Chapter Two
Roman dwelled on his loss as champion for almost an entire week, hiding in his cell and sulking. The luxury of his cell came with the benefit of a real room, real walls, and a real door to close—even if the guards held the key for light’s out. It still offered Roman privacy, unlike most of the barred cells on their block. Part of him wanted to attend the upcoming tournament and see what Ezra did as the new reigning champion; another part of him was relieved when the guard he asked said Roman lacked a proper invitation. It seemed it didn’t take much to push Roman out of everyone’s graces. Everyone except his cellmate, of course.
Levi Pierce strode into the room with an uncharacteristically deep frown. He’d given Roman time to mourn his loss as champion, staying silent during Roman’s quiet days of sulking, but the frustration that ate away at Levi’s cheery disposition had become quite palpable. Levi rolled up the sleeves of his standard dark blue uniform, like it somehow offered a bit of breathing room to the stiff, cheap materials.
“Fuck being champion,” Levi said with a flippant attitude. “You never needed it. You’ve always been a bad bitch. You don’t need some basic bitch title to know that.”
Levi did a hair flip. It was also out of character for him but certainly helped convey his sassy mood. Although, it nearly knocked his glasses off when he whipped his head back.
“Seriously.” Levi brushed a hand through his shoulder-length, shaggy, chestnut brown hair. “Since the day you strutted in here all top dog and such, people have known not to mess with you or underestimate you. Don’t let this get you down, man.”
Roman chuckled, rolling his eyes in the process.
“What? It’s true.” Levi plopped onto the bunk beside Roman. “Why do you think I’m all buddy-buddy with you? From day one, I knew you’d be running this place.”
“Shut up.” Roman shoved Levi, always finding his ego boosts embarrassing with a twinge of humor.
Levi had been a frightened suburban rottweiler when Roman found him. A big, muscular guy who had several inches on Roman and easily thirty pounds of muscle. The fact was, Levi could’ve come into Marlow Penitentiary with a lot more clout if he knew how to capitalize on his intimidation, but he’d been raised to roll over and expose his belly far too much to ever be considered threatening.
Levi was soft and detoxing when Roman met him, and there was this genuine spirit about Levi that kept Roman’s head afloat in the first few excruciating weeks of his sentence. They’d both arrived at the same time, and Roman had nothing to offer Levi except friendship. Levi hadn’t wanted anything else from Roman. Even after he claimed his title, even after inmates and guards catered to Roman’s whims, even after private funds helped make Roman’s sentence bearable, Levi had never preyed on the opportunity.
He didn’t turn down a gift, only a fool was too proud to accept assistance, but Levi never pressed, never suggested, never alluded in any manner to sway Roman one way or another. Levi seemed content just hanging out together, being friends, and surviving their mundane days behind bars together. That was what drew Roman to Levi.
“I said that guy is going places.” Levi waggled his finger. “I better offer him a couple of blowies for the right protection.”
“You fucking idiot.” Roman burst into laughter, the shame of yesterday completely forgotten, washed away by Levi’s continuing jokes, mocking the role of champion, flipping off everyone in this place, and generally just knowing the right words to distract Roman.
Jokes and conversation Roman sank into with ease.
Levi would occasionally tease about oral with Roman, but neither pressed the matter. Roman could never tell if it was some type of gay humor he was missing, light flirting on Levi’s part, or just genuine prison rules surfacing despite Roman’s desire to make Marlow anything but a haven for depravity.
Levi’s open queerness had made him a quick target among inmates who knew he like sucking and taking dick, despite Levi’s adamant ‘top’ status and his bold commentary about picking the dicks he sucked, finding the men here no more worth his time than a hot woman. So, when Levi would drop a joke that Roman was worth his time, it made Roman’s head swell. Sometimes, it made both his heads grow. Not that he did anything about it or ever would.
Screwing because of captivity and lack of options made it seem like the feelings were never real. It was just his desperate horny mind giving way to a fantasy. Roman knew he only occasionally—more than once but totally less than a handful of times—jerked it to the idea of Levi sucking him off because of the jokes and the confinement. No matter the case, Roman never acted on the ideas, finding if he pursued that curiosity and regretted the feeling—realizing it really just was horny hormones seeking reprieve—he’d regret ruining the only real friendship he had.
