Hank
Hank had gone plenty of nights without sleep before—doing long-distance rides with the Warriors, 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 Bluebonnet was something else entirely.
After Ram's not-so-veiled threat, Hank 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 Ram 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 Ram shifted in the upper bunk, Hank clenched, preparing to defend himself. There were even a couple of times when Ram hopped down from his bunk to piss—and as he did, he leered across the cell, savoring Hank's anxiety before climbing back up. Hank was sure that Ram was even moving around in his bed more than usual, enjoying the knowledge that every creak of the springs set Hank on edge.
And through it all, a part of Hank'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 Warrior.
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 Bluebonnet 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 Warriors right now, and Beth wouldn't be putting herself at risk every day.
By the night's final hour, the tension in Hank'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 Beth for making him care about her, when those feelings had no place in this hellhole. He hated Bib for sending her in here as a guard without knowing the first fucking thing about how this place worked. He hated Speed Bump for forgetting his oath to his fellow Warriors, for being weak enough to let the Aryans piss all over his sworn brothers instead of telling Bib 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. Hank 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.
Ram 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,” Hank 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. Hank hoped the hot water would wake him up a bit.
Also, it was his chance to spend a little time with Beth, 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.
Hank saw Beth 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, Butler took her aside. Hank couldn't hear their exchange, but whatever it was, Beth looked confused and unhappy about it. She stole a quick glance in his direction, then walked back the way she came.
Butler sauntered over to Hank. “Shower time. Get your butt in gear.”
Hank almost asked why Beth 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 Beth a secret. He knew that Bull and Butler 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 Hank stood and followed Butler, expecting him to round up four bikers or Aryans as well.
Instead, Butler paused outside a pair of cells a few steps away. “White, Samson, Morales, and Hitcher. Come on, it's shower time.”
Hank'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.
Butler 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 Hank as they whispered and snickered among themselves.
So this is my punishment from Bull, Hank thought. This is why Ram 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, Butler stopped Morales and made a show of examining his towels. “That wash cloth looks kind of dirty to me,” Butler 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 Butler 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.” Butler gave Hank a sly wink and walked off, leaving them unsupervised.
“Would you guys look at this?” Morales brandished the shiv as the other men surrounded Hank. “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 Manolo?”
“I had nothing to do with what happened to Manolo. Bull told me it was a regular fight. When I found out what he'd done, I tried to stop the match.” But Hank 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? Butler? He's in Bull'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.
Hank 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, Hank 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 Hank gave him a light shove, trying to distract him as Morales lunged forward. Hank 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 Hank to close his other hand around the handle of the shiv and yank it away from him.
In the seconds it took for Hank 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 Hank 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. Hank felt the plastic shiv snap in half.
Shit. So much for using it against the others.
Hank 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 Hank'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. Hank 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 Hank 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, Hank heard a loud crack near his ear, followed by a howl of pain...and Beth's voice.
“You get the fuck off of him right now!”
Hank 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.”
Beth again.
Hank 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.
Beth crouched down next to Hank, keeping her baton at the ready. “Jesus. Are you okay?”
He tried to answer, but all he could manage was a soft moan. The pain was excruciating—his entire body felt like it was stuffed with broken glass and rusty nails.
She'd saved him.
He'd spent all this time worrying about how he was going to keep her safe in here, and she'd saved him from certain death and worse.
Butler entered the shower with two other guards, shutting the water off. “What happened in here?” he barked at Beth. “What are you doing here? You're supposed to be working the visitor's desk. I told you I'd handle shower duty.”
“Yeah, and it looks like you did a bang-up job,” Beth spat back. “These four Sinners attacked H-Hall.”
Hank heard the catch in her voice, and realized she'd stopped herself from referring to him by his first name. Even after fighting off three massive Sinners, she was still level-headed enough to keep up the pretense.
“One of them even had a damn shiv,” Beth continued hotly, getting right in Butler's face. “How does that happen when they're supposed to strip down in front of you, huh? Tell me that!”
Maybe I underestimated her, Hank thought, watching the blood drip from the hole in his arm. All this time, maybe she was tougher than I gave her credit for. And why not? She's Bib's niece. Apple doesn't...fall far...from...
Then the agony and exhaustion washed over Hank, and everything went black.