Brice hated his tiny cell, his lumpy bed, the incessant noise, the stares, the threats when he walked down the corridors, the guards who watched his every move, the food, the smell of this place—everything. He couldn’t escape Ashley’s name or the fact that every man in here was a fan and despised him for what he’d done to her.
The guards kept a close watch on him, but that wouldn’t last as his time here stretched into a long and bleak future. His lawyer tried to cut him a deal, but that bitch Ashley had already tricked him into revealing the names of the two girls they hadn’t been able to identify at the ranch. Once they desecrated his Hollywood garden and discovered the other eight girls and ID’d them, he had nothing to bargain with and they’d charged him with the maximum on all counts. After all he’d done for her she turned her back on him. He hated her. If he ever got his hands on her again, he’d strangle the life out of her. Slowly. He’d take his time, reviving her again and again. He fantasized about all the time they spent together, and what he’d do to her before he finally extinguished the light he saw in her.
All he had left were his fantasies.
They’d been enough once. They’d have to be enough again. At least for now.
The few men entering the shower with him were like him, segregated from the general population, kept in isolation for their protection for one reason or another, and not likely to cause trouble. They were brought to the showers in small groups. They usually kept to themselves, but today they outright avoided eye contact and kept their heads down.
Something seemed off, but Brice shook off the warning chill up his spine.
Brice got down to business, this being the only time he actually felt clean in this place. He dropped his towel and took the bar of soap he’d purchased at the commissary with him. He missed the expensive French soap he used back home with its thick lather and fresh woodsy scent. What Brice wouldn’t give to be out on his patio looking at his garden and enjoying the beautiful land.
Standing under the shower, ready to turn it on and have just a few minutes in the heat and massaging spray, Brice swore under his breath when yet another commotion outside made the guards order, “Everyone line up against the wall.”
Brice went to grab his towel, but someone grabbed him around the waist and dragged him back behind a low wall. Before Brice could scream, the man covered his mouth and nose, cutting off his air and his ability to call for help.
“March it out into the hall,” the guard ordered the other six men. “We’ve got a situation.”
“It’s taken three days to finally get you alone,” the man said at his ear as Brice struggled to breathe. “We don’t have much time. Lucky for you. Because I would love to torture you for hours, days, weeks, months, a year, the way you did to Ashley and those women. The way you tortured my son.”
The jolt of awareness and adrenaline that shot through him stilled him. Then the need to breathe before the blackness closing in on the bursting lights in his eyes overtook him again. He pulled at the guy’s strong hand at his mouth, but didn’t budge it.
The man finally let him go, throwing him to the side. Brice gasped for a breath, but the guy kicked him in the stomach, making him vomit and cough for air that just wouldn’t fill his aching lungs.
Brice looked up at the naked blond man with the scorpion tattoo on his arm, an array of other tattoos on his toned body, including Adam’s name scrolled over his heart.
“Why are you naked?”
His prison jumpsuit and shoes sat atop the wall behind him.
“Because you’ll be a bloody mess before I finally kill you.”
The promise in those words sent a bolt of fear through Brice’s system that made him shake. Brice tried to get up and run, but the guy kicked him in the gut again, sending him back to the floor in a heap of pain.
“Is that what you did to my boy? Did you toss him down, then kick him? I bet you did, you fucking coward. You pick on people smaller and weaker than you. When they don’t start out that way, when they pose a real threat, you starve them until they’re so weak they can’t fight back. That’s what you did to Ashley, isn’t it?”
Brice finally sucked in a lungful of air and held his hand up to stop the man. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand. You like pain. Well, I’m going to show you the kind of pain you inflict on others. But don’t worry, you’ll get off easy, because I don’t have much time. But you’ll get my point.”
“I never hurt Adam. Only the women.”
“You killed his mother.” The man kicked him again.
Brice curled into a ball and held his aching stomach and ribs. “Stop. Please, stop.”
The guy laughed. “I bet you got off hearing all those women beg you to stop.” The guy reached up, unscrewed the showerhead, then stuffed it down a sock. He swung it back and forth, then over his head and down on Brice’s thigh. “Did you stomp on my son’s leg after you knocked him to the ground?”
Brice held his thigh, the excruciating pain radiating up to his hip and down his leg. He scuttled backward, but came up against the cold tile wall. No escape.
The man swung again, hitting his forearm. The bone snapped with the impact.
“You broke Ashley’s arm when she tried to help my son.” The man swung again, hitting him in the back, once, twice, three times, again and again until Brice felt like a tenderized piece of meat, his voice ragged and cracking from the screams he could barely get out anymore. Blood oozed over his skin and sent a metallic scent into the air to go with the sour smell of vomit. He could barely breathe; now that his back and ribs throbbed so bad moving hurt too much to bear.
