by Zoey Parker
The hairs on the back of Kurt's neck stood up, and he realized that someone was approaching him from behind. He was sure it was one of the Sinners stepping up to take him out, and he set his weights down quickly, his hand drifting to his waistband. If he was forced to kill a Sinner in self-defense, well, then his problem would pretty much solve itself, wouldn't it?
Assuming the Sinner didn't take him down first.
But when Kurt turned to look, he saw that one of the Peacekeepers was standing behind him. He was a large black man in his forties with eyeglasses and a stocky frame. Kurt recognized him as Keith Jackson, the group's leader.
“If you're rolling up on me to give me the 'Say no to drugs' speech, you can save it,” Kurt said. “I already got it from Hawkeye.”
“I know you don't use narcotics,” Keith said to him quietly. Kurt saw that the Sinners were drifting to the other side of the gym. He'd seen similar behavior from them before—they knew the Peacekeepers' reputation for collecting information, and they didn't want anything they said to be overheard.
“Well, I'm no bible-thumper, and there's too many witnesses for me to even think of appealing my case,” Kurt replied, picking up the weights again. “So I don't know what you're here to tell me.”
Keith leaned in closer. “I'm here to tell you not to use that Lullaby in your waistband to kill any Sinners, no matter what Hawkeye told you.”
Kurt raised his eyebrows. “Wow, you guys heard about that, huh? I guess you really do have ears everywhere. But if you know that, then you probably also know I don't have a choice.”
“That's a phrase that a lot of men in here like to use. 'I didn't have a choice.' But the truth is, all men do have a choice to do what's right or what's wrong. They simply ignore that fact in favor of the path of least resistance. It lands them here, and if they keep clinging to that pathetic idea of 'no choice'—if they keep surrendering themselves to what seems easy—then they end up shivved, or lifers, or on death row.”
“That's very deep,” Kurt sneered. “Very poetic. Were you a lawyer on the outside, or a reverend?”
“On the outside, I was a thief and an addict. It took being sent here to show me that I did and do have choices, every day that I'm still alive. I know you're a biker and a criminal, but I also know you're not a cold-blooded murderer. You can let River Oak make you into one, over and over, until your soul is black and twisted and unrecognizable to you. Or you can stand up and be the man you are.”
“Look, man, this is all really inspiring stuff, and clearly you know how to sell it. But all it tells me is that you don't know my whole story.”
“Which part?” Keith asked. “That Martin runs with your MC? That you have a romantic connection with her? That Hawkeye has threatened to expose and harm her unless you do what he tells you to do?”
A romantic connection with her, Kurt thought. Is that what we have? Do either of us even know?
“Okay, so you do know,” Kurt countered. “So, what's your big idea? Just 'do the right thing,' even if it means hanging her out to dry?”
“Gable and Hawkeye enjoy making threats. It makes them feel powerful to know they can intimidate people into doing their bidding without having to lift a finger. But they're slow to act on those threats. They'd rather sit back and rule by fear instead of action. Even if you disobey them, they'll keep teasing her with what they might do long before they actually do anything. Ultimately, they'd rather keep her to boss around than expose her and have to worry about replacing her. And that will give both of you time to come up with another way out of this situation.”
Kurt considered this. “That's a lovely theory. Unfortunately, we're a bit beyond the theoretical here—this is someone's fucking life we're talking about. How can you be so sure?”
“Because I've been here much longer than Gable or Hawkeye, and I've watched them closely ever since they came here. Their behavior patterns are extremely predictable, for those who pay attention.”
“Fine. But even assuming you're right, what about me? If the Dogs and Aryans withdraw their protection from me, I'm a dead man.”
“Is that all you're worth, then? The people watching your back? Are you nothing without a gang to belong to? Are you just the sum of your patches and tattoos, or are you a man with an identity of your own? Think back, Bellows...you weren't always a Black Dog, an animal traveling in a pack. There was a time when you were defined by more than that.”
Kurt tried to shake off Keith's words, but he felt them ripple through some deeper part of him, like a stone dropped into a still pond. It seemed like a lifetime since he'd joined the Dogs, and ever since he'd gone from a fresh-faced prospect to a fully-patched member, he'd done everything he could to escape the memories of what had come before.
He'd never known his parents—they'd practically been kids themselves, and they'd anonymously left him in front of a firehouse when he was just a few months old. His earliest recollections were from the drab, state-run orphanage he'd grown up in. A building full of children with no last names, no roots to claim, no real sense of being wanted or belonging anywhere. Some of the kids who were older and more cruel formed gangs, and they preyed on the ones who were younger and smaller, like Kurt.
The adults who worked there weren't paid enough to notice or interfere. If any of the victims tried to report these incidents to them, the grown-ups would sigh and shake their heads, saying “Boys will be boys.” They'd chide the victims, telling them that they should work these conflicts out for themselves and that “Confrontation builds character.”
Then the kids would be punished by the gangs for trying to snitch, and the cycle would go on and on.
