Doin' A Dime (Souls Chapel Revenants MC 4)

And, on top of it all, I had access to computers.

Access to computers that I’d already used to do basic searches into assholes’ lives that decided to make my life a living hell over the last two plus years.

One man in particular.

Breen.

The doors slid open, allowing us to enter into the visiting area, and there she was.

This time, her eyes didn’t have the same dark circles indicating that she’d gotten up early to drive the four hours to get to me.

This time, she had makeup on, looked fresh-faced, and had a smile on her lips that was aimed directly at me.

When I sat down, she pounced. “This place is so much better than the last. It’s like ten times better. And I don’t get groped on the way inside!”

Something sour filled my stomach. “You got that at the other place?”

She grimaced. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Why?” I asked carefully, trying to control my temper.

“Because I didn’t want to make it any harder there than it had to be,” she explained. “There was one guard in particular that always used to make me feel so grossed out.”

She shivered, and I knew right then and there what her reaction was about the last time she was visiting me at my former prison.

Breen.

He’d touched her.

He may not have done it in an obvious way, but he’d touched her and made her feel enough disgust that she’d reacted in a way that should’ve sent red flags shooting out everywhere.

“Yeah,” I said. “Was it the guard that you snapped at last time?”

She grimaced. “Yeah.”

I ticked off yet another box inside of my mind that would ensure that the asshole paid for what he’d done to me. And now to her.

My rage built.

That asshole was seriously going to pay.

I was going to find a way to make his life a living hell.

I was going to ruin him.

And I was going to enjoy every fucking second of it.

• • •

Six weeks later

I was honestly worried that I’d been caught doing what I was doing on the prison computers.

What I was doing on them wasn’t meant to be done, but seriously, there was no other way to do this.

It had to be done. Now.

“Get in there,” the warden, a rather large man that never quite met my eyes, ordered.

I sighed, having a feeling I was going to hate what was about to happen.

But there was no other way for it.

I had to do it.

And I had to pay for what I’d done.

It wasn’t nearly enough, that was for sure, but it was a start.

“I’ve been monitoring you.”

I frowned, looking at the man that was sitting in the visitor’s chairs in front of the warden’s desk.

The warden who hadn’t followed me into his office, but instead had closed the door and left me here with a man I didn’t know.

“Okay,” I replied.

“I need someone with your set of skills,” he continued. “In a few days, you’re going to have a group meeting with a few fellow inmates where I’ll explain this again. But I need you on board. I want to give you a few more days to contemplate this since you’re likely the one most at risk here.”

I frowned. “You’re going to have to tell me so I can make an informed decision. Beating around the bush really isn’t my style.”

Not lately, anyway.

I’d lost the art of patience.

Now I was just pissed.

All the damn time.

“I want you on my team,” he informed me. “As of right now, you have about eight more months in your sentence before you’re eligible for parole. Sadly, all the fights with guards at your old prison will make it to where your ‘time inside’ was not with good behavior. You’ll be denied parole, and your newfound enemy, Breen, will make sure of that.”

Fucking Breen.

“Okay,” I grumbled. “And?”

“And…” The man stood up, reaching for the lapels of his really expensive suit and buttoned the first button. “I want to make you a deal. I get you out of here early, you work for me. Not all the time or anything. Just when you’re needed.”

“Do you do illegal shit?” I asked. “Because I’d rather you shoot me now than have to deal with that kind of crap.”

I was nobody’s pawn.

“Quite the opposite.” He paused. “Though, it is slightly illegal seeing as it takes away some Americans’ basic human rights. But with what they’re doing, they deserve for those to be taken away.”

I frowned.

“I brought this,” he said as he pulled up a small laptop from the second chair that’d been beside him. “I want you to look up a ‘Doris Rosen.’”

More than intrigued, I booted up the laptop and did, coming up with a young woman that’d been picked up off the side of the road and never seen again.

“I was one of a few that helped find her six months later,” the man said. “She was sold into sex trafficking. She was found nine hundred miles from her home, starved, abused, and a whole lot of other things, where she was forced to work in a brothel in Las Vegas. At the age of seventeen.”