Page 9

Chapter seven

Kace

Present Day

I t’s been a few weeks since Nadia got handsy with me. I’ve noticed her milling around, giving more attention to other inmates in my cell block; thank fuck. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was dabbling in something she shouldn’t, but I’m not going to snitch on her. Matter of fact, I was almost positive she was one of the guards that’s peddling drugs in and out of the prison.

What a bad, bad girl.

Nonetheless, it’s hard enough being singled out by the brotherhood, I don’t need the rest of the population gunning for me either all because I want her to get in trouble. In reality, I want to see more of her.

Today is Saturday, not that it matters. Classes are not happening, and with Nadia staying off my ass, I’ve been able to catch up and somewhat get ahead. Most inmates spent their time in the rec-yard today, and though I like to avoid being around the majority of inmates, I did get a little bit of sun. I’m not a germaphobe or susceptible to allergy attacks, but being outdoors is not my idea of a good time. I like being in a controlled environment; a little trait I picked up from the accident when I lost all semblance of control and wiped out our lives that night.

Once chow came around, we had dinner and a show. Earlier this week two new Correctional Officers started, and they were getting the full Darkwater welcome treatment now. Having to break up a fight between two inmates then getting your own pepper-spray in your eyes was one hell of a way to close out your first stint as a rookie. I hate it for them as it seems like the animals in here would rather fuck with the guards more than anything else. Maybe the Warden will stop hiring cowboys and start getting some real COs on staff.

Things could always be worse for the new officers though. I think Nadia had a murder-suicide her first week or two. I swear I saw life in her eyes when she first ran into me, but now, they’re empty, just like the rest of ours. The darkness of this hell hole really sucks the good right out of you; if you consider any of us good to begin with.

Thankfully, I was sitting far enough away from the dramatics that I avoided getting my tray knocked off the table, allowing me to eat a full meal. Today is a cheap ass hamburger patty with runny gravy and dry mashed potatoes, something akin to Salisbury steak. It’s a little funny; this was one of those times that I wish Nate was around to steal my lunch like some schoolyard bully. If I actually had commissary money, I’d buy a pack of ramen noodles or something instead of eating this slop. Alas, I’m not that lucky.

Nadia is off in my peripherals giving random pat downs, doing her job for once versus harassing people. Nice to see, if you ask me, but I’m sure it won’t be lasting very long. If there is one thing I know about her, it’s that she’s a fucking menace. It is like life has been a little too quiet lately, which does not bode well for me. I can only imagine what sort of bullshit is headed my way.

After eating, I went mulling through the gen pop rec room in B Block, the TV blaring in the background as I weaved my way through the tables and benches. We are drastically limited in what we watch here. Nothing violent, unless they are old westerns, and nothing that could start a craze. The room was more crowded today than usual. I suppose Warden Durden was allowing a few inmates to move between cell blocks since no one had died this week. With my cell in C Block, it’s a miracle that I am over here; then again, I’m considered a well-behaved inmate and get a few more wandering rights.

Shocking.

Nonetheless, people are always dying here, so good behavior was hard to come by and I fit the mold.

Making my way over to one of the tables, I notice Matias leaning forward with his elbows pressing into the top of the table, completely engrossed in the news-broadcast. Silently, I drop down beside him and look up at the mixed crew of news anchors as they finish their spiel.

“This ought to be a medical miracle, Jack. Providing these families, as well as those struggling with addiction, a better life. If you have any interest on applying for the clinical trials, you can access the clinics website at www.News8.com.” The anchorwomen finishes as they prepare to move into break. Ignoring the topic, as well as the commercials that rolled showing juicy cheeseburgers with piled high fries, I look back to see Matias still locked in on the TV and give him a nudge with my elbow.

“See something you like?” I ask with a grin.

“Amigo! Didn’t see you drop down. That torta?” he asked, pointing at the food on the screen. “Yeah, the other shit, not so much. You know that medical mumbo-jumbo ain’t my bag. Anyway, you get a moment to talk to your professor about my case?”

“Actually, I did. He was able to suggest a few books for me to read, so I’ll need to stop by the library on my way to lights-out and grab them. Once I get them read, I can write a reduced sentence motion for you, sound good?”

