Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“I appreciate that,” I tell him easily. It’s a nice gesture but does nothing to stop the anxiety filling my belly, or maybe that’s just the persistent nausea.
Either way, I offer a smile I don’t feel, hug Nova goodbye, and then slink back to my house to figure out what comes next.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tank
“Dude, you look like you’ve had better days,” Officer Davis says, sliding the breakfast tray through the narrow slot in the solitary cell door. Been a week in solitary. A goddamn week in a box that smells like piss, sweat and regret.
I lock eyes with him. “How much longer am I stuck in this hellhole?”
Davis chuckles, no hint of sympathy. “Don’t know, man. That guy you beat up? Still in the infirmary. You’re here ‘til the powers that be decide what’s next for you.”
“Decide what? They’re treating me like I’m already guilty.”
Davis shrugs. “Welcome to the system. Might as well get comfortable.”
“It was self-defense,” I insist.
“If the cameras back you up, you’re golden,” he says, leaving me with my tray of rubbery eggs and stale toast.
I shove the tray aside. Fuck eating. The law might say I’m guilty, but I know I defended myself. Still, I can’t help but smirk, thinking about that guy’s busted up face. Small victories, right?
I look at the tray. The meal hardly qualifies as food. But in here, it’s not just the abysmal meals that fuck with me. It’s the isolation. I can’t size up anyone, can’t read their eyes, can’t anticipate their next move. Instead, all I’ve got is four walls, a ceiling too close for comfort, and my spiraling thoughts.
Feeling the need to move, to exhaust my energy, I start with push-ups. My palms press firmly against the cold concrete. One. Each push is a reminder of my discipline, my rigorous training. Two. Three. But as I push my body up, my thoughts drift to Sophie. Four. Five. The soft curve of her smile, the genuine laughter, the intimate conversations we shared–all of it fills the void of my solitude. Six. Seven. Does she think about me? Eight. Nine. Or has she written me off as just another stupid mistake?
I flip over to do some sit-ups, the floor’s chill barely registers on my back. With each crunch, memories of Sophie come back to me. The little things, like her sipping coffee, lost in thought, or the vibrant energy when she showed up for work. As I lean back, the reality of my surroundings pushes back, reminding me of the fucking concrete walls between us.
I crunch again. Is she out there, moving on with her life? She deserves happiness, even if it sucks to think of her finding it with someone else.
The noise from the other cells gets louder—shouts, taunts, the usual crap from guys trying to get a rise out of anyone. Some days, it’s damn near impossible to ignore it all. But a solid workout and memories of Sophie keeps my head on straight.
So that’s what I do. Every damn day.
Get my muscles sore enough just to feel something, anything other than the numbness of this place.
Then, late one night, while I’m doing lunges, I overhear something—murmurs of revenge, whispers about my MC, Reckless Souls. I scoot closer to the vent and press my ear against the metal, straining to hear the quiet conversation.
There’s gotta be three—maybe four—dudes talking in Spanglish, but the words I understand, I don’t like.
Reckless Souls. Biker assholes.
I don’t recognize the voices, but I need to get the fuck out of solitary so I can let Ace know the criminals in solitary are talking about us. Could be trouble. Whatever happens to me, I’ve made my own choices, but my job is to protect my brothers from all enemies.
Finally, after about twenty days, the cell door opens all the way, and I’m out, greeted by Officer Davis. “Your lawyer’s got a big mouth. Boss ain’t happy.”
“Good.” I don’t give a shit if anyone in the whole damn complex is ever happy again. “She’s just doing her job, same as you, man. Right?”
“Yeah, sure, we’re all doin’ our jobs, but some of us do ‘em a bit more quietly.”
I turn away from the door so he can slap the cuffs on me, rolling my eyes because, yeah, he’s just doing his job, but it’s a fucked up job that I’m pretty sure violates a few laws.
“Quiet don’t always get the job done, though. Am I right?”
“That’s for fucking sure,” he says and nods for me to move forward. “Good thing, too. Who knows how long you might’ve been up here.”
He leads me to the stairwell and the land of the living, but instead of heading for the community pods, he guides me down the hall toward the meeting rooms and knocks on one of the doors before opening it.