Chief dug into a chunk of nutraloaf using his prison supplied spoon and swallowed the nasty mixture without tasting. He had four more days of looking forward to eating the same damn thing after receiving a two-week punishment for assaulting a guard.

He would've taken solitary rather than consume this shit.

"Swallow it down," muttered Leech across from Chief, lifting his spoon, eating the same thing.

Chief scooped up the last bite. "Yep."

He licked his spoon clean and rolled it into his sleeve. Along with the nylon plastic spoon, he had been issued a plastic cup he kept in his cell. There was no use trying to melt them down or carve them because the material made it impossible. He'd tried during his first stint in prison when he'd served his sentence in Eastern Washington.

"You still clinked alone?" Leech cleaned his spoon.

He lowered his chin. If he planned it right, he'd have his cell to himself for four more months. After that, the guards would get a clue about his intentions and give him more severe punishments than nutraloaf and cleaning the fucking showers.

He wiped his beard down with his hands. "What happened to Graham?"

"Caught with a roll."

"Damn," he muttered.

Smoking was banned in prison. It was Graham's first incarceration. Their MC brother would learn to quit or be smarter about hiding.

"Put your trays away and line up," shouted the guard.

Chief shifted and stood. "Two. Make it loud."

"Yeah," answered Graham, walking behind Chief.

Every day they switched the warning code. He was the only Brikken member with a phone hidden in his cell. Graham's cell was first in line on the block and could watch the door, giving him two minutes to get off the phone with Keeffe back at the clubhouse and hide the contraband.

He slid the tray onto the pile and crossed the room to the door for the stairwell. Keeping his eyes forward, he lined up and waited for the guard to escort them. When the head guard used his radio, Chief looked over his shoulder. The two guards at the rear of the line focused on the prisoners near them.

Right now, he needed to get to the nurse's room or miss his chance at seeing his son.

While he had a distraction, he swung his elbow against the cement wall three times, and then lowered his arm, fisting his hand over and over to get the blood flowing.

The whistle blew signaling the door opening. He walked forward. The wetness on his arm soaked through the material of her orange jumpsuit.

One of the guards from the rear walked past him. Chief spotted the stairs ahead, his adrenaline pumping. Once on the block, he'd lose his chance.

"We've got a bleeder," shouted the guard behind him.

Without giving anything away, he stopped when the others in front of him quit walking.

"Hold the line." The guard in front walked down the row, his gaze sweeping over each prisoner. He got to Chief and raised the radio to his mouth. "Prisoner #20045 needs an escort to the nurses."

The guard stepped up to him. "What did you do?"

"I don't know, sir," said Chief, holding his position.

"Out of line," shouted the guard.

Chief stepped around the guard. The door opened at the stairwell and Forteris, a guard, walked in.

"I'll escort the prisoner." Forteris motioned Chief forward. "Walk."

He looked forward and strode in the opposite direction from his block. Going through two doors, he entered a long hallway that took him to Block A. Without losing his stride, he said, "Where is he?"

"Waiting for the nurse. She was called away," said Forteris.

"Good." He stopped at the last door. "Hit my vice president up, tell him how you helped me, and he'll pay you."

Forteris never replied. Instead, he ran his security I.D. badge through the checkpoint, and the door automatically swung open.

"Walk." Forteris stayed beside him halfway down the hallway and stopped in front of a door.

Chief waited while the guard gained entrance into the nurse's room. Then, he walked inside and sat on the stretcher. Forteris handcuffed him to the bed before walking out.

When the door closed, he waited thirty seconds to make sure the room was clear and said, "Son?"

"I'm here."

Ten feet from his boy, unable to see him behind the hanging curtain, Chief closed his eyes briefly. It'd been over six months since he'd watched the Feds take Jett away. Not even twenty-five years old, Jett got an eighteen-month sentence.

Refusing to ask if his son was okay, he kept it light, giving Jett what he needed. Support to stay strong for his remaining time.

"Who's in your cell?" he asked.

"Guy named P-Jones," said Jett.

He knew of him. A big black guy in his mid-sixties incarcerated for a ten-year sentence for assault with a deadly weapon. A straight shooter who usually stayed out of trouble.

"Does he know who your old man is?"

"He's mentioned it, though I never told him," said Jett. "He's decent."

"Don't rely on him. You do your own thing. Don't let others get to you. You'll do okay." He pulled against the restraints and gave up when he wasn't getting anywhere. "There's a guy on your block named Wilkerson. If he approaches you, stand up to him. I don't care if it lands you in the hospital, you beat the shit out of him."

"He's in solitary." Jett exhaled loudly. "I've got five of the family with me."

Chief swallowed. "Good."

"You okay, Chief?" asked his son.

"Yeah. Don't worry about me." He watched the door. The nurse would be in any minute. Forteris couldn't hold her off for long. "What did you do to get here?"

"Headbutted the fucking wall." Jett chuckled. "The nurse was getting ready to put in some stitches when she left. I've got blood dripping down my damn nose."

Chief allowed himself to grin. Hearing about Jett made the last six months bearable. Having raised three sons, he'd had Doc—a retired member of Brikken—at Karla's house almost weekly stitching up kids or setting broken bones.

"What did you do?" asked Jett.

"Elbowed a wall." He chuckled. "I'm too damn old to mess up my face."

His son laughed softly.

Several minutes passed in comfortable silence. Having his boy in the same room with him probably did more for him than Jett.

"Chief?" asked Jett.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck this shit," whispered Jett in a voice that took Chief back years to the little boy who used to beg to ride on his shoulders.

His throat spasmed and his lighter mood disappeared. Prison would be the hardest thing Jett ever experienced. It'd either break him or make him stronger. His son would have to remember where he came from. He had Rollo as a grandfather, Chief as a father, and almost three hundred men in Brikken who believed in him.

He nodded to himself until he could speak again. "Fuck this shit, son," he whispered back.

The door alarm sounded, and the nurse stepped inside, gazing at him. "There's one inmate ahead of you. I'll be with you soon."

"Take your time." Chief laid his head back and closed his eyes.

And, then he listened to the soft voice that spoke with his boy while he got stitched up, and enjoyed being the dad for once.