“Hell yeah, whatever you gotta do. I appreciate you, hombre. I’d like to have it prepped for when my lawyer shows up in a month or so. He does quarterly check-ins; guess he feels bad about losing the trial.”

“That right? I may need to take him on as my lawyer since he actually seems to care about who he represents.”

“Hah! That spit fire? Fuego cares only about a few things. His precious appearance, and the fact that he no longer has a spotless track record. I’m the one that fucked everything up for him.”

Matias came up to me about a month ago and asked if I could use the education I am earning to help him shorten his sentence. There was a bit of evidence that was inadmissible, but the judge still accepted it along with a few other aspects that should have been thrown out. As someone who felt the full weight of a judge and jury’s’ power, I don’t mind helping him get his sentence lessened, especially under Texas Self-Defense Laws. Matias believes that defending his abuela against the officers that slapped her around falls under the umbrella of self-defense, even if he used excessive force. Not to mention the fact that he went after the officers after the offense had initially happened— that’s premeditated but I won’t tell him that.

Either way, I’m going to help my only friend with this. He is the one that has had my back the most here while the rest of the inmates have avoided anything to do with me or have terrorized me for the past few years.

The bulk of us will never get out of Darkwater, and that’s fine with me as some of these fucks deserve to be here.

“Fuego?” I asked.

“Si, that red hair and his shitty attitude, like he crawled right out of hell to spite me.”

I chuckle at his statement then turn back to the TV. The news has finally swapped over to Friends reruns. The One Where Everyone Finds Out.

After about an hour, I finally excuse myself from the rec room. My back is aching from the hard bench seats that are attached to the tables, ensuring no one could pull one up and use it as a weapon. We have a good hour or two before lights-out, but before I head to my cell, I want to grab a quick shower now that the bulk of the inmates have already been through. Leaving the room empty and the water was likely cold, which is cool.

I know, stupid pun.

Stopping by my cell, I grab a new jumper, under shirt, boxers, socks, and my single bar of soap. Mom, somehow, found one of those all-in-one bars that helps cut down on the shit I must tote to and from the showers. She thought of everything— God love that woman. I will feel like shit for the rest of my life, knowing that I ruined her reputation outside of my dad bailing on us when we were little. She still stuck it out for me and my sister, taking up both roles in a way I never thought she would have to.

Though Nadia moved all my commissary funds around, she has no control over the gifts my mom sends me, not yet anyhow. I may not be able to buy things like paper, stamps, or envelopes to write anyone outside of these walls but mom was sure to get me something as simple as soap— the things we take for granted once they become scarce.

As I head over to the showers, I look across the cell block and connect with Zurita’s’ judgmental gaze. He stars at me, impassive as hell, as always. It must be his turn to work the night shift. Each guard changes out every week; one week on nights and one week on days. Meaning the she-devil would be back in the morning to work her shift. She is usually nicer on the night shifts, the little night owl. So, when she comes back, I’m sure she’s going to be roaming around here like some pissed off snake.

“Lucky me,” I huff to myself.

With a nod towards the showers, I let Zurita know that I wasn’t going to go far since communication, and sometimes the lack thereof, is important in prison. I need him to know that I’ll be in there so he didn’t wig out if he couldn’t find me during a count, and if anyone tries to rough me up again. For a 39-year-old man, I can’t really handle the beatings anymore, so I rely more on the officers. As shitty as it sounds, they are usually slower to respond than other inmates so I had a 50/50 chance that I was going to make it out of the showers in peace or in pieces.

I came to Darkwater as a man who never had to fight, but now I must be prepared for anything to happen—to survive or die—and I have no fucking training. Lord knows boxing and MMA training is not allowed here. So, it’s fight and figure it out, which I have not been able to do since I am always jumped.

Just as I expected, the water is bitter cold. I hiss when I step my bare ass under the torrent; gooseflesh crawling across my arms and down my thighs, nipples instantly reaching stiff peaks from the nearly unbearable temperature. I prefer warm water, as did everyone else, but this is as good as it is going to get. Grabbing the all-in-one soap, I create a lather before diving into my platinum strands. The rope of the bar slid down my arm, now hanging from the ditch, while I scratch and scrub my scalp. The blobs of suds slap down on the dingy tile beneath my feet.

