Blood to Dust

But I go to the self-help class because they make you sign up for this crap, and because what else is there to do in this shithole? My options are limited, my time—boundless.

At dinner, I hang out with Frank and his Stockton crew.

San Dimas is known for county gangs. Forget about the blacks, the Latinos, the whites. Sure, there are jump offs between races every now and again. Mostly, though, we keep things civilized.

Other than the Aryan Brotherhood. They’re a pain in everyone’s ass.

Literally.

I walk into my cell today to see a guy I don’t recognize. He’s big, fat, with a homemade swastika tattoo adorning his meaty neck and the face of every illiterate hillbilly from the flicks. Bald, of course. Prison sucks the youth outta you.

“Can I help you?” I grunt.

“Na. But I can help you. Seen you around.” He leans his shoulder on the wall, one hand tucked in his pants. His eyes zero in on my crotch. “You need protection.”

Ignoring him, I reach under my thin mattress, tugging out a paperback. He clasps my arm, his hand greasy. “I said,” he grits, “you’re a pretty boy. Bend. Over.”

I wait for him to throw the first punch, but he just jerks me closer. He’s fatter, bigger. I’m lean but strong enough to take him. Then again I don’t have the AB behind me in case shit goes south.

And it will absolutely go south, judging by the hungry look on his face.

But not the kind of south he’d like to stick his dick into.

“Look, man,” I say calmly. “I’ve nothing to lose. Don’t make me kill you. My ass ain’t worth it.”

He thrusts me into the wall with a thump, his nose brushing mine as he gets in my face.

“Eyes like whiskey, hair so soft, lips full like a girl’s. You think people haven’t noticed? Let’s take a trip to the shower, pretty boy.”

I’m about to do something that’d haul me into ad-seg for a long-ass time, when I notice a shard of glass making its way to my skin. The sharp edge travels along my neck before it passes my cheekbone, poking into the Aryan asshole’s chin. Frank’s crumpled-paper face follows the blade as his lips find the tattooed man’s ear.

“Back off, Hefner. Can’t you see he’s just a kid?”

The Aryan guy’s eyes never break contact with mine. I’m still sandwiched between him and the cracked wall when he lets a rotting sneer loose.

“Careful, old man. You’re no shot-caller in here. We are.”

Frank snorts. “Hefner,” he says, digging the shard into the man’s skin. “There’s only one shot-caller, and that’s God.” He refers to Godfrey Archer, not the almighty. “Now, this one’s not for taking. Get out.”

Hefner’s few working brain cells command him to fuck off out of my forty-eight-square-foot cell, and after an impotent stare down, he dissolves back into the murky hallway of our floor.

“I could’ve handled him myself.” I tug my hair up. “But thanks.”

Frank doesn’t acknowledge my appreciation. Just shoves the shard into my hand, curling my fingers around it.

“Keep it safe. Goddamn, Nathaniel. You are too fucking pretty for San Dimas. You better toughen up or your asshole will be wide enough to push a watermelon through by the time you leave.”

With that, my old neighbor turned rape-preventer walks away, leaving me and what’s left of my pride feeling even smaller and less significant than my tiny room.

It’s difficult to hate him when he’s becoming more human with every page.

In fact, I want to show him how human I am, too.

He shut me up yesterday because he was bending, and I want him to break. Back to the master plan. Back to doing what I can to recruit him to my team.

It’s my turn to show him that I’m real.

“The following weekend, I used that first-class ticket to London and paid Camden a visit.”

Nate grunts quietly upstairs and wish I was there with him on a bed I’ve never seen, in a room I’ve never been in. A room that is undoubtedly not much bigger than his San Dimas cell.

“Camden lived in a Victorian building in Marble Arch, right in front of the big Primark, smack in the middle of London.” I smile to myself, hugging my knees. I may hate Camden, but I’ve always loved his apartment.

“I didn’t know what to expect. We didn’t even kiss the first, and last, time we’d met. . .but he wooed me. Big time. That weekend, we went to amazing restaurants and enjoyed the best seats in the West End. And it took him exactly sixteen hours, from the moment I landed in London, to the moment I landed on his bed, where he drilled into me like there was oil at the end of my pussy.”

My lips curve into a smirk. Nate is probably not so hot on hearing about another guy screwing me senseless. But I understand his silence as a green light to continue, so I do.