Rodrigo's flat, steely gaze, stiff posture, and faint grimace of disapproval, he figured Rodrigo wasn't too keen on it either.
Still, Rodrigo played his part. He cracked his knuckles slowly and deliberately and said, “I'm gonna pound you like a tent stake in that ring, pendejo . Believe.”
Hawkeye laughed, turning to Kurt. “Well, Kurt? What do you say to that?”
Kurt wiped sweat from his brow. He hated being treated like a performing animal, but he knew what Hawkeye wanted from him and figured he'd better get it.
“I think every man's got a plan until he gets hit,” Kurt said. It was a quote from George Foreman, but he decided to keep that to himself, given Hawkeye's strong feelings about black people.
“There, you see?” Hawkeye smirked. “Tomorrow, you and the rest of the mongrel trash you run with are finally going to see incontrovertible proof of the white race's superiority.”
Roberto waved him away. “Are you stupi
d or something, homes? Ain't you never watched no fights on Pay-Per-View? When's the last time you saw a white boy win anything in the ring except a falling down contest?”
“This ain't Pay-Per-View, beaner,” Hawkeye shot back. “This is River Oak.” He jerked a thumb at Kurt. “Come on, let's get out of here. This gym is starting to smell like taco meat and failure.”
Kurt wasn't finished exercising, and the last thing he felt like doing was spending more time around Hawkeye and listening to his racist tirades. But he knew his role in this scene—he was supposed to be the menacing attack dog who bared his teeth, barked when he was told, and followed his master's commands.
It was shitty, but it was a better deal than Carl'd gotten.
So Kurt nodded, tossed his boxing gloves aside, and followed Hawkeye out of the gym without looking back.
Chapter 12
Sarah
When Sarah showed up for work on the day of the big fight, the entire prison was buzzing about it.
She had to break up at least half a dozen fights between inmates about who would win, and she spent the first two hours of her shift busting convicts for betting on the outcome, before she realized it was pointless and ignored it instead. There were just too many of them making wagers, and it seemed like at least half the guards were in on the action too.
Rodriguez was sidelining as a bookie, running from block to block with fistfuls of cash so the prisoners could make bets with people in other parts of River Oak—he even made a few trips to the Ad-Seg unit, so he could collect money from the guys in solitary and the hole. Meanwhile, Gable was openly boasting that he'd bet five hundred bucks on Kurt knocking out Rodrigo by the fourth round.
Scraps of paper with bets on them flowed through every room in River Oak like whitewater rapids. They wagered anything they had—credits for the commissary, food, drugs, cigarettes, work shifts, phone cards, and even sexual favors.
It was all anyone could talk about: Who would win? Which round? By decision or knockout?
Sarah tried to attend to her duties without letting any of the chatter affect her, but she felt nervous. What if Kurt got injured badly? Ron had always praised Kurt's skills as a fighter, but what if Rodrigo cheated somehow? She hadn't interacted with Rodrigo much since she'd started working at River Oak—he largely kept to himself and stayed out of trouble—but she'd heard a lot from the other guards about how ruthless and unpredictable his brother Roberto was.
Worst of all, she had to keep taking orders from Hawkeye and enduring his lewd comments. At one point, he told her to go buy him a bottle of champagne.
“We can crack it open to celebrate after Kurt takes down Rodrigo,” he said, winking. “Maybe you can even use the bottle to put on a little show for us, how about that?”
She'd taken his money, and left to buy the champagne without answering him. Still, on the way back to the prison, she kept eyeing the bottle as nausea squirmed in her stomach. He'd probably just said that to rattle her, but what if he was serious? If he demanded it from her, what could she do? Being subjected to the whims of someone so twisted and evil made her sick. When her panicked mind dragged her to thoughts about how the bottle would feel inside her, dread crawled up her throat and she pulled over to open the door and retch.
She desperately wanted to tell Ron what was going on. There were even a few nights when she'd come close, after he'd pulled her aside and asked her how the job was going and how Kurt was holding up. She opened her mouth, wanting to let it all come blurting out—but then she thought about Gable threatening her with perjury.
Being a guard in a prison was hellish enough. She wasn't eager to find out how it would feel to be an inmate, especially since she doubted ex-guards were treated well inside. There were two ex-cops serving time in River Oak on corruption charges, and both of them were kept in solitary, along with the child molesters and others who'd be special targets for the rest of the prison population. The isolation had already driven one of them to attempt suicide.