“So, what are we doing tonight?” Levi retrieved his books, like he somehow planned on presenting them as a good distraction.
Roman didn’t want distractions. He wanted to sulk.
“Everyone decent?” A gruff voice asked as a hand firmly slammed on the open door.
Warden Sadler came inside, eyed Levi up and down, and then turned an annoyed gaze toward Roman. The warden had a fat stomach from years of sitting at a desk, filing paperwork instead of keeping up with his fitness. Based on his massive biceps and sturdy frame, Roman suspected he was quite the heavy hitter when he was a guard. Roman also speculated Warden Sadler’s ruthlessness for dirty business also extended to other facets of the man’s life, and knocking heads in probably helped put the corrupt old man on this path of life.
“Need you to clear out your stuff,” Warden Sadler said, not bothering to lead in with small talk or an explanation.
“The fuck?” Roman blurted. “No.”
“It’s not your room.”
“The hell it isn’t!”
“It’s the champion’s suite,” Warden Sadler said, a look of pure smug satisfaction across his face. “It’s for the champion.”
He pretended to search the room, eyeing every corner and then resting his eyes on Roman again.
“Do you see any champions in here? I don’t.”
Fuck. Roman’s own exploitations had finally come back to bite him in the ass. After all, this was technically his own fault. Prison came with the worst accommodations, designed to dehumanize and break someone just because they’d stumbled outside the lines of proper civil behaviors. Roman wanted more—Roman demanded more—as the champion. Warden Sadler shrugged him off until Roman did the impossible and maintained the title for three months, then four months, and on the fifth month, he refused to perform because of a crick in his back.
Suddenly, the champion’s suite became available. Made from an old guard office, so slightly bigger than most cells and the sweet bit of privacy Roman had grown accustomed to. But the name itself meant it belonged to the champion, which was no longer Roman.
“Howdy.” Ezra waltzed into the room, an empty box in hand, and scanned the lovely accommodations. “Thought I’d help with the big move. Damn, this is a rocking room.”
“You expect me to fit all my stuff in here?” Roman scoffed, eyeing the warden.
“Almost everything here was procured by the champion, for the champion,” he answered matter-of-factly, and Roman suspected that meant his earnings as champion would quickly dwindle away too.
He glared but went to work packing what he could. Levi scrambled to grab what he could and carry it in his arms. Roman took in what he could of the cell, the home away from home, the little piece of heaven he’d carved out with blood and sweat, and then he left, hoping he could forget how nice these tiny luxuries were.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Ezra intercepted Levi as he went to follow Roman out of the champion’s suite. “Where you going?”
“Um, ugh, you know, like moving and such.” Levi gulped. “Per the rules and stuff.”
“Stick around, dude. I could definitely use a friendly roommate.” Ezra looked up at Levi, smiling. “You wanna be my friend, big boy?”
“No, not really.” Levi scrunched his face with obvious discomfort since he hated being rude, then he inched around Ezra and made for the door. Roman found Levi’s large jock build paired with the awkward mousy nerd stature humorous most days, but now it did them a disservice.
“Stay.” Warden Sadler blocked his path. “I’m not filling out a second change-of-room request form. I’m sure you’ll like this boyfriend as much as your last one.”
And with that, Roman had everything stripped away from the bulk of his possessions to his best friend. No title. No respect. No power.
He trudged through the cellblocks, following a guard from one locked-down area to the next, ignoring the jeers from inmates who mocked his situation, delighted in Roman’s comeuppance.
When he finally reached his new cell, Roman miserably went to work settling in.
“Roman,” a taunting voice called out to him as he entered the cellblock. “Roman, Roman, Roman, wherefore art thou Roman-O? More importantly, where is Roman’s hole?”
Jake “the Snake” Finnegan. Roman glowered as contempt and disgust both fought for equal footing on Roman’s face.
If there were a mascot for sadistic sociopaths who preyed on the vulnerable and fucked their way through victims like most people ate their way through a bag of potato chips, then it’d be a full-page banner of Jake Finnegan.