With my eyes closed, I turn and tilt my head back under the spray. Rinsing the bubbles from my messy yet straight strands, the sides buzzed down into a low fade thanks to the one inmate they allow to barber. This is my favorite part of a shower, very few things feel better than scrubbing your scalp and hitting those shallow pressure points that pump endorphins into my blood stream. Creating a sense of calm and relaxation that I wouldn’t trade for anything. That is a fucking lie; I’ll trade it for freedom, for the touch of someone who didn’t want to leave bruises along my flesh or break things.

Maybe Nadia. No, bad Kace.

Pulling the soap-rope, I worked the bar along my shoulders and upper back, then down my chest— watching as I went. I’m not the skinniest fuck in here but I am still on the thinner side and toned in the right places, especially in my arms, chest, and back. Then there are my legs, muscular but not too bulky, strong. When I first got here, I busied myself with working out in my cell while my cellie sat on his bunk and read comics.

You can’t go wrong with push-ups, squats, and crunches. Sure, there’s limited range of mobility, but you adapt by combining the movements together into shit like ‘around-the-worlds’ and ‘burpees.’ Big gym-bro type shit, but what else is there to do other than what I do now?

I used fitness as a means to distract myself from the fact that I was in prison and that I had been sentenced here indefinitely unless something catastrophic happened. Coping mechanism or not, I obsessed over it. Before I pulled myself out of my funk, I was ripped in places that I didn’t even know could be so defined. After sitting with the therapist, I was able to find a different strategy that was healthier than running my body into the fucking ground.

Lathering the soap down my torso, I scrubbed the bar along the muscles there and the Adonis V at my hips, moving down to my thighs and legs. Stopping at my ankles and feet, I always wash those last—hygiene and all. Feet come after your crotch and your ass, prevents hookworms, at least that’s what I was told growing up.

Working my way back up, I run the bar along my groin. Though firm, the soap slid along my flesh with ease, coating me in just enough suds where the bursting bubbles tingle. Aligning the bar along the underside of my shaft, and unable to stop myself, I stroked from hilt to the tip. With a low groan, I find myself stiffening almost immediately. Reaching out, my free hand circles the pipe that connects the knobs to the shower head and squeeze, my other mimicking the same level of pressure just the way I liked it.

Tight.

Suffocating.

Pained.

Sucking in a breath, my head tilts forward, memories drifting back to the day in the hallway with Nadia. Her smaller hand gripping me through the front of my jumper, much different from how my calloused hand feels wrapped around my dick now. Hers was softer, not as tight, but if the harlot did anything even remotely close to that again… I’d be sure to tell her to go harder.

Lie, I’m a fucking liar.

I’ve never told anyone how I like it, I just fuck how I want. I slammed into wet mouths and tight, eager bodies, taking what I pleased. The way the primal side of me yearns to force myself into Nadia, and feel her pussy squeeze me each time I pump into her while she quakes with the need to come for me.

“Fuuuuck,” I moaned into the empty shower.

Releasing the pipe, my hand reaches up and runs through my sopping strands. Brushing them back while I also tilt my head, trying to get the annoying clumps of hair out of my damn face. Closing my eyes again, my hand never stops stroking, picturing her hot mouth mumbling around my cock, gagging her with every forward thrust. Saliva pouring over her lush lips, coating her chin, dripping down onto her naked chest, and using her for my pleasure. Tit-for-tat, snitch, humiliate her, just like she has done to me in the hallway.

Jesus Christ, what in the fuck was I thinking? I’m not this type of… Yes, I am… Well, I was.

Nadia… she is the devil. Yeah, that’s… that is it.

Holy fuck the things I wanted to do to her in this moment.

She was sent here to fuck my life up even more. I wouldn’t be surprised if she is planning on using her little side project, whatever it is, to get back at me for this ongoing feud between the two of us— vindictive little shit.

Picking up the pace, the soap bar fell away from my dick, the rope catching on my wrist, preventing it from dropping away and clattering across the tile. Shifting from right to left, I widen my stance while my cock stood out with a slight upward curve. All nine inches of its glory, the velvety yet hard flesh throbbing in my relentless grip. My chest heaves as my breath rakes in and out of my lungs, my hand holding the pace I set just a moment ago, picturing Nadia and that smug face of hers down on her knees before me.

She would be so damn gorgeous stuffed with my cock.