From the moment Kurt realized that the gangs were the ones who really ran the orphanage, he was desperate to join one. But no matter how much he tried to prove himself to them, they still made fun of him and refused to accept him. Sometimes, they'd pretend they had changed their minds and tell him he was one of them—but it always ended with him humiliated as they laughed at him.
And the years ticked by, and the parents who visited the orphanage never even considered adopting him. They always cooed over the fresh-faced babies and toddlers, eagerly naming them and making plans for their futures as they signed the paperwork.
Too young to be accepted by the other kids. Too old to be accepted by the grown-ups. Trapped but unwanted. Treated like shit, without even an identity to call his own.
Just like here in River Oak.
When Kurt turned eighteen, he was turned loose on the big, cold world with next to nothing—not even a real last name. He didn't know who he was, or who he was supposed to be. All he really knew about himself was his bottomless rage, his constant desire to punch the faces of everyone he saw because they either reminded him of the older boys or the dismissive adults.
He worked a series of low-paying jobs, and was fired from each one for losing his temper and mouthing off to his bosses. Then one night, when he was washing dishes in a shitty bar, he glanced out the window and saw a bare-knuckle boxing match in the parking lot.
Even though Kurt was still somewhat scrawny, he stepped into the circle and beat five men in a row, using nothing but his rage.
The next year or so was a blur of booze and fights. There were always new circles to step into, bigger opponents to take his anger out on, and more money to win. Eventually, the constant fighting began to develop his muscles and tone his body, and he started working out and training so he could get the most out of his newly-athletic frame.
One night, Ron stepped out of the crowd and offered Kurt the family he'd previously been denied, as a prospective member of the Black Dogs. It was the single happiest moment of Kurt's life, and he considered it the night that his life truly began.
Keith had reminded him of the harsh and empty times that he'd endured before. And he had endured them. He'd been lonely, directionless, with no identity outside of his rage at the entire world—but he'd still made it on his own. He'd stared life in the eye withou
t fear, and dared it to blink first.
That was the person he'd have to rely on in here, if he had a hope of surviving or protecting Sarah.
Keith nodded slowly, as though he knew every moment of Kurt's history. And hell, maybe he even did—collecting information was the Peacekeepers' specialty, after all.
Or maybe Keith had just been through it all himself, once upon a time.
“Maybe you're right,” Keith said. “Maybe you won't survive in here without a gang backing you up. But you can either live on your knees as a slave, or die on your own two feet like a man. I made my decision a long time ago. Now it's time for you to make yours.”
Keith walked away, leaving Kurt with his thoughts. He tried to pump the hand weights a few more times to distract himself from what Keith had told him, but he quickly lost interest.
As Kurt lowered the weights to the floor, one of the Sinners sidled up to him, glaring. “You almost dropped that on my foot, motherfucker.”
“Sorry about that.” Kurt stood up from the bench to leave, but the Sinner's huge hand dropped onto his shoulder, pushing him back down again.
“Yeah, you sorry. First you fuckin' cheat in the ring an' kill Rodrigo, an' now you gon' break my foot wit' your careless-ass bullshit? You 'bout to be one sorry white boy.”
Kurt felt the Lullaby resting against the base of his spine like an itch, and he knew he could end this quickly by ramming it into the side of the Sinner's neck. Others had gathered around them in a loose circle—Sinners, Aryans, Peacekeepers, even a few guards. He was suddenly sure that all of them knew the order Hawkeye had given him, and they were waiting eagerly, certain that he'd go through with it. He wondered whether they had bets riding on the outcome.
He felt his own blood slithering through his veins like deadly snakes. It was the same sensation he used to experience every time he stepped into the circle of men in the parking lots. The air was electric like an approaching storm, and every cell in his body wanted to lash out mindlessly.
Except back then, he'd fought for himself.
If he gave in to the anger today and put the Sinner down, it would be for Hawkeye and his White Brothers.
Even if he won, it wouldn't be a victory. It would just be another link in the heavy chain that was drawing around him, tighter and tighter, until he couldn't breathe.
So Kurt stood up again, turned his back on the Sinner, and walked toward the door of the gym.
The room immediately echoed with hoots and jeers—men calling him a “pussy,” a “faggot,” and a dozen other ugly words for coward. With every step, he was sure he'd feel a shiv in his back, or strong arms pulling him to the floor so he could be kicked in the face and chest and stomach. His own body cried out for him to turn around and face these threats, but he willed himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other without looking back.
If they beat him, fine. He'd been beaten before.
If they killed him, fine. He'd be far beyond this place and its walls, and hopefully Sarah could find some way to leave and save herself.
But he'd be damned if he was willing to spend one more second as Hawkeye's puppet.
He reached the door and stepped through it, unscathed.
Chapter 19
Kurt
As Kurt walked down the hall with the angry sounds of the gym receding behind him, Wilder walked up to him. Kurt expected another altercation, but Wilder looked concerned and kept his voice low.