“Get the fuck away from me before I break your arms,” Roman said slowly, firmly, and filled with rage. “Again.”
Jake raised his hands in surrender, then brushed them through his short blond hair. He hung at the doorway as Roman unpacked what little of his possessions he’d been allowed to keep.
“I’m just being neighborly.” Jake smirked, the lines on his face accentuated the scars that framed his face in the most bizarre way.
Something about Jake’s injuries appeared self-inflicted to Roman. Even with their jagged cuts, they seemed so perfectly drawn out, highlighting his features. That made Roman recoil more since Jake didn’t fear pain of any measure when it came to pursuing his desires.
Making Roman a conquest always ran high on Jake’s goals. Now that Roman wasn’t champion, he’d have to remind the Irish mob psycho that just because he didn’t hold the title, it didn’t mean his skills had lessened any.
“If you need help settling in, feel free to ask me anything,” Jake said. “I’m only a few rooms down and be more than willing to help you adjust to this new position.”
“Pass.”
“Oh? You just wanna go in fast and rough?” Jake’s smirk grew bigger. “I can respect that.”
“Fuck off.”
“I most certainly will.” Jake turned around quite dramatically and walked away with a soldier’s flair. “Be seeing you around, Roman-O.”
The rest of the inmates in Roman’s new cellblock weren’t much better than Jake himself, who thankfully kept his distance. No, he was a true snake, so Roman understood even far away and seemingly disinterested with Roman’s arrival, Jake plotted like a hungry viper. He’d strike when Roman least suspected, and with no one at his back, Roman worried the poison would overwhelm him.
It didn’t help that half the men on this block were part of Jake’s crew. The warden had dropped Roman in the most dangerous place ever. It made sleeping damn near impossible, afraid he’d wake up tied down to someone who jammed their door before light’s out and popped the lock on Roman’s cell.
He hadn’t seen that done since his time in jail, back when he was on trial, awaiting sentencing, but popping the lock on a cell door was common practice there and allowed inmates bold enough to walk around without guard supervision, complete access to the block. They were the most dangerous sort. They’d find their way into some unwitting guy’s room, and the screams and shock were unlike anything Roman had heard before. It still haunted his thoughts as he feared what Jake might do if Roman closed his eyes for a little too long. Would he sound like a dying animal? A broken beast? A desperate and pleading shell of a person? All sounds Roman couldn’t get out of his head, sounds he’d hoped to never hear again.
Each day presented a new threat that Roman had forgotten all about from his early days of arriving. No, Roman had never faced this level of scrutiny before. Before, he was just some no-name twenty-year-old guy, but now, he was the cocky champion who’d fallen from grace. Now, he dealt with verbal taunting and threats everywhere he went. Twice now, he’d been alone when confronted by men bold enough to pick a fight without an audience. And by no audience, Roman quickly realized that included the guards who turned away and busied themselves elsewhere while Roman defended himself.
As the champion, no one threatened him. Most accepted the beatdown he gave them, accepted the title he held, and stayed the fuck away. Now, no ranking meant no authority. The guards treated Roman like any other inmate, maybe a bit worse since they resented the hold he had over them. Warden Sadler might’ve hated Roman, but if he caught word that one of his guards wasn’t giving the champion proper treatment, then that guard wouldn’t be long for this world.
Did Roman exploit his authority? Abso-fucking-lutely. Did he use his powers for good? Meh. Debatable. Did he deserve to look over his shoulder every second of every day on the off chance someone would beat him, stab him, kill him, or worse? No one deserved to feel that way; no one deserved to live that way.
Roman couldn’t find a way out unless he won back his title, won back some shred of respect.
His commissary funds ran dry after a few days, and his private funds as champion had magically disappeared after he lost his title. It meant Roman had to rely more heavily on the sustenance from the cafeteria to get by. If anyone could possibly mistake the slop they served for nutritious. Each meal cost about $0.35 to produce, which meant bulk supplies, half-rotten produce, flavorless bites, and expired meat—if they were lucky.
