Kurt
Kurt spent the next few days working out in the gym—jumping rope, doing sit-ups and push-ups, and relentlessly hammering the heavy bag and the speed bag with the ferocity that had earned him his nickname.
As he did, groups of Dogs and Aryans would assemble nearby to cheer him on, and groups of Sinners would inevitably appear to jeer and curse at him. He tuned it all out, trying to focus on the sound of his breath entering and exiting his body, or his fists connecting with their targets.
But instead, all he could think about was Sarah.
He knew how much his words in the stairwell had hurt her. That had been the point. The truth was, he had been happy to see her. He'd thought about their night together a lot—no matter how much he'd tried not to—and his feelings about her reasons for being there were more complicated than he wanted to admit to himself.
He should have felt weird about how willing she was to become a CO just so they could see each other. That wasn't normal behavior for someone who'd only had sex with him once, was it? Yet instead of being creeped out by it, he was surprised to discover that he liked the idea of someone caring about him that deeply. He hadn't felt that from anyone since Diana had died. What he saw in Sarah's eyes when she looked at him—the affection, the compassion, the desire—made him wonder if he might be able to find that kind of happiness again someday.
Which was why he'd had to shut it down so definitively.
Caring about anyone or anything in this place was a mistake. Sooner or later, someone—a guard, another inmate—would learn about it and find a way to take it away.
So, Kurt knew that if Sarah had a hope in hell of surviving this, it would require her to do more than just put on an act. The men in here were predators, with absolutely nothing else to fill the minutes and hours of each day than sniffing out weaknesses in the guards and exploiting them. The warmth in her eyes when she looked at Kurt needed to be snuffed out quickly and decisively, for her own good.
Still, the harsh things he'd said to her had made him feel oddly queasy. He'd killed men for the Dogs, he'd beaten a man almost to death for almost no reason at all, and he'd broken plenty of hearts in the days before he'd been married. Why was he squeamish about telling off some girl he barely knew?
And why did he find himself spending so much time thinking about how it would feel to be with her again—to taste her hot breath on his tongue as their sweaty bodies slid against each other and their hips moved together?
These thoughts tied his brain in knots, and no matter how many times he smacked the heavy bag to erase them, they seemed to twist and snarl even more tightly until his temples throbbed.
A new group of Sinners drifted into the gym, and Kurt glanced over at them between punches. Carl was with them, but he was barely recognizable. He'd already lost weight, and his eyes were hollow from lack of sleep. He stared at the floor as he walked, not making eye contact with anyone.
Also, he was wearing makeup and a blonde wig, and he had an NOS symbol carved into the back of his neck.
River Oak was overcrowded, and on Carl's first night, he'd been tossed into a cell with three Sinners. After the lights went out, Kurt and the entire block had listened to the sounds coming from the cell—Carl squealing, weeping, begging, and finally screaming as the Sinners beat him savagely. He shrieked for the guards, and they were outside the cell within moments.
But not to help.
Instead, they stood and watched and laughed.
From that point forward, the Sinners had fun parading Carl around in drag, just to humiliate him in front of the other prisoners and demonstrate their ownership of him. The message was clear: We can make him do anything we want, we can punch him and kick him until we've broken every bone in his body, and there isn't a goddamn thing he can do to stop us.
“So much for owning the fucking place, huh, pal?” Kurt grunted quietly.
This sent his brain spinning back to unwelcome thoughts of Sarah, like a roulette wheel that kept landing on the same unlucky number over and over. She thought Hawkeye was joking about pimping her out to other inmates, and maybe he was. But she had no idea what horrors these people were capable of, and she was powerless to stand against them. Putting people in hopeless situations and making them do terrible things was what they were good at.
Kurt wanted to believe he could figure out a way to get her out of here. But as it was, he had enough trouble looking out for himself, and not a lot of time to reflect or come up with a workable plan.
Now the Sinners who surrounded Carl were tweaking his chubby cheeks and slapping his ass playfully, while others whistled and catcalled him as he passed them. He looked like he was wishing for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
Kurt noticed that this time, Roberto and Rodrigo were with the Sinners. Roberto was a short, skinny man with a shaved head and vivid tattoos that seemed to cover every inch of his body, including dozens of skulls and an NOS symbol on his forehead. His eyes blazed with the promise of mayhem like a pair of fiery coals, and he always seemed to be moving his shoulders and hips restlessly, as though keeping rhythm with music only he could hear. By contrast, Rodrigo was well over six feet tall, with neatly-trimmed hair and a large black mustache. His shoulders were so broad that he looked like he had a wooden plank hidden under his prison uniform.
“Well, well, if it ain't the Great White Hope,” Roberto sneered.
Before Kurt could respond, Hawkeye was standing at his side with Wilder, Spikes, and 88. They seemed to appear out of nowhere, like a magic trick.
“What's the story, Ro-ber-to?” Hawkeye chortled, drawing out the pronunciation of the name and rolling his Rs with an exaggerated Mexican accent. “You guys come to see what a real champion looks like?”
“I don't see no champion,” Roberto spat. “All I see is a dumb-looking gringo who's gonna spend so much time kissing canvas tomorrow, he may as well start selling ad space on the soles of his shoes.” He turned to Rodrigo. “How about it, hermano? What do you think?”
Kurt didn't enjoy being used as a prop in the confrontation between Hawkeye and Roberto, especially while he was trying to work out. And from Rodrigo's flat, steely gaze, stiff posture, and faint grimace of disapproval, he figured Rodrigo wasn't too keen on it either.
Still, Rodrigo played his part. He cracked his knuckles slowly and deliberately and said, “I'm gonna pound you like a tent stake in that ring, pendejo. Believe.”
Hawkeye laughed, turning to Kurt. “Well, Kurt? What do you say to that?”
Kurt wiped sweat from his brow. He hated being treated like a performing animal, but he knew what Hawkeye wanted from him and figured he'd better get it.
“I think every man's got a plan until he gets hit,” Kurt said. It was a quote from George Foreman, but he decided to keep that to himself, given Hawkeye's strong feelings about black people.
“There, you see?” Hawkeye smirked. “Tomorrow, you and the rest of the mongrel trash you run with are finally going to see incontrovertible proof of the white race's superiority.”
Roberto waved him away. “Are you stupid or something, homes? Ain't you never watched no fights on Pay-Per-View? When's the last time you saw a white boy win anything in the ring except a falling down contest?”
“This ain't Pay-Per-View, beaner,” Hawkeye shot back. “This is River Oak.” He jerked a thumb at Kurt. “Come on, let's get out of here. This gym is starting to smell like taco meat and failure.”
Kurt wasn't finished exercising, and the last thing he felt like doing was spending more time around Hawkeye and listening to his racist tirades. But he knew his role in this scene—he was supposed to be the menacing attack dog who bared his teeth, barked when he was told, and followed his master's commands.
It was shitty, but it was a better deal than Carl'd gotten.
So Kurt nodded, tossed his boxing gloves aside, and followed Hawkeye out of the gym without looking back.