Blood to Dust

I feel my chest trembling with tears. Hatred and terror block my throat, making it impossible to swallow. The possibility of not running away from here crashes into me for the very first time. And to think that I was so close. That I’m still close. Outside in the open, straddled by a huge masked man.

But this is a quiet side street in Stockton. On the corner of the street, three homeless people with loaded supermarket carts are yelling and throwing junk at each other.

A bum sleeps under a small shed he created for himself down the road, unmoved by our commotion.

There’s a junkie sitting on the steps of a church not too far away, talking animatedly to her fingers.

Beat and I are nothing special here. Even if we were, no one is going to pick a fight with a guy so big and muscular. Not for me, anyway.

No one is coming to get me.

I open my mouth, intending to protest, maybe even beg—I’m not above begging at this point—when I feel him subtly grinding against me. At first, I think it might be by accident. But no. He’s circling his hips against mine. I lift my ass on an instinct, wanting him to go crazy for me.

I’m going to smash your balls, Mr. Vela.

His cold zipper hits my bare lower stomach—just where the towel slits open. He’s hard. Very hard. And I may be mistaken, but he’s also as thick as Godfrey’s cockney accent.

Beat moves lower, his swollen cock pressed against my sensitive flesh.

The hand that’s clasping my mouth shut is now moving downward, the back of it brushing my erected nipple, going south, grabbing my ass roughly with a squeeze. I sigh, rolling my head against the concrete, wanting to submit to him but knowing I’m about to knee his balls and try to run again. . .

Then his head drops, his forehead meeting mine. I can smell the cheap plastic of his mask and the sweet scent of his masculine sweat. And that peachy mouth, the one I haven’t even seen yet. He lets out a frustrated grunt.

“Let’s go, Pea.”

Nate scoops me up and helps me to my feet before I manage to damage his boys. We walk back to his house—I have no other option I’m completely imprisoned, clasped by this real-life gladiator. But when we walk in, something dawns on me.

He is attracted to me.

He is fighting this for Godfrey. For his life. But if I convince him that I can offer him a way out. . .game on.

There’s a flicker of passion in him. . .and I’m about to set it to flames. Flames that’d burn every single plan Godfrey has for me.

Nate shoves me into the basement and locks me in.

“Last warning. If you don’t want to end up blindfolded and tied again, you’ll behave.”

I sit on a blanket he brought down for me and wait until I hear his body sinking against his mattress, the cheap springs wincing under his weight. Taking out his diary from where I’d hidden it, I read another entry.

NOVEMBER 12TH, 2010

“GOING TO PRISON IS LIKE DYING WITH YOUR EYES OPEN” (BERNARD KERIK)

Losing yourself in repetition is easy, and that’s what prison life gives you.

A structure so neat and linear, days mesh into weeks, then into months—and before you know it—even into years.

I miss Chow Time at 6:00 a.m. every day because I’d rather chew on my cellmate’s leg than eat the breakfast they serve. And Pedro? His leg has seen some pretty rough shit, along with the rest of his crack-addicted body.

I’m a welder at the prison’s general maintenance shop. At 32 cents an hour, I won’t get rich, but at least I’ll be able to afford some Ramen noodles from the canteen.

I work alongside an old English wiseguy named Godfrey. They nicknamed him God in here for a reason. With a distinctive limp that promises a good story behind it, he spends most of his time listening to classical music or hanging out with Seb— another British inmate who I think’s gay by the way he looks at me. Ninety percent of the people here want to fuck me, but Seb? He looks like he wants to take my butthole on a dinner date and buy it flowers. Maybe even a piece of nice jewelry.

Frank told me that I shouldn’t mess with Godfrey.

Beware of God, for he is very powerful and can seal your faith.

I fly low and work out. Read even more. Four or five hours of reading, every day. Skip the college classes and other bullshit programs they offer, as if you’ll walk outta here into the open arms of society. If life gave you the San Dimas card, a full house is not in your future. Hell, you’d be lucky to have a roof over your head when it’s all over.