Bound in Blood & Chains (Silk & Chains #2)

Chapter 1

RAUL

…present day

I wake drenched in sweat, gasping in the dark. My chest cracks open as the intercom buzzes to life, announcing chow call through the block. The cement walls turn the cell into an oven, baking us alive.

There are no hard feelings about why I'm here. Turning myself in was the only way any of us, especially my family, could find peace. My family: DJ, my dad, Aunt Val. It's been the four of us for so long that I almost forget what life was like before Mom died.

I sit up and grope for my notebook on the cot, realizing I fell asleep writing again. Putting my thoughts on paper is the only thing that seems to keep me from coming apart.

When I look up, steel-gray eyes are already on me.

Carl snarls, then clears his throat. "You ready? Wonder what they're cookin' today." He blows his nose.

Carl and I got acquainted fast. He's locked up on a previous possession with intent to sell charge. Cocaine and heroin were his drugs of choice, and years of using them have eaten away at his nasal cavity. He jokes that his sinuses are like Swiss cheese from how often he sniffs and sneezes.

He's about 5'7" with a slender build, so when we stand in line, he has to tilt his chin up to meet my eyes. His mousy brown hair hangs just past his shoulders.

"I don't know, man. But whatever it is, my stomach's already turning," I mutter, letting out a low whistle.

That part's true. Ever since I got locked up, my gut has been a mess almost every day. Right now, I'd sell my soul for a real Cuban meal. Or hell, anything I could look at and know for damn sure what it used to be.

We shuffle forward in line, hands behind our backs. Off to the side stood Rick, the overweight guard whose permanent chip and outsized sense of self-importance made him impossible to ignore. I catch him in my peripheral and have to swallow the urge to trip his ass. I can't stand him.

Even before we go inside, the air reeks of burnt plastic, garlic, cumin, and something sour I can’t quite identify. It rolls through the hot air like a warning. By the time we step into the cafeteria, sweat is already beading at my neck.

We grab our trays, and one by one the women behind the line slap down a scoop of rice like they're doing us a favor. Carl gets his bowl first. I hear the wet plop of mystery stew landing on top of it before mine even gets there.

He stares down at it like it insulted him personally. "They oughta be ashamed," he mutters.

I snort under my breath. "Ain't that the truth."

The tray is hot in my hands, the flimsy plastic bowing a little under the weight. The rice is clumped together in one corner, the stew bleeding into it in a gray-brown smear that doesn't even pretend to be food. I sit down slow, already bracing for the first bite.

Around us, the cafeteria hums with the usual jail soundtrack of metal trays clanging, men talking over each other, a guard barking at somebody to keep moving.

Nobody here eats because they want to. We eat because we have to.

Because standing here too long gets you attention, and attention in here always costs something.

Carl drops into the seat across from me and immediately starts picking through his bowl with the edge of his spork. "Smells like somebody's old socks."

"Damn near looks like it too," I say, staring at the mess in front of me.

He lets out a wheezy laugh that turns into a sniffle halfway through. "You still got that notebook on you?"

My fingers tighten around the tray before I answer. "Yeah."

"Figured." He nods toward it like it explains everything. "You write in that thing more than you sleep."

"Helps me keep from losing my mind."

He grunts like he understands that better than he wants to. "Heard you got a letter from that chick again too."

For a second, the noise around us fades into the background. Just another layer of hot, stale air and bad food and worse decisions.

Then a guard slams a baton against the wall, and the whole room flinches.