“London just got tipped off that one of the dudes in the gym has a weapon. He's gonna search all of them, and you too, since you were just there. Quick, hand me the shiv so you don't get caught with it.”
Kurt slipped the Lullaby from his waistband, trying to keep it out of sight as he passed it to Wilder. The Aryan palmed it and strolled off casually just as London and several other guards charged down the hallway, barking orders at Kurt.
“You! Get back in the gym, and get up against the wall.”
Kurt put his hands up and marched back into the gym, putting his palms against the wall. The guards rounded up the other men, dragging them away from the exercise equipment and shoving them up against the hard, concrete blocks. A couple of the convicts murmured curses, but everyone complied.
As London's stubby fingers patted Kurt's body up and down, he felt the murderous rage again, baking him from the inside out. He hated how many times he'd had to submit to strangers groping him since he'd come here—exploring his underarms, his torso, his crotch, even between his ass cheeks if the guard in question was feeling particularly surly. They never found anything on him, but it was clear that they enjoyed humiliating and dehumanizing him whenever possible.
Kurt fantasized about grabbing London's hands—feeling the bones in the CO's fingers and wrists snap and pop, hearing his screams. If Kurt applied the right amount of pressure, London wouldn't be able to wipe his own ass for three months, and the other guards would think twice about putting their goddamn hands on Kurt in the future.
Best of all—even after the bandages came off and the physical therapy ended—every time the weather got cold or rainy for the rest of London's life, his hands would be filled with a deep and throbbing agony. And he'd wince and rub them, and he'd remember Kurt.
But no.
The momentary satisfaction that would bring Kurt wouldn't be worth the time he'd spend in the hole, or the extra years that would be added to his sentence for attacking a guard.
So Kurt took a deep breath, waiting for London to move on to the next convict, and the next. One of the Sinners was caught with a tiny packet of coke, and another had a “Manifesto”—which was River Oak slang for a shiv made of paper that had been folded many times and then coated with varnish. Those two prisoners were sent to Ad-Seg as their contraband was confiscated, and the rest were let go.
Kurt brushed himself off and returned to his cell. Wilder was in the top bunk, reading an old paperback of The Count of Monte Cristo.
“Thanks for the warning, man,” Kurt said.
Wilder smirked, tossing the book aside. “No need to thank me. See, I was the one who tipped off the guards that someone in the gym had a shiv.” He dangled the Lullaby in front of Kurt for a moment, then slipped it under his own pillow.
Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to give that back, or do you and Hawkeye expect me to whack a Sinner with my teeth?”
Wilder laughed. “I wouldn't advise it. Half of 'em probably got AIDS or some shit. No, you had plenty of chances to do what Hawkeye told you today, and you pissed 'em all away. You've made it pretty fuckin' clear that you've got no intention of following orders, but hey, that's okay. Hawkeye's an optimistic dude. He's still convinced he can get through to you somehow.”
“How's that?”
“That's for me to know. For now, all you need to know is that I've got the shiv now, and in about forty minutes, we're gonna be locked in together, the lights are gonna go out, and the guards are gonna take a nice long walk so we get plenty of private time.” Wilder grinned. “Hope you sleep well tonight, Kurt.”
He didn't.
In fact, he didn't get any sleep at all that night.
Chapter 20
Sarah
Sarah pulled her car into the parking space in front of her apartment complex. She was exhausted from her shift, her entire body ached, and she hated the way the scents of River Oak clung to her skin no matter how hard she tried to wash them off. Every time she inhaled, her nostrils were filled with piss, shit, filthy concrete, rusty metal, bland food steamed in plastic, and male musk so raw and pungent it was like being in a zoo.
Sometimes, she imagined she could smell something else hovering above it all—a harsh, meaty scent that was primal and dizzying.
Was it desperation? Hopelessness?
Or just the smell of evil men, thinking evil thoughts and doing evil things until the air around them was a cloud of constant poison?
Hawkeye's threats had been banging around in her head ever since he'd made them. She hadn't been
able to eat or sleep since then, and she was gripped by a penetrating sense of dread and despair. No matter what she did or didn't do, it seemed like she was doomed to go to prison, die, or both.
Even if she did everything she was told, how long would it take for Hawkeye to grow bored with tormenting her and start demanding sexual favors from her anyway? Worse, how long would he hold Kurt's well-being—and that of the other Dogs, for that matter—over her head? Could she really live with this level of terrified anticipation day in, day out, indefinitely?
No. She couldn't. She was sure it would eventually drive her insane.
For the first time, she seriously considered going to the police. It was an alien thought—her uncle had been the president of the Black Dogs for as long as she could remember, and he'd always told her, “No matter what happens, never, ever call the cops. You have a problem, you come to me. If I ain't around, you talk to the VP or one of MC's other senior officers. But you call the cops, and no matter what happened or who's in the wrong, you can bet your ass they'll end up arresting all the wrong people and letting the right ones go.”