So instead, Sarah forced a smile, took a sip from her beer, and said that the job was fine and Kurt was fine and everything was fine. She saw the traces of suspicion in Ron's eyes and hated herself for lying to him. She wanted to believe he'd think of something, find some way to protect her and Kurt.
But she couldn't.
Now she was back in River Oak, feeling the gray concrete walls and iron bars press in on her from all sides. The air was always sour with the odors of sweat and raw testosterone, and she felt the eyes of the convicts on her tits and ass every minute of the day, like grubby hands pawing at her from every direction.
The fight was scheduled to take place during the hour when about a third of the guards—Sarah included—were on their lunch breaks. Even though she'd always hated boxing, Sarah filed into the gym with the other COs and inmates who were attending as spectators. She knew she'd be even more worried about Kurt if she weren't watching.
But it was more than that, too. She wanted him to see that she was there. The things he'd said to her in the stairwell had hurt. But she understood that he was feeling as angry, trapped, and helpless as she was, and she was sure that was why he'd lashed out. She still cared about him, and she wanted him to see that, even if there was no safe way for her to express it overtly. She wanted him to know that she was in his corner—figuratively, and also literally, if that was what he needed from her.
A boxing ring had been set up in the center of the gym, with bleachers on all four sides. The spectators were clearly divided into sections based on who they were rooting for. The on-duty guards positioned around them were tense and watchful, looking to stop fights in the crowd before they started. With all these inmates sitting side by side, it would be far too easy for someone to get a shiv between the ribs in the name of settling old scores.
For the most part, though, the convicts just seemed happy and excited to watch the fight. It seemed like they were far more interested in the temporary relief from their boredom than they were in harming each other. In several areas of the bleachers, Sarah even saw known enemies sitting next to each other. There was some trash-talking, but overall, it looked like a temporary truce was in effect.
Sarah was briefly reminded of a nature show she'd once seen, in which predators and prey on the plains of Africa sat beside each other peacefully when they got to the watering hole. Even for the most bloodthirsty creatures on the planet, there was still a time and a place for violence, and a time when certain social niceties needed to be observed.
Once everyone had taken their seats, a potbellied CO named London stepped into the ring and stood in the center. He'd been chosen to act as referee, and Sarah wondered whether he'd placed any bets on the outcome himself. If so, how could he be trusted to enforce the rules equally, or do a proper ten-count if someone got knocked down?
Sarah shook her head. As examples of corruption and injustice in River Oak went, she reminded herself that this was pretty minor. Still, she didn't love the idea of how ugly this crowd would probably get if they thought it wasn't a fair fight.
Kurt sat in his corner of the ring, staring straight ahead as Hawkeye massaged his shoulders and spoke to him. Sarah saw how uncomfortable he was, and how much he was trying to focus on the fight itself instead of whatever racist nonsense Hawkeye was probably spewing into his ear. For a moment, she regretted her impulse to come see the fight after all. What if he saw her and it broke his concentration?
Well, too late now. She was here, and she couldn't bring herself to leave.
Rodrigo was in the other corner of the ring, his expression blank as his brother Roberto jabbered at him. Rodrigo's face was inscrutable, and Sarah wondered whether he'd had any more choice in participating in this than Kurt had. More than anything, it seemed like he just wanted to get it over with.
London took a deep breath and addressed the crowd in a booming bass voice, drawing out every syllable. “Ladies and gentlemen! In this corner, wearing the red trunks and weighing in at two hundred and ninety-two
pounds...representing the Nation of Sinners, with a record of twelve victories, four knockouts, and no losses...RODRIGO 'THE EL MATADOR' TORRES!”
The Sinners in the crowd took to their feet, howling and clapping. Roberto danced around in the corner, grinning and holding up Rodrigo's huge arm. If Rodrigo noticed the commotion, he gave no sign. His brown eyes were fixed on Kurt, studying him carefully, as though looking for weaknesses.
“And in this corner,” London intoned dramatically, “wearing the black trunks and weighing in at two hundred and eleven pounds...representing the White Brothers in his very first River Oak boxing match...KURT ‘THE KNIGHT’ BELLOWS!”
The Black Dogs whooped loudly, pumping their fists in the air. The Aryans stood and gave stiff-armed Nazi salutes, chanting, “Seig heil! Seig heil!”