Roman stared at his plate, ignoring the jokes at his expense, the bold taunting from tables he walked past, the occasional threats from men who clearly hadn’t watched Roman fight regularly. He might’ve lost one fight, but he wasn’t some pushover. Part of him wanted to beat the shit out of every guy running their mouths, but even Roman knew he couldn’t fight every single person here. What Roman needed was to remind these inmates of everything he could do. Without the arena, he needed a new venue to put on a show.
As he reached a near-empty table, Roman saw a guy shooting him daggers, so Roman took a chance and winked. He couldn’t muster a cocky smile, but it turned out he didn’t need one. The guy was up and over at Roman’s table before he could take his seat.
“Sup, bitch.” The man slapped Roman’s tray out of his hands.
Roman had gotten used to the boldness, the arrogance, but knocking away his tray was a step too far. He really needed to do something about the brazen attitudes in Marlow Penitentiary before people deluded themselves into thinking they could walk all over him.
“You gonna pick that up?” Roman asked, expression neutral except for the fire in his eyes.
“Figured you’d bend over and grab it, bitch.”
Roman rolled his eyes. This guy’s intimidation efforts could use some serious work, but at least he didn’t present much of a challenge to work with. The smugness on this guy’s face would be the most satisfying thing to wipe away with a few punches, but Roman couldn’t provoke a fight. He shouldn’t. He needed to spin this quickly.
“You know what, you talk a lot, but I think you’re a little too scared to actually do something about those words.”
The guy kicked Roman’s tray, knocking it into his foot.
Roman smiled, unfazed and glad to have found someone easier to provoke than himself. “Why don’t you go over there, find your daddy, and ask if he’ll help you swing a fist.”
Roman nodded to the table of men where the inmate had been sitting a moment earlier.
“Ask him real nicely, and maybe some of your other boyfriends can help you start a fight.” Roman stepped in closer, looking up at the guy with unflinching fury. “Because we both know you’re too big of a pussy to do anything.”
And with that, he swung a fist at Roman. A sloppy move that Roman avoided despite being practically pressed against the man. It didn’t take long to knock the air out of the inmate’s lungs and make him keel over, but Roman’s real targets were approaching. Four men at the table had sprung up and charged for him.
Roman lifted his fists and braced for the chaos. He needed this, desperately hungered to unleash some of his anger. He hoped the added bonus of beating down a small group of men would help secure a bit of peace in the days to come.
Half of the men had dropped before the guards were organized enough to run toward the other side of the cafeteria. Roman wanted to drag this out, really savor the win, show the crowd of cheering men what he could do even when pressed by a group of assailants. More importantly, Roman needed to wrap up this conflict before the guards did. If they won in his stead, this bravado would be for nothing.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” a guard shouted, approaching Roman, who now stood alone with cowering crumbled men at his feet.
“It’s all good.” Roman raised his hands in surrender, taking heavy breaths as the altercation had left him more winded than expected. Perhaps the sleepless nights were catching up to him. “Just a disagreement—serious disagreement, obviously—but I think we’ve got it handled.”
“You think?” The guard reached for his baton and cracked it against Roman’s right forearm. “Who the fuck told you to start thinking, inmate?”
Roman nearly took a step forward, nearly lunged for the guard, nearly got himself into a world of trouble he couldn’t backstep from. But guards weren’t mouthy inmates. He couldn’t provoke them. But he was also used to them knowing their place, understanding the hierarchy of things. Roman supposed, to some degree, they did understand how things ranked, seeing as Roman no longer held the authority he once did.
“You wanna start fights?” The guard belted Roman across the back of the head, then again in the shoulder. When he didn’t drop to his knees or submit, another guard struck Roman in the back with several heavy lashes that knocked the wind out of his lungs. “You’re not the champion anymore. No special treatment.”
With that, they carted Roman off and showed him what happened to those who instigated fights, those who provoked violence by not simply submitting to the predators who flooded this institution.
They shoved Roman inside a small room and locked the door. Roman kicked and shouted and banged on the door of his solitary cell, unwilling to give up his rage for a second. Days would pass, and he’d scream until his voice was hoarse. Roman’s furious temper seemed to be the only thing he had left.
When he got out, Roman would kill Ezra Delgado. He’d knock fear back into the inmates who’d grown bold and the guards who’d grown lax. Roman wouldn’t surrender his title or authority without a fight.