If she is going to be such a damn terrorist here, the least she could do is provide me with what I need—blissful fucking release.

Fuck, she is beautiful, in a hateful sort of way. Those silver-colored eyes surrounded by long black lashes, her puffy lips shoulder length dark hair, and fair complected skin. I could almost feel her under my fingertips at this very moment. My fingers digging into her cheeks while prying that snarky mouth open before I fed my cock down her throat.

Just like I use to do to Emilia.

Instinctively, my hips bucked. Ever since I became incarcerated, I have pictured Emilia anytime I stroked myself, but now that I tried to see her before me, visions of Nadia took her place. My law breaking, emotionally abusive, snitch of a fucking Correctional Officer.

Pumping a few more times, I felt my balls draw up and tighten just as cum spurt from my swollen glands. My teeth take hold of my tongue to keep my moan from being too loud and alerting others to what I am doing all while my thighs tremble from the force of my orgasm. After a few deep breaths, I finally let my shaft go, the muscle growing soft before hanging from the hilt of my groin, still thinking about Nadia.

Finding myself wondering what her story is, and why she is hell bent on toying with me every chance she gets. What happened in her life to make her so cantankerous, pushing back against those who outrank her, while keeping violent men twice her size in check.

Standing under the shower for a beat, I shake my head, internally scolding myself. Grabbing the soap, I return to bathing, gliding the bar over the toned cheeks of my ass and in between. If there was one thing I had control over in this damn prison, it was this, and nothing more.

I feel as good as I can at this point—washed, satiated, and in a clean jumper. After my shower, I dropped by the library, as I told Matias I would, and grabbed the books I needed to study up on. Walking into my cell, I make silent eye contact with my bunkie before tossing the books up on my bed. I’m younger than him, so I was gracious enough to take the top bunk so he didn’t have to jump up there every night. His name is Ronald, 53-years-old, and is here for embezzlement from some big tech company; something around 18 million dollars stolen, and sentenced to 15 years. But then he managed to get into a scuffle while he was sitting in state jail awaiting trial, and broke some guy’s neck.

Needless to say, he’s here because they think he is a danger, but he’s pretty chill if you stay out of his way, and he keeps to himself which is why we are such good cell mates. Though I don’t fight unless it is a matter of life and death, we are exactly alike. I hope I am as collected as him at his age. More concerned with what is sitting in front of me rather than the drama of younger inmates.

Once I grab a quick drink from the sink in our cell, I hop up top and crack open one of the books. Maybe, if I have any sort of good fortune, I can find something to help me out of this shit hole.

Doubtful.

Before I knew it, Zurita stopped by our cell for nightly count, ensuring every inmate was where they needed to be—no extra heads, no missing ones. As he passed by the bars, I know it isn’t going to be more than a few more minutes before the lights turn out. Being proactive, I close the book and jump down, my slides making that annoying plastic-clicking sound when I take the two or three steps to do what I need to do. Placing the slides on my single shelf, both of us allowed just one, I lift myself back up to my bunk. Sure enough, once my ass met the mattress the lights went black; the only time the darkness feels comfortable is in instances like this one. The cell door jammed shut and locked, keeping the animals out of my space, giving me the security I need to get a few hours of sleep, at the minimum.

Folding my thin blanket back, I push my legs under it and get comfortable, my left arm reaching up to brace under my head while I stare at the cinder block ceiling above. The block is usually still a bit noisy at this point, some of us listening to other inmates’ chatter down the hall while Gary the Karaoke Extraordinaire—that’s what he called himself--sings Mr. Sandman to lull us all to sleep. I’ll have you know, he was sentenced for conspiracy to commit murder and terroristic threats; great voice, shitty person.

We are a group of odds and ends, but we are all here to rot. Then there’s the issue behind the need for violence. If there ever comes a day where I have to choose my life over someone else's, I’m confident that I can do so, that I can protect myself and kill if I need to. I have the body and the means; I’m just not the murdering type. I will do it if it means my survival, though. It’s not like they can send me anywhere worse than this fucking place if I catch another charge.

They say that if Darkwater doesn’t kill you, an inmate will, or you’ll take matters into your own hands—death is the only way out.

With one more long, deep breath, I close my eyes and let the darkness drag me under.