“Hurts, doesn’t it? All you want is for it to stop, but you know it won’t, because the person doing it wants to make you feel the pain.” The guy grabbed Brice’s hair, pulled, and lifted his head. “Do you like it now?”
“No. No. Please. Stop. I can pay you. I’ve got money.”
The guy smiled. “No, you don’t. That money belongs to my son. Compensation for you taking his mother from him.”
Brice shook his head, though he could barely move with the guy ripping out his hair as he held his head up. “No. It’s mine.”
“That’s what you think, but you fucked with the wrong woman. You thought you could break her, but you couldn’t. That’s why you kept her so long. She lasted longer than the others because deep down that woman is stronger than you will ever be.”
“I loved her.”
“I bet you did, because she took it and took it and took it. And the more she did, the more you wanted to punish her, to see her fall apart. Well, let me tell you something about people like her—they live to get their revenge. She blackmailed that judge you coerced into giving you guardianship over my son and made him change your will.”
“No, she can’t do that.”
“She did. Adam gets everything. So if you think I’ll let you live and squander away that fortune on some pathetic attempt to defend yourself and line those fancy lawyers’ pockets, guess again. I may not be able to raise my son, but I can ensure he gets every dime coming to him for what you did.” The man glanced down the length of his bruised, battered, and broken naked body. “You’re pathetic. Fat. Old. Weak. The only thing you’re good at is running your mouth. You can’t wait to get in front of those cameras and give your jailhouse interviews, telling anyone who will listen some sob story you think will excuse what you did. The only headline left to splash across the screens and pages is that you finally got what you deserved.”
Scott stood back, his breath heaving in and out, the showerhead stuffed in a sock hanging from his hand dripping blood. He didn’t know exactly when Brice finally died. He didn’t much care. He didn’t feel anything but a sense of relief that this man would never hurt his son, would never hurt anyone, ever again. Not with his voice on the radio spouting lies, his face on the TV, pleading with people to sympathize or telling his version of what happened in that house.
Scott had come into this place a drug dealer. He’d been in his share of fights and left others damaged but never dead. He didn’t think he had that kind of violence inside him. But for Adam, for Jackie and those other women, and the one who swore to raise and love his son, he’d done the right thing and sent that monster straight to hell. Maybe one day he’d join him there, but Scott swore from this day forward he’d do everything in his power to be a good and decent person, someone his son would want to know one day. And maybe even be proud to call him dad.
Until then, he’d serve out the rest of his time as a model prisoner.
He took the showerhead out of the sock, turned on the water, and rinsed it in the stream. He turned off the water, replaced the showerhead, turned it on and rinsed himself and the sock off.
The fight he’d set up outside would be resolved soon. The other inmates would be back to shower once the guards got everything under control again. He needed to hurry and make his escape before he got caught.
He dressed quickly and didn’t even look back at the pile of shit he’d left on the floor before he went out the door he came in to retrieve the towels for laundry service. He pushed the cart he’d left outside down the hall in the opposite direction from where the guards held three of his buddies and the other men who’d come to shower on the floor with their backs against the wall. No one looked twice at him as he walked away, leaving Brice dead on the floor with the hot shower beating down on him, washing away any trace of Scott ever being there.
He left the cart in the laundry for the others to empty and load in the washers, went to the sink where they soaked items in bleach, dropped in the bloodstained sock, pushed it to the bottom with a scrub brush, and walked out with the others who finished their shift.
Scott sat on his bunk and laid his fisted hands on his knees and stared at the wall, letting the adrenaline wear off.
“You all right, man?” King, now Flash to everyone on the block, stared down at him from the top bunk. Scott gave him the nickname for his quick reflexes and the scar on his arm. And so he didn’t slip and call him King in front of anyone.
“Fine.”
The alarm sounded and guards rushed to get everyone in their cells for a full lockdown.
Scott lay back on his bunk, hands behind his head, and waited. It didn’t take long for word to spread about why they’d been confined to their cells.
“Someone fucked Brice Mooney up in the showers,” an inmate yelled down the block.
Flash bent over the side of the bed and looked down at him. “Do you know anything about that?”
“Nope.”
Flash frowned, stared at him for a long moment, then said, “You seem to be missing a sock.”
Scott stared down at his shoes and his one bare ankle.
“It got lost in the laundry.”
Because the walls had ears, Flash didn’t voice his suspicions. Because that’s all Flash had on him. He couldn’t prove anything. And if he opened his mouth, Scott would yell to the rafters that he was an undercover DEA agent. He wouldn’t get off the block alive.
Flash wanted his big bust. To make a name for himself in the DEA. Scott would give him that chance because taking down Iceman would ensure his family’s safety. And yeah, that family included the DEA agent raising his boy.