Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 71312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“My mother said you needed to be fed.”
I place the book on the table next to me and cross my arms. “I’m not an animal, Miles. I don’t need to be fed. I need to eat.”
But then that’s how Miles thinks of me. As a pet to be kept. To be abused when necessary—he would call it disciplined.
“I remembered you like salmon,” he says. “This is wild caught salmon, broccoli, and French fries.”
“I’m sure it will be adequate.”
He makes no move to leave.
“I don’t need an audience, Miles.”
“Don’t you? I’ve no intention of leaving.”
“But I—”
“Eat,” he says. His voice commanding. “After we eat, you’re going to submit to me.”
“But your mother said—”
“You think I give a fuck what my mother said? My father doesn’t want me taking you tonight either. But you and I both know you’re no virgin. I’m not either. So I’m going to sample the goods tonight, Savannah. I may as well see what I’m getting into.”
41
FALCON
In every prisoner’s life there’s that one day they can recall that changed everything. That put them on a different path.
For me it was the day Zion came to my cell block.
Zion, I knew, would be trouble.
Different from the way Fletcher or Bruno had been trouble for me.
It only took me that one time in the cafeteria to get Fletcher in line, and Bruno? After I freed Tommy Ortiz from his tyranny, he stayed in line as well.
But Zion…
The first day I saw him, I knew.
He was as burly as they come, solid muscle, but a good five inches shorter than I was.
Already I saw it in him. Small man’s complex. He’s the guy who has to exert his dominance over everyone to compensate for his lack of height.
He had a shock of sandy brown hair, and a nearly pretty face—one that would’ve made him a target if he weren’t so burly.
You can tell a lot by how a man walks. Especially on the inside.
A lot of new prisoners come in with a hunched posture, which doesn’t bode well for them. Those who can come in while walking upright with a straight back are trying to look brave so they won’t be a target.
They walk briskly, swinging their arms freely. They look straight ahead, while not making eye contact with anyone.
If they’re good at this act, they won’t see a lot of trouble in prison.
These are the guys that fly under the radar, are left alone.
The ones who look at the ground, shoulders slumped—those are the targets. The ones whose screams I try to ignore at night. The ones for whom prison is a whole different experience.
But then there are those like Zion.
Those who come in walking upright, a slow even gait, and they look everyone—everyone—in the eye.
The kind that assesses everyone with a single glance. Separating the strong from the weak. Ready to assert dominance over the situation, whatever it may be.
That was Zion.
He walked past Bruno, eyeing him. And then past Fletcher, who is bigger than I am.
Until he got to me.
He looks me up and down, his gaze taking in everything about me. Judging me. Sizing me up as a competitor. I curl my hands into fists, my gaze never wavering from his.
I look at him in the eye. Always in the eye. These criminals only take about a millisecond to respond to that split-second you take your attention away from them.
I don’t speak to him.
I don’t speak to anyone until they speak to me. It’s kind of my calling card.
But he sizes me up, cocking his head.
He’s waiting for me to say something.
He’ll be waiting a long time.
Finally, he speaks. “How’s the fucking food here?”
“We just hired a new gourmet chef. He used to work at a Michelin three-star place,” I say with sarcasm.
He raises an eyebrow. Interesting. Not everyone can do that. But I can. However, I keep my eyebrows right where they are.
“What are you in for?”
“Killed a motherfucker.”
The lie I’ve learned to tell. I’m innocent, but innocence on the inside is a sign of weakness. Plus I don’t mention that it was manslaughter. I let them think it was fucking murder.
He waits for me to ask why he’s here.
I don’t.
Larkin stands on one side of me, Tommy Ortiz on the other.
Zion gestures to Tommy. “He yours?”
“He is. Hands off.”
Tommy suffers from the same problem that Zion himself does. Pretty features. The kind that make prison hell.
But Tom is under my protection now. And Zion won’t get anywhere near him.
He gestures to Larkin on my other side. Larkin’s not pretty. He’s rough, with a crooked nose that’s been broken so many times it no longer looks normal. He has a scar slashed across his face. He looks mean enough, but he’s a softy on the inside. The man’s all beta, which is why he hangs with me.